The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie hp-6

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Something like that.”

  “Probably for the best.” Ainsley reached for Gavina, and her daughter readily wrapped arms around her. “If a lady cannot keep up with a gentleman she chooses to pursue, she has no business pursuing him. I ought to know. That’s how I ended up with your father.”

  Ainsley had proved she definitely could keep up with Cameron, much to Cameron’s surprise. The man who’d shut love out of his life had not been able to shut out Ainsley.

  “It’s lucky you’re here,” Ainsley went on. “My friend Leonie is having a grand ball at her house tomorrow evening. We’re attending, and she would love to see you there.”

  Daniel stifled a groan. Leonie was the Comtesse de Chenault, who’d become Ainsley’s friend when Ainsley worked for Queen Victoria. She was wealthy, influential, and had a large house outside of Marseille to which the fashionable flocked. “I can guess what for. It’s bad enough Aunt Eleanor and Aunt Isabella are thrusting debutantes at me right and left, but I thought you had more heart. Don’t tell me you’re joining their schemes to get me shackled.”

  Ainsley blinked in innocence. “I said nothing about debutantes. Did you hear the word debutante come out of my mouth?”

  “But that is who attends grand balls given by comtesses, isn’t it? Debutantes, pushed forward by their mamas with an enthusiasm that’s chilling to see. Why this rush to marry me off? Eleanor’s two boys and Dad stand between me and the ducal throne, and they’re all healthy, thank God.”

  “We aren’t thinking about heirs,” Ainsley said, looking indignant. “We want you to be happy, Danny. To be settled.”

  “To me, happy and settled are not the same thing. Give me a bit more life first, and tell Isabella and Eleanor to stop throwing insipid eighteen-year-olds at me.”

  “Eighteen?” Gavina broke in. “That’s old. You should get married, Danny, and have babies so I can play with them.”

  Ainsley gave her daughter an admonishing look and went on, “You know I am the last woman in the world to tell you not to follow your heart. But how do you know you’ll not find a young lady to steal that heart if you never let yourself go near them? You have to try, you know. Will you at least come with us to the ball?”

  She met his gaze, something hopeful in her gray eyes. Though Ainsley didn’t condone Eleanor and Isabella coercing Daniel to every soiree, ball, supper party, and boating party rife with eligible young misses, Daniel knew she shared his aunts’ wishes to see him wed. She wanted Daniel to have a happy marriage and children of his own. To begin right, to erase the fact that Daniel’s growing up had been hard on him.

  This was important to her, and Ainsley was important to Daniel. She’d made their broken family whole again.

  “Aye, very well,” Daniel said, resigned. “I’ll go.”

  “Thank you.” Ainsley pulled Daniel into another hug, her arms still full of Gavina, who at last was starting to look a little weary. “Good night, Danny. We’ll see you at breakfast.”

  She and Gavina departed, both looking happy, and Daniel closed the door behind them.

  He sighed as he stripped off his coat and cravat. He’d told Simon not to wait up for him, so he had the rooms to himself now, as long as Gavina didn’t sneak back in. No saying she wouldn’t pretend to fall asleep in bed and then be right back down here.

  Daniel poured himself a large measure of whiskey and wandered into his bedroom, his thoughts mixed.

  He’d go to the bloody grand ball and be civil. He wouldn’t marry any of the girls the comtesse shoved at him, but he could be polite.

  Daniel knew the ball would not introduce him to a wife, because when he thought about breezing into a home filled with his inventions, dogs, and small children, it was Violet Daniel saw, with startling clarity, lifting her head to give Daniel a welcoming and loving smile.

  “Miss,” Mary said, coming into Violet’s darkened room where she lay in bed. “Ain’t ye going to get up, miss?”

  “Why?” Violet asked, listless.

  She’d been here dozing on and off throughout the afternoon. Her terror at the hands of Lanier, followed by the emotional jolt of seeing Daniel with a lover, had given her another sleepless night. This morning Violet had lapsed into a stupor that was not quite sleep, leaving her groggy and unwilling to rise.

  “Your mum’s worried about you,” Mary said. “And we have another job tonight.”

  Violet sank further into the pillows, giving in to lethargy. “Why?” she repeated.

  “Monsieur Lanier stiffed us most of the fee, didn’t he? Your mum is so tired after last night, and we need coin, you know we do.”

  Violet lay still, while sorrow and exhaustion spilled over her. “What job?”

  “Fortune-teller for a fashionable party.”

  Violet let out a long sigh. That meant Violet dressing up as a Romany and sitting at a table for hours, telling giggling young women they’d marry tall, handsome men and have many prosperous children. Violet had a knack for palm reading, so any call for a traditional fortune-teller was down to her.

  Celine didn’t believe in fortune-telling, in any case. She considered palm reading, card reading, or crystal gazing the height of nonsense. The spirits communicate directly through me—when they wish to, she’d say. I can’t call them with cards or by looking at the lines on someone’s hand. They scoff at that.

  However, Celine was not averse to Violet earning some coin by her skill. As attached to the spirit world as she was, Celine did have a practical side.

  “I can’t,” Violet said, barely able to utter the words. “Mary, I just can’t. I’m so tired.”

  “But we need the money, miss.”

  “I think we should leave here,” Violet murmured wearily. “Go somewhere we’ve never been before.” Somewhere Daniel and his fashionable friends were not likely to follow. “Canada, perhaps. I’ve heard Montreal is a fine city. We can speak French there.”

  Mary shook her head. “You know Madame will never travel that far over the sea.” She came to the bed, straightening and smoothing Violet’s covers. “And our contract at the theatre is until the end of the month. We have to live here at least until then.” Mary, dark haired, plain faced, kind, and practical, always said what needed to be said.

  “I know, blast it.”

  Violet closed her eyes. She saw again the French countryside unrolling before her under the balloon, heard the sound of wind in the ropes and the hiss of Daniel’s machine, smelled the scent of the sky, and felt the warmth of Daniel beside her.

  Life and its petty troubles flowed away behind her. Aloft over the world, she could be Violet, not the fake Princess Ivanova, or Mademoiselle Bastien, or any of the other personas she’d invented in her life.

  Up in the balloon, Violet had been no one but herself, someone she hadn’t been in a long, long time. Whatever else he’d done, Daniel had given that to her.

  “When we’re finished with the contract, we can go,” Mary was saying. She patted Violet’s knee through the blanket. “Someplace nice. Maybe a spa town in Germany. Those are always pretty.”

  Violet opened her eyes, the sanctuary of her vision fleeing. “Thank you for trying to comfort me, Mary. Tell Mama I’ll do the job.”

  If Violet could rise from her bed. The images of the balloon flight vanished, and she again felt the horror of Monsieur Lanier’s hands on her, the sting of his slap on her cheek. Then the kick to the gut when she’d seen Daniel climb into the coach with the courtesan, he smiling at her the same way he’d smiled at Violet.

  No other man in her life had made Violet feel completely valued for herself alone. She’d sworn that Daniel had seen through her, all the way to the shivering pieces of her soul. And he hadn’t turned away in disgust, hadn’t treated her like the whore Monsieur Lanier assumed her to be.

  Daniel had treated her like a friend.

  “Miss?” Mary asked, worry in her voice.

  Violet opened her eyes again and sighed. “I’ll do it,” she said in a dull voic
e. “Fetch my costume and help me dress.”

  Daniel spent his day with Richard Mason. While Daniel breakfasted with his family in their suite, Simon had brought a message from Richard, who’d pitifully begged Daniel to come see him.

  Daniel found Richard in elegant rooms at another hotel, in bed, feverish, hungover, and despondent. Richard expected Daniel to settle in for the day, reading newspapers and lamenting on the state of the world, sharing whiskey until Richard felt better.

  Daniel was impatient with tending him today, wanting a chance to return to Violet. His time with her hadn’t been nearly long enough yet. He needed more of her.

  But Richard was in a bad way, and so unhappy that Daniel stayed. Daniel suspected something else was wrong with the man besides a hangover and too much debauchery. Richard didn’t say, but he was tired and moody, and the edge had gone from his razor-keen mind. Daniel realized what was the matter before he departed later in the afternoon—Richard was syphilitic.

  “You need to tell the woman you were with last night,” Daniel said, stubbing out his last cigar and rising to leave.

  Richard looked at him in surprise. “Tell her what?”

  “About your affliction. Only fair she knows.”

  “What?” Richard stared, flushing.

  “And get treatment. Doctors are brilliant nowadays. There’s a man in Munich, Doktor Schauman. He’s intelligent and will actually heal you, not give you a quack cure. Tell him I sent you.”

  Richard remained openmouthed, color deepening through his skin. “He treated you?”

  “No.” Daniel had been wise enough to avoid the affliction. “He’s a friend. He’s working on cures for many dreadful diseases, including this one. Just trust me, lad. Go. And when ye’ve done and can speak like the reasonable human being ye once were, look me up.”

  “Right.” Richard sank back into his chair, his eyes too bright. Sad waste of a man. “Thank you, Danny. You’re a friend. Not a word of this to anyone?”

  “Of course not.” Daniel took his hat and coat from a servant who looked relieved Daniel had talked some sense into his master, and departed.

  He walked back to his hotel deep in thought. Cameron, he realized, had worried that Daniel would turn out like Richard. Dissipated, ill, broken at a young age. Daniel had given his father plenty of reason to worry—he’d been more interested in cards, ladies, and drink than studies, and had more than once run away from school to pursue decadent pleasures.

  But Daniel had been reacting to Cameron’s habit of sending him off to his uncles or tutors while Cameron disappeared with his women. Daniel had always supposed his father was pushing him away, not wanting the bother of his son.

  Daniel understood more charitably now that Cameron had feared himself to be a bad father, that Daniel might turn out just like him if they spent too much time together. Cameron had been a womanizer and a drinker, devoted to nothing but his own pleasure. The only things that had saved Cam from being completely dissipated were his love for his horses, which he cared for meticulously, and his son, whom he loved but didn’t know how to.

  Poor Dad. I gave him hell, didn’t I?

  When Daniel reached the hotel, he stopped at his father’s suite. A servant let him in, and Cameron turned from the fireplace, where he’d been enjoying a cigar.

  “Good, Daniel, I’ve been meaning to ask you—”

  Cameron broke off in surprise when Daniel put his arms around his father and pulled the larger man into a hard embrace.

  “You did your best, Dad,” Daniel said. “Even if I was an ungrateful little monster.”

  Cameron returned the embrace somewhat bemusedly, then drew back. His Mackenzie-golden eyes fixed on his son, smoke from his cigar curling around them both. “Daniel, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Gratitude from an ungrateful child. Take it. You did well.”

  “You must be drunk.”

  “Maybe a little. Sat with a sick friend nursing a whiskey decanter. Too much time on my hands makes me think.”

  “I see that.”

  The edge Richard had lost was still honed on Cameron. Cameron had married in scandal, lost his first wife in a tragedy that only increased the scandal, then muddled along trying to raise a son on his own. Finding Ainsley had given him a chance to try again.

  “What were you meaning to ask me?” Daniel asked.

  “About a horse. It doesn’t matter now. Ye’ve broken my train of thought.”

  “Sorry. Ran into it with one of mine.”

  “Ainsley told me she talked you into going to this do of the comtesse’s,” Cameron said. “Some advice—keep your wits about you around the debs. One remark on the weather and they’ll run back to their fathers and say you proposed. Some of them are desperate for husbands.”

  “Poor things if that’s true. I like the way Ian’s Belle thinks—that a woman can be something on her own without marriage.”

  Cameron made a noise of disparagement. “When she’s out of the schoolroom and a handsome young man winks at her, she might change her mind.”

  Daniel grinned. “That will be Gavina soon enough.”

  Cameron gave him a dark look. “Don’t remind me.” His expression softened. “Doesn’t seem fair, does it, that I was so hard on you, but I spoil her and Stu rotten?”

  They’d almost lost Gavina once. Daniel recalled the cold winter night when hope had been dust in his mouth, when he’d thought he’d have to watch his parents be broken by the loss of their beloved baby daughter. Tragedy had been averted, but the fear had left its mark.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Daniel said, patting his father’s shoulder. “You’re only human. And don’t worry, I won’t let Gavina become too much of a brat.” He drew a breath and let Cameron go. “Now, I’d better get a move on and dress for this ball, or Ainsley will never let us hear the last of it.”

  The rambling manor house of Comtesse de Chenault, which reposed on a hill overlooking the lights of Marseille, was overheated and overfull. Violet had been sitting at her table in a corner of the drawing room for an hour now, telling fortunes to the comtesse’s eager guests.

  She’d dressed in a voluminous skirt, loose blouse, and tightly laced black bodice, with a scarf over her head and a long necklace of coins clinking on her bosom. A worn pack of cards lay next to her on the scarf-draped table, and a crystal sphere she’d found in a junk shop in Liverpool sat upright on a stand. She was the very picture of a Romany from the stage and penny novels, which was the point. Everyone would see what they expected to see.

  Violet had held up well so far, pulling on her persona like a well-worn pair of gloves, handing out fortunes with smooth aplomb. But then she looked up to see Daniel walk by in the hall, and misery crashed down on her.

  Violet couldn’t look away from him. As unhappy as she was, she needed the sight of him, to hear the sound of his voice.

  Daniel paused outside the drawing room door. He was speaking to, and laughing with, a blond woman in a gray satin ball gown and a giant of a man who wore a kilt of the same plaid as Daniel’s. The man’s casual stance echoed Daniel’s, and when they both turned to greet someone new, their movements were identical.

  Father and son. Violet’s heart squeezed with a strange yearning. She wanted to know his father, to talk with him and his stepmother, to learn the way they saw Daniel.

  “Tell our fortune, miss?”

  Three young ladies arrived to block her view of Daniel. She’d watched these three, in their blue, green, and yellow silk gowns, move around the rooms with haughty aplomb. Clearly they were the leaders of their set—or at least they considered themselves to be.

  Two were English and one French—the French girl being the comtesse’s daughter. All three wore ball gowns with bits of puffy sleeves, tiny waists, and narrow but flowing skirts. Hair was dressed in loose curls on the tops of their heads, glittering gems tastefully interwoven into the coiffures. The French miss and one of her English friends were dark, the second y
oung English lady, Lady Victoria Garfield, daughter of a marquis, the lightest blond.

  The dark-haired English girl sat down. “Me first.”

  She dropped a coin into the bowl on the table, then tugged off her glove and laid her hand flat, palm up. She’d done this before.

  Violet kept her movements elegant, her voice dusky with a hint of accent. She’d let Mary brush her face and hands with dark theatrical powder to stain her complexion, and the faintest touch of kohl under her eyes made her irises look darker.

  Violet lifted the girl’s hand in her own and brushed a finger across the lines on her palms. She didn’t have to make up things to please people—every line on the palm meant something, as did the number of lines, the way they crossed and where, and where they were broken. She’d learned reading from a Romany woman, who had the uncanny knack of being right about everything. Violet could only imitate—whether her fortunes came true or not, she never knew.

  After studying the young woman’s hand for a time, tracing the lines this way and that, Violet said, “You will be well loved. Your path might take you far from home, but your love will endure.”

  “Oh.” The girl’s cheeks grew pink. “I’ve never been told that before. But you might be right about my path taking me far from home. My beau is an officer.”

  “This line is long,” Violet said, gliding her finger along it. “It means that your love will not be broken, no matter what, no matter how wide your travels.”

  The young woman smiled happily and shot a glance across the room, where a man in uniform was engaged in loud conversation with a knot of men. Violet, while quietly setting up her table earlier, had heard him confess to a friend that he was madly in love with the dark-haired young woman but worried she wouldn’t follow him into army life.

  Looking into the young woman’s eyes now, coupled with what Violet had overheard her telling her friends, Violet knew the girl would follow her soldier to the ends of the earth.