The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

He rolled over onto his back and put his hands behind his head. From this angle, he looked all the way up her straight skirt to the tight bodice that swelled over her bosom. “As grand a setup as I’ve ever seen,” he said. “The pulley system, I mean. What engineer strung this for you? Whoever it was, I want to meet him.”

Mademoiselle Bastien’s schooled face remained carefully blank. “I did it,” she said.

“Did you, now?” Daniel’s eyes widened in amazement and he brought his ungloved hands together in a burst of clapping. “Brilliant. I think I’m in love with you.”

Chapter 4

Arrogant, impudent . . . Violet and her mother were about to be ruined by this scion of aristocracy, and he was laughing at her.

Mr. Mackenzie returned his hands behind his head and lay full-length on Violet’s floor, relaxed and confident. What did he intend to do? Expose her? Alert the newspapers? The police? Violet’s heart beat hard. She needed to wake up her mother, to pack what they could, to leave.

But Mr. Mackenzie remained unmoving, eyes glittering in the lamplight, his handsome face and athletic body the best things that had ever decorated this room.

Violet had no business thinking of that, absolutely no business. Existence was difficult enough. Men believed that women’s lives were theirs to dictate, to own. Look what had happened the last time Violet had thought a man sympathetic to her, had trusted him. Absolute disaster.

“You used the bell system,” Mr. Mackenzie was saying. “Piggybacked on the pulleys and tubes already available to you. Very wise. Though a bit inconvenient if you want to summon someone to bring you hot water.”

“The consultation is over, Mr. Mackenzie,” Violet said, keeping her voice brisk and businesslike. “The other gentlemen have gone.”

Daniel pushed himself up to a sitting position and crossed his legs. His kilt fell modestly over his knees, but not before Violet caught a glimpse of the strong thighs beneath. Oblivious of her scrutiny, Daniel pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a black cigarette, and put it between his lips. He shoved the case back into his coat, took out a match, and struck it on the bottom of his boot.

Leisurely, he lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and leaned his head back a little to suck in the smoke. After a few moments, he released the smoke from his mouth, his tongue curling softly as wisps drifted around it.

Violet realized she was staring at him, her gaze fixed on his lips, which pursed around the cigarette again, like a kiss. Many gentlemen liked to smoke, yes, but Daniel made the movements an art—strong fingers loosely holding the cigarette, lips and tongue almost caressing it and the smoke that trickled from his mouth.

“Ye need a bit more than that,” he said.

“What?” Violet jerked. Oh, he meant the rigging. She forced herself into the persona of Violette Bastien again. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur?”

Daniel dragged in another long pull of smoke, his mouth closing around the cigarette in a sensual caress. The end of it glowed. “Downstairs,” he said, smoke floating out with his words. “If ye had something that released ectoplasm, had it crawl up the walls maybe, you’d have them worshipping at your feet.” He smiled, his gaze going pointedly to her high-topped shoes. “I’d be honored if you showed everything to me.” The double entendre rolled off his tongue as he ran his gaze the length of her skirt again, back to her face.

Bloody conceited . . . Violet sank down to her heels, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Are you certain it’s honor you’re after? Or my secrets? Thinking to set up a rival business, are you?”

Mr. Mackenzie laughed out loud—true laughter, no artfulness about it. “Me, a clairvoyant? My friends would laugh me out of London, and my family would tease me senseless. Makes me wonder, though, why you do it? Ye don’t look naturally deceptive to me.”

“Oh? What does naturally deceptive look like?”

More laughter. The sound had warmth to it, a little growl, deep and rasping. “Much more innocent than you, lass. Like my wee baby sister. She can give you a look from her big gray eyes, blinking under those golden red curls. Meanwhile, she’s put three frogs in your bed. She’s seven years old, the bonniest lass you ever saw, and the mischief she can get herself—and me—into . . .” Mr. Mackenzie shook his head, his look so fond that it pulled at Violet even as it surprised her.

Then again, Violet recognized a confidence trickster when she saw one. A man like Mackenzie would throw things like infectious laughter and an adorable little sister at her to get under Violet’s defenses.

“So why do it?” Daniel asked her again. He sounded genuinely interested, not just flirtatious.

Violet made herself remain businesslike. Take what a person believes about you and turn it back on him. “To make a living, of course,” she said. “But you’re wrong, Mr. Mackenzie. My mother’s talent is real.”

“Pull the other one, love. You’re all theatrics—beautiful theatrics. Your wind machine fascinates me, though. I’m trying to build something like it myself. Where did you get it?”

“I built it myself,” she said, feeling a spark of pride. “Purchased the parts in Berlin.”

Daniel let out an aggravated breath. “Of course. Bloody Germans. They’re going to take over the world one day. All the same.” He tucked the cigarette into his mouth, got his feet under him, and in one graceful, sinuous movement, rose to his feet.