Free An Affair with Mr. Kennedy by Jillian Stone Page A

fault—to Zeno and Scotland Yard. Rafe was a fierce fighter, and a good man to have by your side when cornered by anarchists. One would never suspect he hailed from the ancient earldom of St. Aldwyn.
    “What’s the tag read?” Zeno edged forward.
    Arch picked up the bag. “Number Thirty-three Hartley Warehouse, Salthouse Dock.”
    Zeno gave the Yard dog a pat on the head. “We may have caught a break.”
    Up on all fours, Alfred plodded around the table and sat beside another bag.
    Rafe shot Archie a look of concern. “What’s he after now?”
    The forensics man grinned. “He’s alerting to the presence of secondary chemicals. Check the tags on the samples. You will find they are from different areas of the same warehouse. His nose is unbelievably sensitive.”
    Zeno raised a brow. “Indeed.”
    So far, the few suspected drop sites they had placed under surveillance had proved disappointing. All their leads were run down or dry. But if they could identify the warehouse the dynamite had been stored in, there might be a chance to track the explosives to the dynamiters themselves.
    This entire smuggling operation had begun as a kind of beating of the brush by Zeno and the small staff of agents assigned to Special Irish Branch. The wire confiscated from the desk of Hicks-Beach had used the code word eagle . Which meant a large shipment of American-made dynamite had found its way in country.
    Alfred’s nose went a long way to confirm it.
    “Tests aren’t complete as yet, but you’ll be glad to know we are close to confirmation on the Underground bombing. The blast was not caused by your Irish American dynamite.” Zeno guessed Archie’s grin had something to do with the look of relief on his face. “The chemical analysis confirms the diatomite is from Northern Germany, likely made into anarchist bombs in France. Several bombs failed to explode, leaving us to believe there was an installation error. The dynamite may have been inadvertently set off before the explosive was rigged properly, one of the anarchists strikes a match and—”
    “ Ka-boom .” Rafe’s usual exuberant grin was grim. Whether they were militant Irish Nationalists or a rogue bunch of continental anarchists, dynamiters prowled the city, particularly the Underground. Cloaked figures concealed orb-shaped bombs with sizzling fuses, faceless shadow players in every Special Branch agent’s nightmares.
    Zeno exhaled a deep breath and with it all the tension he had carried since the Underground explosion. Months ago, he hadproposed an offensive operation to Melville. The gambit carried with it huge risks, but an even greater payoff, since the ruse would likely flush out the dynamiters.
    Scotland Yard would arrange to have a large quantity of dynamite made available in America. A proposed “stolen shipment” of something in the nature of seven hundred and fifty pounds of explosives, up for sale by international mercenaries. In actuality, these arms dealers would be agents who worked for Special Branch. Their men would offer it up and see if the bastards took the bait.
    Melville would be kept informed— ears only, no paper trail. If anything went wrong—God forbid the bombers used the dynamite Scotland Yard supplied—he would have total deniability. They called the plan “Operation Snuffbox” to remind themselves the risky undertaking could never be allowed to blow up in their faces.
    Even as one nagging concern eased, his caseload remained threefold. Reel in Delamere and his Bloody Four; trace the shipment of explosives; and attend the Stanfield Charity ball.
    He mulled over his case and found Mrs. St. Cloud to be the most combustible of all.

Chapter Seven
     
    Z eno hadn’t dressed for a formal affair in years. Tails, white tie, white gloves. Starched collars were higher and more uncomfortable than ever. Good God, he felt as stiff as a board already. On first attempt, he wrinkled his tie irreparably.
    Luckily, he had additional crisply