But this was different from deciding how much to charge for the performances or from Violet telling her mother what to wear every day, and where to go and what to do. Violet had done all this since the age of seven, when she’d realized her mother had no idea how to take care of a daughter. Or herself, for that matter.
Violet pressed her fingers to her temples. If she’d killed Daniel Mackenzie, even accidentally—a man from one of the wealthiest families in Britain and nephew to a powerful duke—Violet would be made to pay.
If she claimed she’d struck out in fear, that Daniel had attacked her, Violet would be blamed for putting herself into his power in the first place. If she argued that Mortimer had brought Daniel here, and Daniel had lingered inappropriately, she’d be blamed for taking up such an unladylike profession. After all, she’d allowed gentlemen to enter her house, unchaperoned, at such an hour.
Even if the jury were sympathetic to her, Violet still would be punished for killing him or hurting him, if he recovered. She’d be sent to prison or transported, Mary along with her, and possibly her mother too. Violet had seen firsthand the unevenness of the law and its prejudice against women. A jury of men would look upon Violet and happily condemn her before leaving the courtroom to visit their mistresses on their way home to their wives.
“Help me get him into the cart,” Violet said quickly. “And go wake up Mama and pack what you can. We are going.”
“Going? But miss—”
“We can’t risk staying. Mortimer and his friends will know Mr. Mackenzie came here tonight. Even if we’ve only hurt him, we can’t count on the Mackenzies not bringing the law down on us. No matter what, if we are far away when he’s discovered, the better for us.”
Far away, in another country, with different names and different personas. If no one connected Daniel and his visit to this house tonight, well and good. If they did connect it, then Violet, her mother, and Mary wouldn’t be here to answer awkward questions. Not being here when the investigation was conducted would be best. At least Violet’s mother, upstairs in her laudanum slumber, was truly innocent of everything.
Pieces of the vase had blood on them. Violet instructed Mary to put the broken vase into a box, which she would drop over the railing of the boat on the way to France. Mr. Mortimer might rage over the price of it, but that was the least of her worries.
The next hour was one of the most harried of Violet’s life. Time seemed first to crawl and then to fly past.
She and Mary arranged Mr. Mackenzie’s body on the handcart on which they carried groceries home from the markets. As they buttoned up his clothes again, they discovered a fat wad of money stuffed into his coat pocket.
Mary and Violet looked at each other over it. So much cash, right in their hands.
“Some thief will just take it if we leave it on him,” Mary pointed out.
But if constables caught up to them, and Violet had all Mr. Mackenzie’s money, her claim of hitting him in her own defense went out the window.
Violet compromised. She peeled several large notes away from the others, and put all the rest back into his pocket. A small amount from such a large stash wouldn’t be missed, would it? And Violet would need the money to buy tickets.
Violet changed out of what she called her parlor clothes to an old pair of breeches, over which she put a wide skirt and linen shirt. To finish, she tied a scarf over her hair. Any person who spied her in the dark would see an elderly immigrant woman, perhaps taking foodstuffs home or getting ready to go clean for the day at a middle-class woman’s home.
Mr. Mackenzie still lay motionlessly on the cart when Violet went out into the tiny yard behind the house to wheel him away. No moon shone tonight, London so thick with coal smoke in January that no moonlight or starlight could penetrate the gloom. Better for her errand.
She and Mary covered Mr. Mackenzie with sackcloth and then stacked a few bags of coal on top of him. The shapes in the cart Violet pushed would be several small upright lumps, not the horizontal form of a man.
Violet went alone, guiding the cart through the passages to the main street and quickly across to the warren on the other side. She saw a constable down the block of one street, but he was walking the other way and never saw her.
She was thoroughly sick to her stomach by the time she decided she’d laid a false enough trail. Violet doubled back with the cart until she reached a quiet, narrow street east of Portman Square, and the house where she knew a doctor lived. He was a kindhearted man, Violet had come to know, often looking after people in the neighborhood for no charge. If Mr. Mackenzie wasn’t truly dead, the doctor would help him. And if Mr. Mackenzie was dead, the doctor would make sure he was returned to his family.
Violet waited until the street was free of constables or any late-night strollers. This was a poorer neighborhood, with gaslights fewer and farther between. She crept forward, happy she’d kept the handcart well oiled. In the shadows of the silent house, Violet pulled back the sacks and rolled Mr. Mackenzie from the cart.
As his body landed on the cobblestones, Violet choked back a sob. Daniel had been so warm when he’d kissed her in her upstairs room, so vibrant. He’d looked into her eyes and known her for the fraud she was—a fraud in every way.
He’d seen to the heart of her as no one had before. He’d kissed her, because he’d known Violet wasn’t a respectable lady, but at the same time he’d been tender, not demanding.
Tears filled her eyes, and Violet tried to banish them. Crying never helped.
She leaned to Daniel’s inert body and kissed his cold lips. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She smoothed his hair. “I’m so sorry.”
Wiping her eyes, Violet climbed to her feet, restored the sacks to the cart, and pushed it away, her stomach roiling.
She made her way back to their rented house, taking a roundabout route. Halfway there, she abandoned the cart and changed from her peasant clothes into the plain skirt and shirtwaist she’d brought with her. Violet walked the rest of the way back to the house as herself, a basket over her arm, as though returning from a very late errand.
Back inside, her bewildered mother was out of bed, demanding to know why they had to go. Violet had already sworn Mary to silence about Mr. Mackenzie, knowing her mother would fall to pieces at the truth. Instead Violet invented the story that Mr. Mortimer had come here tonight to make trouble about the rent, and had thrown them out.
Her mother believed her and in a remarkably short time was ready to leave. Celine could move quickly when her fear of bailiffs was roused.
The morning was still dark when Madame and Mademoiselle Bastien and their maid left their London house for Dover, and ceased to exist.
Daniel opened his eyes, let out a groan of pain, and snapped his eyes shut again.
Some daft idiot had left the curtains to his bedroom open, and the light of morning stabbed directly into his brain. He never opened the curtains until at least noon, often later, depending on how bad was his hangover.
Today’s was a pounding monster of one. What the hell had he been drinking?
Time passed. When Daniel made himself peel open his eyes again, the light was not as agonizing, though the headache remained.
He didn’t at first recognize the man who turned from the fireplace in Daniel’s upstairs bedroom, then he remembered Matthew Simon, bone-breaker and debt collector, who had pounded his fists into Daniel until Daniel had subdued him.
But the blow that had put this dent in Daniel’s skull hadn’t come from Simon. He remembered all that had happened now, as clearly as the afternoon light pouring through his window.
“Mr. Mackenzie, sir.” Simon leaned over the bed and released a sigh of relief, with a breath that made Daniel note he would buy the man a toothbrush and tooth powder. “I thought you were a goner for sure.”
“I’m a robust, obnoxiously healthy Scot,” Daniel said. He tried to sit up then decided the pillows were the best place for his head. “How did I get here? What happened?�
�
“A constable was called to a doctor’s house in Marylebone—he’d found you near to his doorstep. I was coming to find you after having a little rest at me old mum’s place, to take you up on your offer of a job. I asked around about where you lived—everyone knows, so it wasn’t hard to find. When I got here, a couple of constables were carrying you inside. I said I was your new man, and I’d take care of you. They didn’t know no more about what happened to you than where they found you.”
“So she dumped me in the street,” Daniel said, putting his hand to his temple. His skin stung there, and he made a soft noise of pain.
“The doc stitched you up,” Simon said. “But I can look after you. My brother, he was a boxer afore he died of it, and I used to look after him regular. They said the doc thought you was dead, though, when he found you. But you were knocked senseless is all. You needed to be warmed up and tended, and a few blows on your chest didn’t hurt either.”
“So you say.” Daniel lifted the collar of his nightshirt and observed the fist-sized bruises on his solar plexus. “Why did you feel the need to punch me in the chest? Hitting a man after he’s down?”
“I didn’t do that. The doctor what found you did, so constables said. See, sometimes the heart forgets to beat, but the man is still alive. I saw it in a boxing match once—the fighter was on the floor, and his trainer slammed his hand to the man’s chest. Fighter woke up gasping. It’s like the heart needs a little boost.”
“Like pushing a motorcar to start it. Well, whether it worked or not, here I am.”
“What happened, sir? Did Mortimer and his bullies jump you?”
“No.” Daniel tried sitting up again, and this time it worked. He leaned against his headboard and wished that in the clutter of his bedroom, he knew where he’d left his cigarette case. “It had nothing to do with Mortimer. The last thing I remember, Simon, is a beautiful woman swinging a deadly vase at my head. You ever been thumped by a woman for kissing her?”
Simon’s mouth twitched. “Aye, sir.”
“And what did you do?” Daniel rubbed his head, looking around for a cigar, a decanter of whiskey, anything to blunt the pain.
“Kissed her again.”
Daniel laughed. “Aye, well, I didn’t get the chance, did I? Help me to my feet, so I can get dressed. I need to go ask a lovely lass why she felt the need to crash an ugly vase into my skull.”
An hour, a too-bumpy carriage ride, and half a flask of Mackenzie malt later, Daniel was back at the house near Portman Square where he’d met Violette Bastien.
The front door was partway open. Daniel descended from his carriage in one step and walked inside.
The house smelled cold and empty. A box of cutlery sat on a table in the hall near the staircase, and an empty valise waited forlornly on the steps. Daniel heard footsteps upstairs and voices, angry and male.
He went down the hall and on into the dining room, remembering his first sight of Violette as she stood alone behind the table, a long match in her hand. Candlelight had fallen on a face that had taken his breath away.
Now the room was cold and dark, the drapes shut. Daniel pulled open the curtains, letting in what light filtered through the high houses around them. By that he saw panels ripped from the walls, Violette’s devices gone.
Of course. She’d take those and leave mundane things like cutlery and clothing. She could always find new dresses and new spoons, but her devices were unique.
Daniel heaved a sigh, a little surprised at his disappointment. Violette should be just another female to him—she wasn’t as physically beautiful as the woman who’d dealt the cards at the gaming hell last night. Daniel had taken lovers in France and Italy with more striking looks than Mademoiselle Violette’s. None of those ladies had been anything like Violette, with her hair trickling from her pompadour, her intriguing devices, her cocky rejoinders.
And eyes that held secrets. Violette Bastien—if that was even her name—was a woman who’d lived far more than the debutantes who currently pursued Daniel with determination to land him in matrimony. Even the courtesans he’d known had lived very narrow lives. Mademoiselle Violette fit neither mold.
Find her, something inside Daniel said. Pluck out those secrets and discover what she’s made of.
But Daniel had no time to go chasing after a woman who’d fooled a group of club fodder with her theatrics and skipped out on the rent. Good for her. He’d only gone to the hell last night to clear his head. Playing cards, thinking in simple numbers and odds, helped him solve more complicated mechanical difficulties. Daniel was finished with the encounter, and he had plenty to do.
But he thought again of the first touch of Violette’s lips, how the taste of smoke only enhanced the taste of her. The subsequent kiss in the dining room had awakened a need in him he’d never felt before. Daniel had sensed the beginning of Violette’s surrender, her body going pliant and soft.
Then a blow had landed on the back of his neck, followed by Violette looking at Daniel in absolute terror. No mistaking the blind panic—Daniel had frightened her half to death. Hence the blow with the vase.
But why? In the upstairs room he’d read desire in her. Downstairs, fear. What change had one flight of stairs wrought?
He wanted to know, and now she was gone.
“Find them, damn you!” The cry rang down the stairs, echoing Daniel’s sentiment, but with much more fury. He recognized the voice and left the dining room to confront its owner.
“Your bird has flown, has she, Mortimer?” Daniel asked.
Fenton Mortimer swung around, greatcoat billowing, from where he’d been haranguing a young constable and a man in a business suit and bowler hat on the stairs.
“What are you doing here, Mackenzie?” Mortimer demanded. “If you have anything to do with this, I’ll . . .”
He trailed off, his focus moving to the bruise and cut on Daniel’s temple. He decided not to complete the threat. Wise man.
“I’m looking for Mademoiselle Bastien, same as you,” Daniel said. “Frighten her off, did you?”
“Madame Bastien and her daughter owe my family two months’ rent. Of course they fled. I don’t care how fine a show they gave us last night—they’re tricksters and thieves, and I will prove it.”
“What, you don’t believe in the spirit world?” Daniel asked. “And you dragged me here so eagerly.”
“Because I thought you’d like the girl and forgive my debt if you had a night with her. What did you do to make them flee?”
“Not a damn thing.” But then, Daniel thought again of the fear in Violette’s eyes. She’d struck him to the ground, and now she was gone.
She’d apparently dragged him down a few streets to lie alone until someone found him. Lucky for Daniel he hadn’t been quietly knifed to death, though he’d noticed that the wad of cash he’d won last night had vanished. Had a thief rolled him, or had Violette helped herself from his inert body?
Perhaps everything between him and Violette had been false—the spark of passion, the beginnings of surrender, the fear. All contrived so she could smash wealthy, gullible Daniel over the head, steal his money, and slip away to a softer life in another place.
Violette Bastien had admitted to him that she put on a show for the customer, using her fancy devices. He’d felt sorry for her at the same time he’d admired her ingenuity.
But perhaps she was a confidence trickster all the way down, playing upon Daniel’s protectiveness to get what she wanted. And Daniel had walked into it with his eyes open. He was as much of an idiot as Mortimer.
“Let her go,” Daniel said. “She’ll be miles away by now.”
“Let her go?” Mortimer’s eyes were red with rage. “She owes me. The bitch is going to pay every penny of my debt to you as well. I’ll find her, I’ll have her in prison, and I’ll squeeze her dry.”
Mortimer was a bully, plain and simple. Daniel remembered Simon saying that Mortimer owed money to a very bad man. Mortimer was the kind of
person who would turn around and take out his fear and anger on those he thought weaker than he. Violette Bastien might have played Daniel for a fool, but he wished her out of Mortimer’s grasp forever.
“How much did she owe you?” Daniel asked.
“Forty pounds. And I want the two thousand I owe you out of her too.”
The businessman cleared his throat. He alone of the three men pretended he didn’t notice the bruises and abrasions on Daniel’s face, although the constable studied them with interest.
“That would be unwise,” the suited man said to Mortimer. “The law will help you gain your rent money, but nothing you incurred with another party.”
Daniel grinned. “And stating you brought me here last night so I’d forgive your debt in exchange for her body makes you a procurer, Mortimer. Not the best thing to say in front of a constable and a solicitor.”
Mortimer’s weasel-like face became even more red. “That is not what I meant . . .”
But he had meant that—Mortimer simply couldn’t control his tongue. Daniel knew as well that Mortimer had come here this morning for more than the rent. A debt of forty pounds to his family wouldn’t have him that hot under the collar, not when he owed someone who would employ a bone-breaker five thousand. Mortimer had come to badger Violette, likely to demand she pay him in another way. He’d no doubt summoned the constable and solicitor only after he’d found Violette gone.
Daniel clenched his fists behind his back so he wouldn’t haul off and punch Mortimer in the face. “Tell you what,” he said, running his gaze along the staircase, to the ceiling, and back to Mortimer. “How much do you think this house is worth?”
Mortimer’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I’ll buy it from you—or whoever in your family actually owns it. That way Madame Bastien’s rent is owed to me, not you. Knock off two thousand from the price, and I’ll consider the amount you owe me paid. Knock off another five, and I’ll buy your note back from Mr. . . . Who are you in up to your neck with?”
The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie hp-6 Page 5
