The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

He alone of the gentlemen that night had been kind to her. He’d discovered Violet’s secrets, but instead of being outraged and exposing her, he’d laughed and been interested.

And the kisses . . . Violet remembered the smoke on Daniel’s breath, the touch of his lips. His gentle kiss in the upstairs room had awakened fires in her—fires, not fear. For the first time in her life, Violet had kissed a man without terror.

Why, why then had she struck him when he’d tried again in the dining room? She wished she could be transported back to that moment, wished she could change her split-second decision. In the new scenario, her hand would never have landed on the vase, and she’d not have swung it, not seen his blood . . .

Violet had left him on a doorstep like unwanted trash. A man, a human being, and Violet had left him alone, ready pickings for any thief.

The kind doctor or a constable must have found him, Violet told herself once again. Found Daniel, found out who he was, sent him home to his family.

Violet’s breath caught on a sob. She didn’t want him to be dead. She wanted that night back, to slow down with him and get to know him, to hear his warm laughter one more time.

The police would be investigating what had happened. They’d learn that Mr. Mackenzie had been to the house Violet and her mother rented. Violet had been right to flee, or else she, Celine, and Mary might be in a prison cell right now.

As always, Violet had done what she’d had to do. She couldn’t take it back, and she had to move on. She and her mother would perform, they’d count the takings, and they’d survive. That was Violet’s life.

Her tedious, empty life.

Marseille.

Daniel stared down at the note he received from Ian a few days after he’d sought his uncle’s help. The thick sheet of writing paper bore the one word in careful script, nothing more.

“Could you be more specific?” Daniel said to the air.

“Sir?” Simon appeared from the back parlor, which held two-thirds of a motorcar and not much else. He’d been helping Daniel reseat the pistons. Daniel had wiped his hands and come out to answer the door, finding a delivery boy with the note.

“Never mind,” Daniel said to Simon. “My uncle Ian can be so very cryptic. If he says they’re in Marseille, they’re in Marseille. Fancy a trip to the south of France, Simon?”

Simon looked doubtful. “Never been, sir.”

“Your chance to go now. I need to send off some telegrams. Kill a few birds with one stone.”

Simon didn’t answer, having, in the last few days, come to realize that Daniel talked a mile a minute in several different directions and didn’t always expect a reply.

Even as Daniel readied himself to go, looking regretfully at the motorcar before shutting the parlor door, he wondered why he should bother. Violette’s volatile reaction to his kisses meant she wanted nothing to do with him. The fact that she or someone in her household had carried him out and left him on the street reinforced that fact.

Then came the memory of Violette in the curve of Daniel’s arm, her lips puckering around the black cigarette. He hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of her red mouth. She’d tasted of honey, smoke, and desire. One sip of her had made Daniel want more, and more.

In the dining room, Daniel had wanted to kiss her again, then lift her to the table, pull their clothing aside, and lose himself inside her. Something in his heart had craved her, and it craved her still.

Who was Violette Bastien, and where the devil was she?

Marseille, Ian’s note said. “Pack me some clean shirts, Simon,” Daniel called, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “When I get back from the telegraph office, we’re off to France.”

The concert hall was nearly full. Violet liked to see bodies in every seat, because theatre owners sometimes demanded a larger percentage of the take if they didn’t fill the hall. But it wasn’t bad tonight. Theirs was a new show, and the bored expatriates and wealthy French of Marseille wanted novelty.

The lights went down and the curtain opened on their simple tableau. Violet’s mother sat on a curved rococo-revival chair, her back straight, the train of her old-fashioned black bombazine gown trickling to the floor. At the last minute, she’d declared she would wear the turban after all, and its shimmering brocade shone against her graying black hair.

Next to Celine was a table holding an empty glass and a pitcher of water, and Violet was walking to the table as the curtain opened. Violet had dressed in a fashionable dove gray gown, covering her face with a sheer black veil that hung to her waist. In addition, she’d donned a blond wig so that wisps of pale hair occasionally curled below the veil. The wig itched a bit, but the fine, fair hair completed the illusion.

In the advertising for the show—and the word of mouth Mary had begun—it was hinted that Violet must keep her face hidden, because one glimpse of her incredible beauty drove even the calmest gentleman insane. Violet was highly aware of the men in the first two rows contorting themselves to try to look under her veil.

The chandeliers above the audience had been dimmed, and gaslights glowed at the edge of the stage, illuminating Violet and her mother. The smell of packed bodies, wool, and perfume rose like a wall in front of them.

Violet poured her mother a glass of water, keeping her movements graceful, then she looked out at the audience and said, “The countess will open the paths to the spirit world. She must use all her concentration to do this, and so you will confine your questions to me. I will listen to your petitions and decide who she has the greatest chance to reach.”