The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie (27 page)

“Wait. Don’t sit up.”

Violet scooted to the head of the bed, knelt back, and rested Daniel’s head on her knees. She began massaging his temples in a light, circular motion.

“Mmm,” he rumbled. “That’s nice.”

Daniel
was nice, with the covers around his waist, his chest touched with chocolate. His short hair was sleek under her fingertips, warm with sleep.

“I do this for my mother,” Violet said. “She’s susceptible to headaches and says I make them go away.”

“I see why.” Daniel hummed again.

“I have to go home.” Violet couldn’t keep the note of sorrow out of her voice.

Daniel tangled his fingers through one of her hands and brought it to his lips. “One day, love, you won’t have to. You’ll send the world to hell and stay with me.” He kissed her fingers again, slow, sensual. “That will be a fine day.”

Yes, it would be. But for now, Violet had her mother, her obligations, and the wretched reality of life.

Daniel rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’ll see you again soon. Later today, in fact. I’ll arrange everything.”

He must mean going back to the country inn. Violet knew that if she went there with Daniel, she’d surrender to him.

But first, she’d tell him everything, every dark detail about herself—what had happened afterward with Jacobi, the other reasons Jacobi had convinced her to stay, and why she’d found the courage to finally flee him. Daniel might loathe her and turn her away, but he deserved to know.

What she’d experienced with Daniel so far had been playful and lovely. Daniel, a wealthy and pleasure-seeking man, might want nothing more than play. In that case, nothing mattered. He made the rules of the game, not Violet.

But she could not move forward until she told him. It mattered to her.

If Daniel still wanted her after that, she’d surrender her body, never mind her fears. But she’d let it be his choice.

Violet leaned down and kissed him. The kiss turned long, passionate, filled with need.

Daniel was the one who broke away. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gave her a look that was so tender her heart ached. “Go do what you need to, Vi. And wait for me to come.”

She nodded. It took a while for both of them to leave the bed; more touching and kissing slowing them. Violet dressed with Daniel’s assistance, but the lump in her throat was so hard she couldn’t swallow the coffee the hotel staff had left outside the suite’s door.

“Violet, darling, where on earth have you been?” Celine put another two lumps of sugar into her tea and stirred it noisily as Violet slipped into the sitting room at the boardinghouse. “I have two people wanting private séances today, and we must be ready.” Celine’s tone softened as she looked Violet over. “Where did you get that lovely dress? You look very fetching in it, my dear.”

Violet looked down at herself, aware that she still wore the borrowed costume and slippers. She’d have to sneak them back into the theatre sometime today. But she’d been loath to stuff the beaded dress into her valise at the hotel and resume the shirtwaist and skirt. Daniel had picked out this ensemble, and she wanted to wrap the wonderful evening around her as long as she could.

Violet poured herself the strong tea the boardinghouse provided and took a sip. It was disagreeable, especially after the excellent food she’d tasted last night, not to mention the chocolate. But the champagne had rather given her a headache.

Mary answered a soft knock on the door. One of the boardinghouse’s maids put her head around it.

“Mademoiselle, a man has come to see you,” the maid said to Violet. “I put him in the parlor downstairs. He is waiting there.”

Daniel?
Violet thought excitedly.
So soon?
But when Daniel decided to do something, Violet had noted, he did not wait to do it. She’d have to explain that her mother had appointments today and would need Violet after all, but Daniel would no doubt have contingencies for that.

Violet thanked the maid and said she’d be down at once. She went to her room to smooth her hair and wash the remnants of chocolate from her face before she descended to the ground floor. Drawing a long breath, she opened the door of the parlor.

And found herself looking at Monsieur Lanier, the banker who’d hired them a couple of nights ago. With him stood two men in the uniforms of the French police.

Violet halted, frozen.

“Yes, that is the one,” Monsieur Lanier said. “Told me she was a princess from Russia. Then she and her friend tried to rob me.”

The policemen looked stern. “Mademoiselle, we will have to take you for questioning,” one said.

Violet stared at them for another stunned moment, then she turned and ran.

It wasn’t panic that made her run, or a sense of guilt. The agreement was that if the police in whatever town they were in came after them, Violet, the swiftest runner, would lead them on a merry chase. This would give Mary time to gather what she could and take Celine to safety. Violet would meet up with them later at the designated rendezvous.

Violet picked up her skirts and ran down the street, the old-fashioned high-heeled slippers clicking on the cobbles. The police came right behind her, swift on their feet.

The boardinghouse maid really should have mentioned the visitor’s name and that he’d brought the police, Violet thought in irritation. Probably the policemen had told her not to. The landlady, who didn’t much like them, must have agreed. Blast and bother.

Violet had no money with her, but she knew how to be resourceful. She’d slip away from the policemen and find some way to get herself to the meeting point.

This meant she’d have to leave Daniel behind. Violet had never regretted departing any town, even the lovely ones, but now her heart swelled with pain. She didn’t dare send Daniel word, even a good-bye. She and her mother must disappear again.

The beautiful time she’d had with Daniel, her awakening, was over.

He’d searched for Violet the last time she’d vanished. Would he this time? Or would Daniel have lost interest in chasing her?

She knew where his family lived in London. She’d made it her business to know. Violet could write to him and explain, sending the letter to Ainsley.
After
she got her mother to safety. Daniel might not answer, might not look for her, might not even bother to read the letter. But she had to try.

Violet swerved into a narrow, arched passage between houses, trying to be light on her feet in the foul-smelling muck. She’d gone halfway along it before she realized the policemen were no longer following her. The entrance to the passage remained empty, the only sound the echo of her shoes and her labored breathing.

Violet let her satin skirts drop, never mind the muck. Damn it. If the policemen had given up on Violet so soon, they’d gone back to find Violet’s mother.

Celine couldn’t be arrested. She’d take ill if she went to jail, unable to bear the cold, the foul airs. She was too delicate for such things. And Mary—Mary had been arrested for stealing clothes once upon a time in London, released only because the magistrate said he didn’t have enough evidence for a trial. Mary had stolen to feed herself and her child, who had died all the same of some pestilence that had raged through the poorer parts of London.

Mary was much more resilient than Celine, but if the police discovered her past arrest, they might ship her back to London. A magistrate might not be so lenient for a second offense, and who knew what influence Monsieur Lanier, a rich and respectable banker, would have.

Violet jogged back through the passage to the morning streets. Those on early errands stared at her in her beaded velvet and satin as she ran past. She reached the boardinghouse again, yanked open the door, and dashed inside and up the stairs.

The police were clustered, with Monsieur Lanier and the landlady, at the door to their private rooms. The landlady’s keys clinked as she prepared to unlock the door.

Violet rushed forward. “No!”

The landlady, ignoring her, unlocked and threw open the door.

The sitting room was empty. Celine and Mary were gone, the breakfast things scattered, the tea cooling, the remnants of an omelet congealing.

Violet exhaled in relief. Mary had gotten Celine away. Her mother would be safe.

Violet, on the other hand, was seized, her hands shoved together in front of her, iron cuffs clapped around her wrists.

The cold of the cuffs stirred Violet’s panic. Pushed aside for too long, it rose like a monster—
Trapped, trapped, can’t
run.

The panic made her fight. She kicked and bit, screams escaping her mouth before she could stop them. Her terror was complete when she felt a hand go down the front of her bodice—she was certain the two policemen and Monsieur Lanier were about to share her between them. And no one would help her.

The policeman jerked his hand from her bodice. “Nothing. She didn’t hide the money there.”

Violet, her breath ragged, managed a glare at them all. “My solicitor will have something to say about this.” She tried for imperious tones, but her voice came out weak and scratchy.

“You see? She’s not Russian at all,” Monsieur Lanier said. “A pure fraud. Probably from the gutters of Paris.”

He wasn’t far from wrong. Violet lifted her head, pressed her mouth shut, fought down her panic, and didn’t struggle anymore. As the police marched her down the stairs, the two spinster sisters and other tenants popped out of doorways to watch as Violet was taken into custody.

The policemen took Violet to a barred police van. A crowd had gathered around it, the populace eager to see who was being rounded up this morning. A few men laughed as one of the policemen shoved Violet into the cart and slammed the door. The driver clucked to the horses, and Violet was taken down the streets of Marseille to the nearest jail at a slow walk.

Chapter 22

At least they didn’t put Violet into a cell.
Small blessings.
She rested her shackled hands on the wooden table in the tiny room they’d brought her to. They’d given her a sip or two of coffee then left her to stew for several hours. Her panic had receded, leaving her exhausted and worried.

Violet looked up as a man in a plain suit walked inside, laid a stack of papers he’d been carrying on the table, and sat down opposite her. The man didn’t look at her but started leafing through the papers.

“Now then,” he said in smooth French, but with a hint of Marseille dialect. He spread two of the sheets in front of him. “You are Princess Ivanova . . . with no surname.” He looked up at Violet and gave her a sardonic smile. “Or should I call you Your Highness?”

“It makes little difference what you call me,” Violet said in freezing tones. “Monsieur . . . ?”

“Bellec. I am a detective.”

“I see.” Violet could think of a number of haughty responses—
I am certain your mother is very proud
—but she decided it was best to play this quiet, cold, and superior.

“I’ll give you that you use Princess Ivanova as your stage name,” Bellec said. “But I need your real one. The landlady thinks it’s Perrault, but that’s not true, is it?”

“Why have you arrested me?”
Upstart
, Violet’s tone said. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“If you’d done nothing wrong, why did you run from the policemen?”

Violet maintained her frigid pose. “They frightened me. In Russia policemen often harassed me and the countess. We were not loved there. I feared these policemen were the same.”

He chuckled. “You play the part well, Mademoiselle. Or is it Madame? And where are you from in Russia? Saint Petersburg? Moscow? Easy for me to telegraph to the police there and find out, you know.”

Violet bathed him in silent scorn. She could only hope that her time here, keeping this detective guessing, would give her mother and Mary a chance to get out of the city. The agreement was that if they were forced to separate and run, they would meet at a certain hotel in Lucerne, and from there decide what to do. Celine should have enough for the train with her, and so should Mary. Only Violet had empty pockets, since she’d foolishly left her money in her room in her eagerness to rush to the parlor.

If Violet could get away from the police, perhaps she could find Daniel and beg for his help. Or she could hide in his little apartment until she could leave Marseille. The apartment was old, the lock on the door likely easy to pick.

“I demand to know why I was brought here,” she said, keeping up her part.

“Because you’re a fraud, Mademoiselle,” Detective Bellec said in an easy manner. “At least, that is what you are accused of. You went to the home of Monsieur Lanier to give him a show and took his money. Then, when he didn’t give you enough, you tried to steal it. Interestingly, he is more upset about your fraud. Monsieur Lanier said you employed a number of tricks—spirit knocking, moving the table, making the walls glow . . .”

“And how does he say I did these things?”

“Oh, there are ways. Phosphor-luminescent paint. Devices to make knocking noises—things like blocks of wood strapped to the knees. Tables moving with levers under the wrists. If I searched your pockets, would I find any of these things?”

“Certainly not.” Mary would have packed away the accoutrements and taken them with her. Violet’s valise, even if found and searched, would contain none of those things. More small blessings.

“The thing is, Mademoiselle, you’ve been accused, and we have to investigate. If we find nothing, well then.” He shrugged as if to say
not my problem
. “But I will warn you that Monsieur Lanier is poised to sue you and the Countess, um . . . Melikova . . . if you somehow wriggle away from the police.”

“Detective Bellec, I do not wriggle.”

“Maybe not, but . . .” Bellec leaned forward, his smile and nonchalant manner gone. “I dislike frauds, Mademoiselle. They prey on the gullible and take their money, same as a thief. Worse, because you coerce your mark to hand over the money willingly. You make people think you can talk to those dead and gone; you get inside their heads and play them for fools. A fraud is the worst kind of criminal, Mademoiselle. Even murderers are more straightforward.”

Violet stared at him, a chill in her heart, because she agreed with every word he said. She was a fraud, and she did take money from the gullible.

But she and her mother had to survive, and Celine truly believed in her abilities. The only fraud at heart was Violet.

Jacobi had shown Violet how to make a living using her mother’s eccentricities, and once she’d started, Violet hadn’t been able to stop. She was in a trap, no way out. She and her mother had no other means to live on, no place to go.

The detective rose and gathered his papers. “I’ll let you sit here awhile longer and think about all those fools you took money from. Money meant to feed their families, pay their rents, keep their children warm. Meanwhile, I will investigate. And if I find good proof of your fraud, you will go to court, and I will do my best to see that you pay to the full extent of the law.”

Bellec turned his back and walked out, no longer affable, his coldness sharp.

Violet, left alone, leaned her head back and tried to stop the tears that threatened to pour from her eyes. Bellec wasn’t going to let her go. Mary would have done her best to take the damning evidence away with her, but if she missed something, or she and Celine were caught . . .

The future looked bleak. But the most frightening thing about going to prison was that Violet wasn’t sure she wouldn’t welcome it. At last, she’d be able to stop.

An hour later Detective Bellec returned, a uniformed policeman behind him. Bellec was in a bad temper.

“Your pimps are here,” Bellec snarled, his face dull red. “That’s what I assume they are. Two foreign men, filthy rich, demanding you be released into their protection. What is the law, when money can buy freedom for criminals?”

The uniformed policeman unlocked Violet’s cuffs as she blinked at him in shock.
Two
men? Was one Daniel? But how would Daniel have known to find her here?

“They are commanded to take you out of the country and not let you return,” Bellec continued. “May they have the joy of you.”

Violet still didn’t answer. Anything she said would be useless, as would bowing her head in shame. She got to her feet in silence, gave the detective a cold glare, and followed the policeman from the room.

The uniformed man led her down a dingy hall, up dingy stairs, and out into an equally dingy foyer.

Violet’s knees nearly gave way when she saw Daniel, in kilt, tailored greatcoat, and tall hat, looking every inch a wealthy aristo. With him was a bigger man, dressed in similar fashion—Lord Cameron, Daniel’s father. Lord Cameron’s face was harder than Daniel’s, and he bore a deep scar on his cheek—where his first wife had slashed him with a knife, the stories said.

If the floor would open up and let Violet sink into it, she’d go willingly. Daniel, bailing her out of jail, with his
father
. Heaven help her.

“Hello, Princess,” Daniel said, sotto voce, as he closed his hand around her wrist. “Your carriage awaits. So does your mum. This is my dad. Shall we go?”

Daniel balled his fists on the carriage seat, trying to stifle his rage. His anger had begun when he’d seen Violet’s mother and maid come flying down the street from the boardinghouse as though the hounds of hell were after them.

Daniel had been on his way to see Violet again, ready to sweep her away for another adventure in the country. He’d taken time to bathe, breakfast, and dress, then he’d run to her like an eager swain.

Violet’s maid had been carrying two overflowing valises, Violet’s mother hobbling behind the maid, sobbing. Daniel had ordered the carriage to stop. He’d stepped down himself, taken the valises and tossed them into the carriage, then helped the two terrified women inside.

His rage had increased when he heard Mary’s half-coherent story that the police had come to arrest them. Mary and Violet’s mother had fled, leaving Violet behind.

Daniel had ordered the two to remain in the coach while he sprinted alone to the boardinghouse. He’d found no sign of Violet when he arrived, but a crowd had gathered in the usually quiet street. One of the loiterers had told him that a young lady staying in the boardinghouse had been taken away in a police van. Probably a thief, possibly a lady of the evening.

Red fury had filmed Daniel’s vision. His father had a famous temper, and Daniel had inherited it. Daniel had spent his life trying to conquer it, preferring to win over the world with honeyed words, but sometimes the temper won.

He had to enlist Cameron’s help to bully their way into the Marseille police station and extricate Violet. The detective in charge, a man called Bellec, had wanted to make an example of her. He hated frauds, he said.

Bellec also hated foreigners coming to tell him his job, especially rich and titled ones. Bellec’s ancestors had no doubt herded scores of aristocrats to the guillotine.

Bellec and his superiors agreed to give up Violet only if Lord Cameron gave them his word to take her and her entourage out of the country. If Bellec saw Violet again, he said, he would make sure she went to prison.

Daniel hated the defeated look Violet wore when the uniformed policeman brought her out to the foyer. She held her head high, even then, glaring defiantly at everyone in her path.

But she looked at Cameron in worry, and the first question she asked when Daniel got her into the coach was, “Where is my mother? Is she all right? Is Mary with her?”

The shiftless mother had left her own daughter to the police, and Violet’s worry was for
her
.

Daniel still didn’t trust himself to speak. His father answered for him, his rumbling voice filling the coach. “Your mother is waiting at the railway station. With my wife and daughter.”

Violet blinked. “With Lady Cameron?”

“You’re leaving town,” Daniel said, unable to keep silent any longer. “And we’re coming with you.”

Violet’s eyes widened. “Coming with us? No, that’s not necessary . . .”