The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Daniel relaxed his fingers, waiting to see what Mademoiselle Violette would do.

She called softly into the darkness, “Spirit, do you have a message for us?”

Any spirit hearing Mademoiselle Violette plead to it in that sensual, contralto voice should spring forward and agree to do whatever she wanted. Daniel moved in his seat, trying to still his rising fantasies. He was as bad as Mortimer.

The planchette trembled, then made a rapid but smooth move to the word Yes.

A collective sigh went through the men present. Difficult to believe that a few hours ago, they were hardened gamblers trying to win packets of money at poker.

“To whom is the message directed?” Mademoiselle Violette asked the air.

The planchette fanned back and forth among the letters, seeking. Finally it stopped at the letter M.

“Mortimer?” one of the gentlemen asked.

The planchette nearly ripped itself across the board to the word No. It then backed away to a neutral area, as though apologizing for its rudeness.

“Will you show us more letters?” Mademoiselle asked.

The rest of the gentlemen leaned forward. Daniel had no doubt that those with M’s in their names—including him—silently begged, Please, please, let it be me.

The planchette traveled slowly across the letters again and stopped at C. It moved on to K, then to E, N, and Z.

“Mackenzie!” Ellingham shouted. He jerked his hand from the planchette, and it stopped.

Of course the thing had spelled out Mackenzie. Or at least McKenz. Daniel shot a glance at Mademoiselle Violette, who studied the board with a serene look.

Little vixen. His estimation of her rose again. She knew bloody well that Daniel knew she was a charlatan, and she was going to play on him every trick she could.

So she thinks.

Violette asked the air in her smooth voice, “Do you have a message for Mr. Mackenzie?”

The planchette said Yes.

Mademoiselle Violette was very good, but Daniel was good too. “What message?” he asked.

Ellingham joined them on the planchette again, and it started to move. Around and around it went on the board, back and forth, sliding toward a letter only to slide away before it could stop. Daniel felt Violette’s subtle but steady pull, and he subtly but steadily pulled back.

Mademoiselle kept her countenance absolutely still. If the spirit’s indecision vexed her, she made no sign.

The planchette at last halted at the letter F. Ellingham said excitedly, “Someone should write this down.”

A gentleman obligingly drew a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and wrote F.

The planchette moved again. It stopped at U, paused for a time, then slid innocently to the letter C. After another pause, it began a rapid journey toward the letter K.

Mademoiselle jerked her hand back, and the planchette stopped dead. The room filled with snickers and chortles.

“Well,” Violette said, turning to fully face Daniel. “The spirit seems in a mischievous mood tonight.”

Her eyes sparkled like candle flames on a frosty night. They looked at each other, neither offering to glance away first. Mademoiselle’s cheeks took on a faint flush, but other than that she sat as still as marble.

Damn, but she was beautiful, and defiant too. No simpering miss in her first Season, hoping to snare the wealthy Mr. Mackenzie, one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain. Why the hell young women were taught that pretending to be frail should make men fall madly in love with them, Daniel didn’t understand. The frail act made Daniel want to suggest the lady eat robust food and take plenty of exercise until she felt better.

This young woman could walk five miles in a storm, brush off her skirts, and comment offhand that the wind was a bit brisk today. Then in the next breath she’d tell someone like Daniel and all his money to go to the devil.

Mademoiselle Violette’s lips parted. The moisture between them beckoned. Daniel wanted to send Mortimer and his irritating cronies out into the cold and have Mademoiselle to himself, to ask her to perform for him alone. No layabouts of the English ton watching, no Mortimer. Just Daniel and this lovely lady, a candlelit room, and time.

“Enough of these parlor games,” Mortimer broke in angrily. “I told you, Mademoiselle, Mackenzie came here to see the whole show. So give it to him.”

Daniel had to turn away from Violette’s beautiful eyes, and for that, Mortimer would pay. “Shut your gob,” Daniel said. “She’s done enough for tonight, and you still owe me two thousand quid.”

Mortimer was halfway out of his chair. “I’m paying for a show, and by God, I want one.”

Daniel started up himself, ready to go over the table to him, but Mademoiselle raised her hands, her voice cutting through the impending tempest.

“The spirits are here! Now!”

A freezing wind swept through the dining room, extinguishing the candles in one go. The room plunged into darkness. In the middle of the table, where the candles had burned, a pale, luminescent blob began to form and spread.

Before Daniel could sit down, a heavy grip seized him by the arms, and someone very strong dragged him up and out through a door and into a pitch-dark room. The door shut, cutting him off from the wind, Mortimer, and the enchanting Mademoiselle Violette.

Chapter 3

Daniel twisted and swung around, his punch contacting flesh in the dark. A man grunted, then an answering blow landed on Daniel’s face before he could spin out of the way.

More blows came down. Daniel fought back. His punches landed on a gut like a brick wall and an iron-tough jaw. Giant fists hit him in return, on his eyes, face, chest. Finally Daniel’s punch contacted a solar plexus, and the man grunted again, wheezing bad breath over Daniel’s face.