An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (36 page)

She stopped just short of plowing into a thuggish brute, who opened and closed the exit door. Delamere slipped an arm around her waist and dragged her back into the center of the room. She struggled with each step as figures emerged from the shadows. More of Delamere’s men closed in. The heat of his breath scorched her neck. She kicked at his shins and scratched at his face.

“Damn it.” He dropped her.

Before she had a chance to back away, he reached out and caught her up again, pushing both wrists behind her back. She continued to struggle against the tall, powerful lord even as he pressed his body against hers.

Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. “Do not do something you will regret, sir.”

His face dipped so close she smelled hints of brandy and tobacco on his breath. “Anything I choose to do with you, Cassandra, I could never regret.”

He shoved her onto the platform and released her. “Now, Lady Rosslyn—or do you prefer Mrs. St. Cloud?” Delamere ogled her. “Or is it mistress to Zeno Kennedy?”

She rubbed her wrists and darted a glance about for any avenue of escape.

“I am done chasing after you, madam.” With a hand on his hip, Delamere took a leisurely turn around the end of the platform. “You may choose to run, in which case I will instruct Mr. Morel here to shoot you.” Cassie squinted at the wiry man in the corner. The man who had posed as the amenable Inspector Tautou emerged from the shadows with his pistol raised.

“Or you can relax and take your clothes off.” Delamere’s gaze raked over her. “Come, come, Cassie, you have done this kind of thing before, haven’t you?”

She bit her lower lip and circled the platform like a caged wildcat. He had seen the picture at the gallery, waited for her, followed her here.

The odious man had the nerve to smile. “Take your time. There will be no one to interrupt our evening together. Laschate is safely tied up in his storage room along with an assistant. We are alone, Cassandra, except for my men, who don’t mind watching.” A number of shaded eyes moved up and down her torso. “Perhaps you might offer them a sample after you and I are finished.” She recognized one or two of the men and dropped her eyes to avoid leering gazes.

She forced down a tremble, lengthened her spine, and straightened her shoulders. She had no option but to defy him. “If you harm me in any way, Zeno will make sure you hang.”

Delamere tilted his chin. “Those Yard men do seem to attract the ladies, do they not, Cassandra? I daresay Mr. Kennedy is kept fully satisfied by you and his lovely Miss Wells.”

She frowned. “Jayne Wells is dead. Killed by a Fenian bomb, thanks to your support.”

“Ah, therein lies the rub, my pretty dove.” Delamere’s eyes crinkled even as his lips twitched. “The night Mr. Kennedy so admirably took a bullet for one of his colleagues, he also managed to arrest his mistress.” A malevolent grin formed on his face. “Risen from the grave, so to speak.”

His gaze took in the paintings surrounding her. “As it turns out, Mistress Jayne is an Irish nationalist sympathizer
and her death, a sham. Quite neatly done, I must say. Hard to pull one over on Scotland Yard. Jayne specializes in bedroom favors to British government officials. Detective Kennedy, for example.”

Delamere halted. “I understand he has kept her under lock and key for weeks now. Under interrogation, he calls it. Strange he didn’t mention it.”

Cassie dared not blink, or tears would fall. Why should she believe him? The man might say anything to provoke her. “If what you say is true, Lord Delamere, there is a very good reason for his silence.”

“No doubt he is a man of many secrets.” His quiet sneer grated. It was meant to.

Cassie backed across the platform and he signaled one of his lackeys. Heavy arms grabbed hold. She struggled to break away from the man behind her. “Bring her closer.”

She bit her lip to keep from crying out as callused hands squeezed. Her arms ached under the constraint of the man’s grip and she braced herself against the pressure. The brute pushed her forward.

“There now, let’s see those pretty breasts we all got to admire in the gallery.” Delamere grabbed the front of her dress and ripped, exposing the lace of her camisole and her corset. She tried to twist her way out of the brute’s grip.

“Hold her steady.” Hook by eye, he unfastened the front of her corset and tore open her camisole.

A lecherous gaze skimmed her face before returning to her chest. “Lady Cassandra in the flesh.”

His eyelids lowered over eyes that glistened with hunger. “Exactly as remembered … that summer eve long ago. I observed you in the pond. Unawares, you touched yourself …”

The cool air of the darkened studio poured over the sensitive tips of her breasts, and she could not help but catch her breath. Several of his men moved closer.

“Twice now I have nearly enjoyed you. When was the last time?” He peeled back her camisole for a better view. “Ah yes, in the gallery at Margaret Fayette’s little soirée.” He actually chuckled. “Quite a spirited struggle, as I recall.”

Blood and fear pounded in her veins, as he reached out a milk white hand with long tapered fingers. She shook her head, but made sure to meet the eyes of the man who would rape her. Her heart drummed an erratic beat in her chest. “Please, I beg of you.”

“After I have you, it might amuse me to keep you—for a while.”

Cassie jumped as a loud bang echoed through the studio. Something spun Delamere around. The crackling sound of bullets rang through the air—at least she hoped they were bullets. Yes, she could see the bloodstain already forming on the man’s coat sleeve.

She pushed away from him as another gun fired. The man holding her collapsed. A red stain spread across his chest. With his good arm, Delamere grabbed Cassie around the waist and held on tight.

“
Ne tirez
. Hold all fire.” Zeno’s voice. Dear God, she was sure of it. A spark of renewed
energy ran through her body. “Let her go, Delamere.”

“I shall retain the young lady awhile longer.” Cassie felt the cold steel of a pistol pressed to her side. Backing away in the direction of the front door, Delamere’s men drew their guns and fired into the black shadows of the studio.

Another volley of shots rang out. The smell of gunpowder and acrid black smoke filled the air. Men were dropping all around. She dug her heels in and dragged her feet. Still, he managed to haul her over the body of a dead man sprawled across the floor.

He opened the door to the studio entrance. The cock of the pistol in her side made her stiffen. She shook off her fear and jabbed him in the ribs. A blow from behind spun them both around, forcing the pistol from her waist. She turned in time to see Zeno wrestle Delamere for the gun.

Zeno slammed Delamere’s hand into the stone wall, and the pistol fell. Cassie winced as the fiendish lord landed a punch to Zeno’s jaw that snapped his head sideways, enough to make him stagger. Before she could reach the gun, his lordship retrieved his pistol from the floor and flew down the stairs.

Shouts came from below.
“Arr
ê
tez!”
French police ordered Delamere to halt. Shots rang out from the street as she ran into Zeno’s arms. He held her for a long moment before he shrugged off his coat and covered her. “Are you all right?” Numbly, she nodded her head. He gave her a sweet kiss. “I must go, Cassie.”

In a daze, she watched him disappear down the stairwell.

“Madame St. Cloud?” Cassie turned to face a pleasant-looking young man. He stowed his firearm and retrieved his card: Metro Police. Inspector Jourdain. “Let me escort you to my carriage.”

A rush of shivers in the policeman’s coach prompted her to pull Zeno’s coat tight to her body. She buried her nose in an upturned lapel and inhaled his scent. It came close to making her cry or swoon, she wasn’t sure which. The young policeman reached out and handed her a flask. “You are—
en état de choc
—shock, madame. You must drink, please.”

CUTTING A TIGHT corner, Zeno felt his foot slip into a treacherous crack between cobblestones. He sailed through the air before tumbling onto a slimy patch of steep road. He rolled to a stop at the end of the lane. “Bollocks.” A bloody ankle instantly began to swell. He looked up as Delamere’s cab turned the corner.

Ignoring the pain, he raced into a narrow alley, ducking laundry lines and climbing over dustbins. Vaulting a low wall, he emerged back onto a main thoroughfare, where he waylaid a vacant hansom cab. But where was Delamere?

It was nearly dark. He remembered a scarf on the driver and scrutinized the cabs up ahead. After a mile of nothing, Zeno racked his brain. Drawing down the side window, he cautiously peered behind.

Not three vehicles behind, a red scarf blew over the shoulder of a man sitting above a cab. Blimey. In the snarl of traffic he had ended up ahead of Delamere.

Zeno shouted instructions to his driver, who found a spot to pull over. Delamere’s cab flew by. He sucked in a few
deep breaths and ordered his mind. It was going to take everything in his power not to kill the man tonight.

His driver quickly caught on to the game, deftly following the other cab at a distance. Once they were across the Seine and onto Boulevard Saint-Germain, he slowed his driver’s pursuit even more. Delamere must believe he had evaded both the
Sûreté
and Scotland Yard.

Close to a turn in the river, Delamere ditched his cab and continued down the Rive Gauche. After a furtive glance about, he disappeared into a large gardenlike concourse, the Champ de Mars.

Zeno asked his driver to wait and pulled his pistol.

Excellent. The park was near empty. He crept quietly up on Delamere until he had a clear shot through an open pathway. Zeno took aim and fired. Delamere returned a few wild shots before he turned and headed straight for the cover of an enclosed building site. The looming ironwork of the tower thrust upward from the grounds like the metal framework of an erupting volcano.

Zeno slammed up against a construction fence covered in handbills and poster art. Keeping his back against the wood, he peered around the barrier. The grounds were lit by several flickering gas lamps scattered among piles of iron girders and a huge steam-powered crane. A bullet shattered the wood next to his face and he squinted as a splinter cut into his lower cheek.

Zeno dashed forward to take cover behind the imposing steam engine.

He could just make out a wraithlike shape against the inky black of the river and the city sky. His lordship ascended a spiral of metal stairs situated inside one of the tower’s four legs. Zeno dashed across an open piece of ground, pausing at a stack of girders. He gazed upward and took half a second to admire the sheer scale of Mr. Eiffel’s iron monster.

His lordship had boxed himself in. Delamere was his.

Zeno reminded himself that the
Sûreté
would not be far behind and their gunshots would surely have attracted local gendarmes into the concourse. He made his way up the stairs just as Delamere leaped onto the zigzag pathway of scaffolding above. His lungs burned as he ascended the never-ending steps and reached the first-level platform.

The defiant lord turned and took aim. Zeno likewise approached with gun drawn. “We’ve reached the end of the chase, Delamere.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of it.” The man’s coat sleeve was soaked in blood.

Zeno halted his approach long enough to deliver one last warning. “You can give yourself up now, or we can holster our guns and wait until you pass out from blood loss. Up to you.” Inching closer, Zeno silently cocked his pistol.

Glassy-eyed, Delamere swayed on his feet. “Think you’ve saved the empire, don’t you, Kennedy?”

“As long as men like you are about, I stay busy.”

Delamere stood near the edge of the platform, smirking. “God Save the Queen
.
Arrest Delamere. Case closed,
not a stick of dynamite left unaccounted for? Nor a window left open? We shall see, Kennedy.”

Zeno estimated they were somewhere around four or five stories high. If the ashen-faced lord fell into unconsciousness, his death was assured. Zeno reasoned it wouldn’t be long now. The man was speaking in riddles, a sure sign of delirium.

“Say good-bye to Cassandra—”

“You are not allowed to speak her name.” His own voice was foreign to him—otherworldly—as sharp and cold as shaved ice. “Another mention and I will shoot you dead.” Although quite suddenly he no longer wished for the man to die, at least not here in Paris. Delamere’s trial and subsequent hanging in Newgate gaol appealed to his sense of justice. For the crown as well as himself. Zeno steadily closed in.

Delamere fired his pistol. Only there was no shot. Just the hollow, metallic click of an empty chamber.

Zeno looked up from the barrel of his lordship’s pistol and grinned. “You’ve had your six, time to give up and go to jail.”

The man threw the emptied revolver and retreated across the scaffolding. Zeno dodged the heavy metal projectile and grabbed a shoulder. Spinning Delamere around, he tossed off a good blow to the man’s right cheek. The injured lord staggered backward.

Shouts and warning shots came from below. No doubt, from such a distance, it was impossible for the men gathering in the construction yard to tell them apart. He and his fugitive were dark shapes silhouetted against an indigo sky.

Delamere got off a swing with his good hand, but missed. Teetering for a moment, suspended in midair, he lost his balance and careened backward.

Zeno lunged forward and caught a slippery, bloodstained hand. Ropes holding the platform together twisted and snapped away. The whirl and hiss of cords whizzing through pulley blocks singed the air with the smell of burning hemp and greased metal. The crack and splinter of wooden planks separated underfoot, slamming them into the tower’s girders. One end of the catwalk tilted at a steep angle over the edge the tower.

Caught off balance, the weakened lord fell to his knees and slid off the end of the scaffold. Thrown forward, Zeno struggled to keep hold of the dangling body that dragged him toward the edge of the platform and death. In desperation, he managed to jam a toe into the crook of a girder.