The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Mary’s expression was ingenuous. She saw no objection at all to Violet becoming Daniel’s mistress—a very sensible solution for women in need of money, to her mind.

But Mary’s words continued to tarnish the brightness of the night. “Mr. Mackenzie won’t be giving me any jewels,” she said.

Even as Violet spoke the words, she envisioned herself sitting at a dressing table with Daniel coming behind her, smiling his wicked smile, diamonds in his hands. He’d lay the necklace across her bosom, fasten the clasp with gentle fingers, and lean down and press a kiss to her neck.

Violet craved it. Not the jewels, but the intimacy of it. Daniel choosing a gift with Violet in mind and warming her as he gave it to her.

“Miss?”

Violet jumped, finding herself back in their faded sitting room. She crossed to the window, but a glance outside showed her that Daniel and his coach had already gone. “I’m sorry, Mary. Now, why were you searching for me so desperately?”

Mary looked worried. “It’s your mum. She’s had one of her premonitions.”

“Oh dear.” Violet’s euphoria faded. Her mother often had dire visions of their future, which, unfortunately, sometimes came true. “Is she all right? Have you put her to bed?”

“I did, but she went on something awful. Begged me to find you, said she wouldn’t settle until you were safe back here. It was a bad one tonight. She foresaw all kinds of dire horrors, especially for you. Fire, smoke, and death, all mixed up. She’s very afraid, miss.”

“I see.” Violet sighed. She patted Mary’s shoulder, gave her the pouch of tips she’d earned from her fortune-teller’s bowl, squared her shoulders, and walked into her mother’s bedroom.

Chapter 20

Ainsley wanted to stop at a restaurant.

“They won’t let us in this late,” Daniel said.

“Nonsense. There’s the little one next to the cabaret—they serve people far into the night. Besides, they have the most marvelous torte you must try. Cake smooth as butter, with raspberry jam between the first two layers and luscious chocolate glaze dripping down the sides.”

Daniel looked at her with fondness. Ainsley had been a friend from the moment he’d met her. “You do love your cake, Stepmama.”

“So do you, Stepson. I remember when we made our way down the boulevards of Paris, trying cake at every patisserie in the city. Drove your father wild.”

Daniel grinned, remembering Cameron growling like a bear as Daniel and Ainsley dragged him all over Paris for cake. Cameron had been falling in love with Ainsley at the time, though the man had done everything to avoid admitting it. Pushing those two together had been one of Daniel’s most onerous but enjoyable tasks.

The torte, as Ainsley promised, was excellent. She spent the first half of the dessert in silent enjoyment of the confection. The little café was dim, the clientele noisy, but Daniel and Ainsley had procured a private table at the front window and were left relatively alone.

Ainsley finally laid down her fork, drank a dollop of wine, and put her elbows on the small table.

“Now, Daniel, tell me everything about this Violet.”

Daniel forked up another mouthful of jam-smeared torte. “This is a change. You usually beg me not to mention anything to do with my women. You wish me to remain the innocent sixteen-year-old who ran away from school and was your coconspirator. I have to remind you, I wasn’t so innocent at sixteen. I’d already had two mistresses and plenty of briefer affairs.”

“Of course I don’t want to know about that. I’m asking you about Violet. Why do I ask? Because you look at her in a different way than you do the others. Don’t tell me you don’t. I want the entire story.”

Daniel set down his fork, which was a crime, because the torte was like bites of heaven. “No story. Her services as a medium were offered to me to pay a gambling debt. Then she tried to kill me, then I chased her to Marseille, then I took her ballooning and nearly killed her. So we’re even.”

It was difficult to keep from laughing at the expression on Ainsley’s face, but Daniel did it. Going back to shoveling in more torte helped.

“You see?” Ainsley said after a stunned pause. “I knew there was a story. Who is she? She’s very lovely, even under that theatrical powder. Not a Romany at all, I take it. She’s from London or I’m a Dutchman.”

“You’re still plenty Scottish,” Daniel said. “South London, though I believe Vi had a French father. So she says. Or else she’s truly a Russian siren hiding in France to escape persecution—the impossibly beautiful Princess Ivanova, with her friend, the Countess Melikova, who can speak to anyone on the other side.” He said the last in dramatic tones.

Ainsley’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “That’s who she is? I’ve seen the bills about town. Their show is even recommended by the hotel. Oh, we must see it.”

“I have seen it. It’s complete and absolute flummery. They’re very good at it.”

“Better and better. I’ll tell Cam. We’ll all go. I can’t wait.”

“They have a performance tomorrow,” Daniel said. “Or, tonight, rather. I think it’s getting on for the wee small hours.”

Ainsley ate another thoughtful bite. “What you haven’t told me is whether you plan to make an honest woman of her.”

Daniel scraped the last bit of chocolate from his plate then pushed the plate and fork aside. “Why this sudden rush to shove me down the aisle? Are you that eager to make an honest man of me?”