An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (38 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

A
ripple effect of turned heads and raised brows greeted Cassie as she entered the art gallery. It appeared the Parisian beau monde was duly assembled for the opening. Having read the lurid newspaper reports of the capture of Lord Delamere as well as her own unfortunate involvement in the matter, they were out in force for a gala evening of sport. Worst of all, they had come to admire the cause of Gregoire Laschate’s unwitting entanglement.

She surveyed the room, drawn to the swarm jostling around the familiar gilt-edged frame that set off the nude sprite in the woods.
Dear me, a crowd.
She took a deep breath. According to the scandal sheets, Laschate’s painting enjoyed the title,
Reveuse sur L’herbe,
Dreamer on the Grass. She walked directly up to the notorious artwork, and met every leering eye.

“Madame St. Cloud,
merveilleux
. And after such an experience—
terrifiante!
We were not sure you would attend this evening.” The gaunt Monsieur Durand-Ruel approached her with some trepidation.

At least the man’s concern seemed genuine. The corners of her lips tugged upward. She supposed a wry, knowing smile
would do well enough. “Nonsense, Monsieur Durand-Ruel. I would have to be laid up in hospital to miss this opening.”

“
Mais oui
. All of Paris is at your feet, Cassandra St. Cloud. Allow me the honor of introducing you to your new admirers.” Cassie lifted her chin. Even though Paul Durand-Ruel himself stood by her side, a chill ran through her.

The man spoke loud enough for most everyone nearby to overhear. “There is mastery and power in your work, Madame St. Cloud.” He bowed. “Add a bit of controversy and you have achieved the emerging artist’s formula to success.”

Her frown lifted somewhat. “If you say so, monsieur.”

“Cassandra.” A beaming Laschate greeted her with a disconcerting once-over. She did not return the familiarity by calling him Gregoire.

“Monsieur Laschate.” She nodded to the artist and the men standing to each side of the painter. “Gentlemen …”

Laschate raised his voice. “I believe I have you to thank for such enthusiastic interest in my work.”

She tilted her head. “Ironic, isn’t it? I was headed to your studio last night to ask you to substitute another work for the one you stand so proudly beside.” If circumstances were different, she would be apologizing profusely for his entanglement in last night’s affairs; the poor man and his staff tied up and left in a storage closet. Not a pleasant way to spend an evening.

But the entire debacle had resulted in a boom in sales, as well as a brilliant bit of éclat for Laschate. Hardly unfortunate. Gregoire’s grin grew proportionally wider as her lips thinned. “Nevertheless, Monsieur Laschate, it seems our success at this show is assured. Although my name will always be tainted with the controversy, and yours will be elevated to the lofty position of … shall we say, artist of record?”

An idea struck and she turned to the gallery owner. “How much, Monsieur Durand-Ruel?”

The horrid man tsked and shook his head.

“I wish to purchase the painting.” She would buy the work and have it removed from the show.

The slight, effete owner leaned into their close group. “
Je suis d
é
sol
é
,
so sorry, madame, I am afraid the painting is already sold.”

Her eyes widened. “Then I will pay you more, sir.”

Durand-Ruel shook his head. “Impossible.” He seemed to know exactly what she was up to. Spoil all his fun and disappoint the public’s salacious curiosity. To say nothing of the additional sales.

Laschate tilted his chin downward, and batted his eyes. “Now, now, Cassandra, what does it matter?”

“It matters greatly to me.” Cassie raised her voice, perhaps louder than necessary. “Since I never posed for you.”

A hush fell over many of the artists and patrons, standing near by. She could feel all eyes focus on her.

Gregoire’s eyes shifted around the room. He leaned closer. “Recently I discovered an old book of sketches … I used to draw you in your bath—in your residence at school.” He shrugged. “I am a voyeur.”

Air whistled past her shoulder as a blur of fist struck the artist’s jaw. Laschate reeled backward, toppling over several attendees in close range. Whoever threw the punch grabbed her by the waist to steady her.

Cassie whirled around to discover Zeno. The instant he released her she stepped away. Wearing a tight, hard-lipped expression, he shook the sting out of the knuckles of his right hand.

She blinked, openmouthed, searching his face. The brief spark in his eyes turned dark and stormy. With anger or sadness?

“Cassandra.” He nodded and turned away. His strong form shimmered through misty eyes as he exited the gallery. Clapping her mouth shut, she turned to lend assistance to the fallen artist.

Laschate worked his jaw back and forth as Paul Durand-Ruel primped over him. The gallery owner glared at her. “Someone of your acquaintance, Madame St. Cloud?”

Cassie nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Laschate appeared reasonably recovered from the blow, though she suspected his jaw would swell and darken over the coming hour. Durand-Ruel continued his grumbling as he straightened the infamous painting that listed sadly to one side. “What kind of gentleman would assault such a genius as Laschate?”

A foggy muddle of people and paintings pressed in on her. She stepped back and waited for the scene around her to stop spinning and come into sharper view. Gathering her wits, her gaze narrowed on the disgruntled gallery owner and then shifted to the artist holding his jaw. She suppressed a skeptical grin. If he made a big enough show of the injury, Laschate might sell another painting or two before evening’s end.

“What kind of man?” She inhaled a deep, cleansing breath. “Why, I believe a very exceptional one, Monsieur Durand-Ruel.” She took a step backward. “A man who has never failed to protect me from those who would do me harm.”

Pivoting, she reversed direction and walked out of the gallery and onto the sidewalk. With each step, her stride lengthened and grew quicker. She studied every pedestrian out for an evening stroll along the thoroughfare.
Which way to turn?

She chose left and ran along the wide, treelined street in search of him. Her eyes darted among the crowd assembled on the concourse. An early summer breeze buffeted off the Seine. The haunting strains of musicians tuning instruments mixed with the rustle of leaves. Her jog slowed along the path as she concentrated. She searched for a tall, dark-haired man. A very handsome man at that.

Please let him be here.

She peered deeper into the looming shadows of trees and shrubbery. She held her breath. There, a man by a stand of poplar. But no, he walked a small dog on a leash.

Zeno had obviously traveled in the opposite direction. It would likely be too late to catch him. She turned around. Dragging her feet, she inspected every new male that exited or entered the park.

She paused at the sight of a lone figure standing to one side of a fountain, a familiar silhouette. A kind of electrical charge accelerated her heart. The man moved toward her and she quickened her pace. He passed under a gas lamp.

Zak.

The closer they got, the more rapid their pace, until they halted within inches of each other. In the dark, his eyes matched the color of the night sky.

“Cassie …” He hesitated. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, the back of his hand stroked her cheek.

The scratch of raw, swollen knuckles caused her to reach out and gently clasp his injured hand. “Are you in pain, Detective Kennedy?”

“I should have told you sooner about Jayne.” His voice was thick, husky, as it traveled over a restriction in his throat.

She nodded, numbly.

“I felt humiliated and used by her and the
Clan na Gael
. Apparently it is easy enough to make me a fool.”

“You do so take your work to heart.” Her eyes met his directly. “And you will never, ever be thought a fool.”

“Kind of you to say so.” His brows furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. The very frown she had come to adore. Passionately.

“I know so.”

“Jayne Wells is more dead to me than ever.” His gaze scanned the evening sky, as if he might discover what words to speak written in a field of stars. “These past days without you have been an agony. And now I have injured you.” His eyes glistened with remorse. “I will do anything to regain your trust as well as your affection. Just tell me what it is you require.”

She twisted a lower lip under her teeth. “I suppose candor is too much to ask for. Openness, honesty, and the like?”

“Cassie, there may be times, in the course of duty, when I may not be completely open with you. But I would never betray you. You must believe me.” He edged closer. “And I have missed you quite … terribly.”

“
Missed you quite terribly?
Perhaps I graduated you from charm school too early.”

“My feelings could not be more—” Zeno halted midspeech and rolled his eyes. “Ah, you weren’t being serious.”

Cassie pivoted on her heel. “You’ll have to do better than that, Zak.”

He reached out and pulled her back into his arms. The touch of his kiss sent a wave of glorious tingles coursing through her. Her body pressed against him. He blanketed her mouth, slanting his lips over hers.

She broke off their kiss, but left her mouth close to his. “I missed you as well.”

His lips brushed over her face, beginning with her forehead and cheeks, and then down to the lobe of her ear, which caused her to moan. Loud enough to draw attention.

“Embrassez la jolie fille, monsieur!”
A number of elderly gentlemen perched around the fountain couldn’t help but encourage their affection.

With the light returned to his eyes, Zeno tipped his hat to the men even as he rocked her in his arms. “You are going to miss your opening.”

“Why don’t we skip the opening?”

Zeno shook his head. “You are a most accomplished painter and have earned the right to stand beside your peers and enjoy the reception.”

“I’m afraid my chances of being taken seriously have been sorely compromised.”

He stroked her back in the most comforting fashion. “The painting will come down, Cassie. I will make sure of it.”

THE MOMENT SHE stepped back into the gallery on his arm, Zeno led her directly over to Paul Durand-Ruel and presented his card.

The raised brow and cool facade of the gallery owner shifted to unease when he attached his pince-nez and read the name.

“Monsieur Kennedy, your presence is indeed an honor and a surprise—”

“Remove
Reveuse sur L’herbe
from the gallery, and you will have no further trouble from me, monsieur. If you choose to continue to display the painting, I shall be obliged to remove it myself.”

Durand-Ruel sputtered for a moment before nodding his head. “As you wish, monsieur.” With a quick snap of his fingers, he quietly gave orders to have the painting removed, accomplished almost without notice.

“Madame St. Cloud?” Both she and Zeno turned toward a somewhat burly older gentleman, who approached them with a beauty on his arm.

“Your beautiful nude is gone, madame. And oh yes, I do understand,” the young woman effused. “As women working in the arts we must guard our reputation carefully. Look at me, ruined by this love affair.” She swept an upraised hand toward her escort. The gentleman looked directly at Zeno and shrugged with a crinkle-eyed grin.

Cassie nodded politely to the intriguing couple and introduced Zeno.

“The famous Scotland Yard agent from Eiffel’s Tower? Ha ha, I must introduce myself. Auguste Rodin.”

Cassie’s eyes grew wide. The man offered a calling card held between two fingers. Rough, callused hands that worked the day long in clay and stone, the hands of a brilliant sculptor. “May I present Mademoiselle Camille Claudel?”

Zeno stepped forward to kiss her hand. “Mademoiselle Claudel.”

Rodin’s gaze roved over Cassie. He had the kind of eyes that evaluated a woman. Lover, model, muse? All for one, one for all. Reverentially, he brushed his lips over her hand. “Madame St. Cloud.”

She exhaled a huge sigh of relief. So this is what had swept the prurient interest of the crowd away from the nude painting. The scandalous public appearance of Auguste Rodin and his beautiful mistress, a sculptress in her own right. Cassie bit her lip but couldn’t stop a grin. Even in Paris, this couple raised eyebrows.

She turned to Miss Claudel. “I believe we have a mutual friend. Lydia Philbrook, the English sculptress?”

Camille’s hands flew to each side of her face. “She is your friend, as well?” She grabbed Cassie’s hand and tugged. “How wonderful, I knew at first sight we were sisters! Lydia has two works in the show, a terra-cotta piece and a plaster portrait of me.
Très forte
—so powerful! Come, you must see.”