An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (35 page)

Rob followed his gaze. “Every time one of them passes by, you get that look in your eye.” He lifted the basket up off the seat and hopped aboard. “Dare I ask who you are thinking of?”

He offered a dusty grin, but a grin nonetheless. “I have some news to share.”

“Good news, I hope.” Rob unhinged the stopper on a bottle of ale and took a long swig.

Zeno released the brake and eased back on the hand clutch. “The best all day.”

“AT LEAST WE had the good sense to send our trunks ahead.” Cassie glanced around the spacious, light-filled hotel room and unpinned her hat.

Her maid moped about the room.

“Dear me, what a sour expression, Cécile.” She approached the girl. “I realize you lost a suitcase and some personal items. You know I will give you whatever money you require to replace them. Don’t you?”

“Oui.”
Cécile pushed on paned doors that opened onto a small private terrace. “Oh, madame, come and see.
Très tragique!
”

Cassie stepped out on the balcony and followed her maid’s forlorn gaze. There, along the curve of the Seine, stood the much-touted, partially completed ironwork structure that already dominated the cityscape. She tried to imagine the rest of the tall spire.

“What a sight Mr. Eiffel’s Tower will be.” She bit her lip and moved closer. “Cécile, did you form an attachment to that young French man on the train with us?”

A sideways glance told Cassie she had struck a nerve. “You do realize that even if those men were from the
Sûreté,
they were also in league with Lord Delamere and up to no good? They could have harmed both of us.” Cassie twisted her hands together. “In fact, I am at a loss as to who I might safely contact now that we have arrived in Paris.”

Cécile cast her eyes downward. “Perhaps I am foolish, Madame St. Cloud.”

Cassie put her arm around the girl’s slumped shoulders and rubbed. “Cécile …”

“Oui, madame?”

“You didn’t mention anything about where we would be staying in Paris? I mean, to the young man—any personal information they might use to find us?”

“Non, madame.”

She exhaled. It was so much safer to be anonymous, swallowed up by this great city. Briefly, Cassie admired the bright red geraniums in flower boxes and inhaled the cooler afternoon air. “There now, let’s unpack and get situated, shall we? You must contact your brother. Perhaps you can have a visit this very evening.”

Her pretty maid’s brows furrowed. “But you should not be alone.”

“Nonsense, Cécile, I am due at the gallery before it closes to view my hanging.”

Ashen faced, the girl whimpered. “Hanging, madame?”

She reached out and stroked her hair. “Not me, silly girl, my paintings.”

CASSIE STOOD IN the front of the gallery and stared in horror. She had no trouble recognizing herself in the painting.
Please tell me it isn’t so.
She blinked several times and hoped the blur would resolve into a different face on the naked woman in the artwork.

A girl lay under a tree,
au naturel,
surrounded by several fully dressed men. The gentlemen admired the young lady as they lounged about her. The wood nymph looked as if she had awakened from a dream to discover herself unclothed.

And those breasts. She tilted her head. Well, they seemed a great deal plumper than her own. Dear lord, how on earth had this happened?

Cassie quite emphatically had never posed for this picture. Granted, she had enjoyed a somewhat wild and carefree youth when compared to most young women, but she certainly never removed her clothes for an artist, including …

She searched the bottom of the painting for a name. G. Laschate. Gregoire Laschate? She recognized the name from art school. An artist-in-residence, her second term at The Newland School. Was he aware she showed at the Durand-Ruel Gallery, as well?

She bit her lower lip and approached one of the exhibit workers. “Might you show me to the gallery director’s office?”

A young fellow led her through a labyrinth of freshly painted walls, all hung with works featuring bold strokes of vivid color. Making their way down a narrow corridor, her escort opened the door to a small, cluttered office. A thin dark-haired man with a pair of pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose gave her a look up and down before springing to his feet.

“Mademoiselle?”

“My name is Cassandra St. Cloud, monsieur. I believe I have several paintings ready to hang here in the gallery?”

The glasses dropped from his nose. Wide eyes and a lascivious grin told her everything she needed to know and feared most.
He recognized her from Laschate’s painting.

Heat flushed from her neck to her cheeks as she straightened her shoulders. “There is also the matter of a painting set on an easel near the front of the gallery …” She faltered when the impertinent man bit back a grin.

“
Oui, madame
.” His eyes fell from her face to her breasts. “I believe I know the one you refer to.”

She lifted her chin. “I wish to have it removed, sir. If I am to show my work in the Durand-Ruel Gallery, I must be taken seriously. Not just by my peers, but by the public as well.”

“Madame St. Cloud, certainly you posed for such a beautiful work, why do you care—”

“I certainly did not, Monsieur …?”

“
Excusez-moi
. Paul Durand-Ruel.”

Cassie blinked. “You are the owner, monsieur?”

The man nodded a bow.

“Monsieur Durand-Ruel, I did
not
pose for Monsieur Laschat. Several years ago, I was a student of his—”

“
Madame,
no doubt the affair ended badly. But, what can I do?” The man threw up his hands. “I have agreed to show several of Laschate’s latest works.”

Men. French men to boot. Cassie stood upright, fuming. “You have also contracted to show my work, sir.” Her gaze remained steadfast, but she softened her speech. “Don’t you see? It is impossible this painting is one of his latest works. I have not set eyes on the man since art school.”

The slight, effete Frenchman gathered heavy eyebrows together as he twisted his mouth into a lopsided pout. It seemed he was at a loss to cope with the situation. “I must say your paintings are magnificent, Mrs. St. Cloud. I would hate to—”

“I have not traveled all the way to Paris to have my work cut from the show, sir.” Cassie’s gaze darted around the office as she tried to think. “If you would be so kind as to give me Mr. Laschate’s address? I shall convince him to substitute another. Would that be acceptable to you, Mr. Durand-Ruel?”

“I regret the loss, but …” He opened a journal on his desk, pulled out a drawer, and picked out a fountain pen. He wrote the address of Gregoire Laschate’s studio on the back of his calling card. “If you convince Laschate to take it down, tell him I want the one of the dancer from the Moulin.”

“Merci.”
Careful to appear respectfully deferential, she slipped the card into her reticule. “Now, before I leave, monsieur, might I have a look at my small space in your impressive gallery?”

ZENO CLAMPED HIS mouth into a thin line. They were in Paris, all right: the hired help was surly. Standing at the desk of the Hotel Pont Royale, he drew himself up to his full six feet. Both he and Rob looked a sight,
covered in a layer of road dust, their faces raw from sun- and windburn.

He drew out his passport and calling card. “If there is no Mrs. St. Cloud registered here, might there be a Miss Erskine?”

The elder desk clerk answered with a single cocked eyebrow and another grudging glance through the hotel register. The old man ran a finger over the last names in the register.
“Non, messieurs.”

Zeno racked his brain. Cassie could have easily changed hotels, but this location was their only connection to each other, unless a wire message waited him somewhere—but where?

He turned to Rob. “Did Cassie ever use another name, perhaps for her art?”

Rob shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his pants pockets.

“Monsieur Kennedy!”

Zeno spun around. Cassie’s maid hurried toward them through the quiet lobby.

“Cécile?”

“Oh, monsieur, I have done a very bad thing!” the girl cried.

“Calm down, Cécile. It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh yes, it is.” She moaned. “I an idiot. I told a man—one who posed as
Sûreté
—about madame’s art show at the Durand-Ruel Gallery.”

“Never mind that, Cécile. Where is Cassie?”

The petite little maid burst into tears. “She has gone to the gallery, monsieur.”

He ignored his hammering heart and grabbed his passport and calling card. “Rob, you stay here with Cécile. If Cassie returns, keep her here and don’t let her out of your sight.”

Zeno queried the clerk,
“La galerie Durand-Ruel … l’adresse?”
He turned to Rob. “I’ll need you to alert the
Sûreté,
have them meet me at—”

Finally able to be of service, the hotel worker beamed. “
Seize
Rue Laffitte.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

H
er artist’s soul floated ten feet off the ground. Three of her paintings made an excellent showing in an alcove just off the main display room. A tingle of excitement surged through her body as she exited the gallery and climbed into the waiting cab. She unbuttoned her jacket and settled onto the hard leather bench for the long, uphill trip to the Montmartre district. There was still time to find Laschate and convince him to substitute another painting. She glanced at the carriages nearby and reminded herself to use caution. She was in Paris, alone.

And where was Zeno? She had wired Scotland Yard with the request that her message be forwarded immediately. But did the Yard have any idea of his whereabouts? She had certainly experienced her fair share of trouble. He, as well, must have encountered a myriad of delays and difficulties.

A recurring image crossed her mind. Zeno, lying injured and alone in some unknown alleyway. She refused to think of it.
Gazing out the window at the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral, she sighed. She missed him, more than she could ever have imagined.

He was on his way. He had to be.

By the time she arrived at Rue de Montmartre, her initial surge of excitement over the exhibit had dissipated. Passing a corner bistro, she doubled back. Exactly what she needed, a good strong cup of Parisian coffee. At a sidewalk table she sipped the rich, hot café au lait and waited for her body to revive itself.

ZENO STOOD IN front of a painting at the gallery and ached for her. According to the owner, Durand-Ruel, he had missed her by mere minutes.

“Monsieur Kennedy?”

He pivoted toward the voice behind him and confronted a well-dressed young man, who nodded politely. “Metro Police. Inspector Jourdain.”

“Zeno Kennedy, Scotland Yard.”

“I have a cadre of men with me, sir, at your service.”

THE SUN’S LAST rays of light gave way to dusk as she climbed the narrow, steep walkway to Laschate’s residence. Oddly, she found the door wide open and the space deserted. “Monsieur Laschate?” Cassie ventured inside the studio. Nothing out of the ordinary. A number of unframed paintings were stacked against a wall in various stages of finish, and more recent works in progress on easels about the room.

She stepped into the center of the studio and onto the platform where his muses posed. The paintings were of dance hall girls, in various stages of dishabille. His influence was Edgar Degas, though his work was not as bold as Degas’s vivid pastels of ballerinas and bathers.

Twilight suffused the studio in a cool incandescence, with more shadows cast than illumination. As she pressed farther into the darkened room, her stomach churned in a riot of flutters.

“Monsieur Laschate? Is anyone here?” Somewhere, in a distant room, a loud bang sounded. Cassie jumped and spun around. Instinctively she headed for the door but pulled up short when a figure cloaked in shadow approached her.

“Good evening, Cassandra. Or should I say
bonsoir
?”

A chill shuddered through her body. She strained to make out the tall, dark shape in the doorway entrance. “Lord Delamere. I urge you to give up this foolish idea of using me as a shield.” She frankly did not know where the words came from. Even though her knees quaked, her voice sounded strong and deliberate.

“Rather unsporting of me, isn’t it, my little English dove?”

Her mind urged her to flee, but her feet remained frozen to the ground. She pressed her arms against her sides and resisted the urge to tremble.

Delamere took a step forward and jolted Cassie into action. Placing one foot behind the other, she backed away from her would-be captor. The moment he lunged, she turned and ran. Spying a crack of light along the wall, she headed for a rear door. Damn this bustle and gown. She picked up her skirts to gain more freedom of movement. With every stride, Delamere’s footsteps closed in behind her.