Highland Pleasures [6] The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Not entirely.” Ellingham pointed upward at the chandelier, which started to sway again, its facets tinkling.

  Violette looked up, the extraordinary attractiveness of her face softened by the lone candle.

  Daniel could expose her at that moment, call down to those below that he’d discovered how she’d tricked them all. But he knew he never would. Not because Mortimer was a bully, and not because of Mademoiselle’s anger, though she showed plenty of that. And not because of her pleading look, though it was nearly lost under all the anger.

  It was her cheekiness. In the middle of the night, Mademoiselle Violette sat alone in a room of gentlemen, which could spell ruin for any other young woman, and played upon them like a master musician played his piano.

  These bachelors of London’s best families, who cut dead anyone who didn’t fit their extremely rigid rules of behavior, sat like tame puppies while Mademoiselle Violette made fools of the lot of them.

  She ought to look gleeful and revel in her power. But Mademoiselle only looked worriedly upward, frightened that someone was about to end her show, possibly for good.

  The desperation she tried to hide while she looked up through the chandelier—realizing her trusted maid was no longer above her—decided it.

  Daniel gently pulled another lever, and a rap sounded deep inside the dining room wall.

  “What was that?” one young man gasped.

  Daniel pulled the lever again, producing another loud knock. Mademoiselle Violette must have rigged a block of wood or something to bang against a wall or another block, to make a hollow, rapping sound.

  The lever operated smoothly, needing the lightest touch. After a little experimentation, Daniel discovered he could control the pacing and volume of the knocks.

  “Is it trying to send a message?” Ellingham asked.

  Violette took a deep breath and forced her gaze from the chandelier. “It is indeed. Hush now, while I listen.”

  Daniel wondered how many of the club fodder below knew Morse code. Had they ever operated a telegraph machine? Or were telegrams only what they dictated to lackeys to send for them?

  Daniel rapped out . . . I am the ghost of . . . No, wait.

  Mortimer is an ass.

  From the expressions below, none of the gentlemen had so much as seen a telegraph machine. They waited patiently for Mademoiselle to tell them what the sounds meant.

  Violette kept her countenance serene. Wonderful woman. “The spirits are unhappy,” she said in her whispery contralto. “They wish us to stop. To leave them alone.”

  Daniel kept knocking in code. You are lovely, do you know, lass?

  A blush spread over her face. She knew exactly what Daniel was rapping out, which meant she knew Morse code herself. Interesting.

  How did a fine lady like you become a confidence trickster?

  “Enough!” Violette said abruptly, rising to her feet. “Evil spirits, be gone from this place!”

  Daniel left off the knocking and pulled the chandelier again. It swayed and rocked. He tried another lever, which released a cluster of tiny spheres on thin wires. The spheres, painted with phosphorescent paint, swirled and danced like ghost lights. Yet another lever released a groaning sound, probably through bellows or a bag of some kind.

  He also found the lever that controlled whatever machine had blown the cold wind—it not only turned on the machine but regulated the speed. Wonderful. Daniel wanted to get his hands on this machine, more sophisticated than the other tricks. He’d take it apart and see how it worked.

  The wind blew out the candle again. Daniel worked levers until the room below was filled with moaning, the chandelier swaying, ghost lights dancing in the wind. Violette plopped down to her chair, giving up.

  Ellingham and the others stared, round-eyed, as the room lost control. When Daniel decided they’d had enough, he slammed all the levers back to their resting places.

  The wind died, the ghost lights vanished, the noise stopped, and the chandelier creaked slowly to a halt. The facets gave one last shiver, then went still.

  Violette rose, and another match flared to life in her hand. “Well . . .”

  Her words were drowned out by thunderous applause. Ellingham got to his feet, face glowing, gloved hands clapping hard. “My word, Mademoiselle, you have a wonderful gift. I’ve always said so.”

  “They didn’t hurt you, did they, Mademoiselle?” another man with a little more compassion asked. “Are you well?”

  “I will be.” Violette took out a handkerchief and delicately dabbed at her forehead. Oh, she was a master. “I have some protection from them. But I fear, gentlemen, that I feel a bit faint.”

  The gentlemen climbed to their feet, suddenly solicitous, assuring her they’d leave her to rest, that they were grateful to her. And when could they come back and bring their friends who needed to see, to believe?

  Daniel watched Violette as she handled them all, on her feet, but holding the table as though barely able to stand. She encouraged them to make return visits, but with an appointment, so they might be better able to reach the spirits. Violette apologized for her weak talent—her mother’s was much better. Worth it to wait until her mother was well.

  The gentlemen fell all over themselves agreeing with her, only Mortimer silent.

  Daniel also heard the lads speculating on what had happened to Mackenzie. One said he’d seen Daniel run out of the room, no doubt in a fright when the spirits had started up in earnest. Ah well, everyone knew the Scots were yellow.

  Mortimer was the last out of the dining room. He paused at the door. “A fine show, Mademoiselle,” he said. “You are to be commended.”

  Violette inclined her head, managing to look haughty and meek at the same time. “I thank you, sir.”

  “Hmm.” Mortimer kept his hand on the door frame. “Well, I’ll be back, Mademoiselle, in the daylight. To speak to you.”

  “I look forward to the meeting,” Violette said.

  She didn’t. She’d rather eat a toad. But she only wrapped a light shawl about herself as she spoke, her exhaustion not feigned.

  Mortimer gazed at her another long moment before he made a bow and said good night. Daniel heard him join the others at the front door, the door close behind them, and their voices on the street. None of them mentioned Simon, so Simon might have ducked away out of sight, or perhaps he’d gone home to nurse his wounds.

  Daniel lingered, fascinated by the pulley system. There were more levers he hadn’t tried. One sent a deep bell tolling—a person could imagine the specter of Death himself following such a noise. Another . . .

  A pair of feet in white leather boots stopped in front of his face. The laces of the boots covered a fine pair of ankles. Better still, from his position, Daniel could glimpse the legs that rose from the boots, gossamer black stockings fitting tightly over shapely calves.

  He rolled over onto his back and put his hands behind his head. From this angle, he looked all the way up her straight skirt to the tight bodice that swelled over her bosom. “As grand a setup as I’ve ever seen,” he said. “The pulley system, I mean. What engineer strung this for you? Whoever it was, I want to meet him.”

  Mademoiselle Bastien’s schooled face remained carefully blank. “I did it,” she said.

  “Did you, now?” Daniel’s eyes widened in amazement and he brought his ungloved hands together in a burst of clapping. “Brilliant. I think I’m in love with you.”

  Chapter 4

  Arrogant, impudent . . . Violet and her mother were about to be ruined by this scion of aristocracy, and he was laughing at her.

  Mr. Mackenzie returned his hands behind his head and lay full-length on Violet’s floor, relaxed and confident. What did he intend to do? Expose her? Alert the newspapers? The police? Violet’s heart beat hard. She needed to wake up her mother, to pack what they could, to l
eave.

  But Mr. Mackenzie remained unmoving, eyes glittering in the lamplight, his handsome face and athletic body the best things that had ever decorated this room.

  Violet had no business thinking of that, absolutely no business. Existence was difficult enough. Men believed that women’s lives were theirs to dictate, to own. Look what had happened the last time Violet had thought a man sympathetic to her, had trusted him. Absolute disaster.

  “You used the bell system,” Mr. Mackenzie was saying. “Piggybacked on the pulleys and tubes already available to you. Very wise. Though a bit inconvenient if you want to summon someone to bring you hot water.”

  “The consultation is over, Mr. Mackenzie,” Violet said, keeping her voice brisk and businesslike. “The other gentlemen have gone.”

  Daniel pushed himself up to a sitting position and crossed his legs. His kilt fell modestly over his knees, but not before Violet caught a glimpse of the strong thighs beneath. Oblivious of her scrutiny, Daniel pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a black cigarette, and put it between his lips. He shoved the case back into his coat, took out a match, and struck it on the bottom of his boot.

  Leisurely, he lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and leaned his head back a little to suck in the smoke. After a few moments, he released the smoke from his mouth, his tongue curling softly as wisps drifted around it.

  Violet realized she was staring at him, her gaze fixed on his lips, which pursed around the cigarette again, like a kiss. Many gentlemen liked to smoke, yes, but Daniel made the movements an art—strong fingers loosely holding the cigarette, lips and tongue almost caressing it and the smoke that trickled from his mouth.

  “Ye need a bit more than that,” he said.

  “What?” Violet jerked. Oh, he meant the rigging. She forced herself into the persona of Violette Bastien again. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur?”

  Daniel dragged in another long pull of smoke, his mouth closing around the cigarette in a sensual caress. The end of it glowed. “Downstairs,” he said, smoke floating out with his words. “If ye had something that released ectoplasm, had it crawl up the walls maybe, you’d have them worshipping at your feet.” He smiled, his gaze going pointedly to her high-topped shoes. “I’d be honored if you showed everything to me.” The double entendre rolled off his tongue as he ran his gaze the length of her skirt again, back to her face.

  Bloody conceited . . . Violet sank down to her heels, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Are you certain it’s honor you’re after? Or my secrets? Thinking to set up a rival business, are you?”

  Mr. Mackenzie laughed out loud—true laughter, no artfulness about it. “Me, a clairvoyant? My friends would laugh me out of London, and my family would tease me senseless. Makes me wonder, though, why you do it? Ye don’t look naturally deceptive to me.”

  “Oh? What does naturally deceptive look like?”

  More laughter. The sound had warmth to it, a little growl, deep and rasping. “Much more innocent than you, lass. Like my wee baby sister. She can give you a look from her big gray eyes, blinking under those golden red curls. Meanwhile, she’s put three frogs in your bed. She’s seven years old, the bonniest lass you ever saw, and the mischief she can get herself—and me—into . . .” Mr. Mackenzie shook his head, his look so fond that it pulled at Violet even as it surprised her.

  Then again, Violet recognized a confidence trickster when she saw one. A man like Mackenzie would throw things like infectious laughter and an adorable little sister at her to get under Violet’s defenses.

  “So why do it?” Daniel asked her again. He sounded genuinely interested, not just flirtatious.

  Violet made herself remain businesslike. Take what a person believes about you and turn it back on him. “To make a living, of course,” she said. “But you’re wrong, Mr. Mackenzie. My mother’s talent is real.”

  “Pull the other one, love. You’re all theatrics—beautiful theatrics. Your wind machine fascinates me, though. I’m trying to build something like it myself. Where did you get it?”

  “I built it myself,” she said, feeling a spark of pride. “Purchased the parts in Berlin.”

  Daniel let out an aggravated breath. “Of course. Bloody Germans. They’re going to take over the world one day. All the same.” He tucked the cigarette into his mouth, got his feet under him, and in one graceful, sinuous movement, rose to his feet.

  He reached a hand down to help her up. Violet studied the sinewy strength of the gloveless hand, virile, tight, powerful, stretching down to her. Daniel expected her to take the offer of help without reluctance, to let him steady and guide her.

  Fortunately Violet had learned a long time ago what a lie such an offer could be. But she was not so terrified of him that she would not at least let him help her to her feet. Any metaphor beyond that was useless.

  Violet put her hand into his. Mr. Mackenzie’s strong fingers closed around hers, the warmth in them palpable.

  Daniel didn’t guide her upward—he pulled hard, lifting Violet nearly off her feet. Her heels tapped the board floor as they came down. Daniel’s hand went to her elbow to steady her, and she found herself pulled against the length of his tall body.

  The twinkle in Daniel’s dark amber eyes made her shake. “Naturally deceptive also looks like me,” he said, his voice low. “From where do you think my wee baby sister learned it?”

  He wouldn’t let go of her. Daniel had a solid grip on Violet’s arm, strong enough that she couldn’t tug away and scorn him with a freezing glance. Freezing glances would bounce from him in any case, or else be caught and thawed by him. There wasn’t a bit of chill anywhere in Mr. Mackenzie.

  He was all heat. And Violet was so cold.

  She smelled the smoke on him, whiskey from earlier tonight, and dust from her floor. Daniel held the cigarette loosely, and the smoke curled around Violet as though trying to pull her into an embrace with him.

  Daniel’s face was hard, but not as hard as that of his father, or at least what Violet had seen of his father in the newspapers. Daniel’s dark hair had been cut short, but he’d managed to rumple it so one part of it stuck out in a different direction than the rest. The lamplight burned red highlights in his hair, subtle ones that would show only in strong light and only to someone standing close to him.

  Daniel lifted the cigarette. Without releasing Violet, he took another pull then offered the cigarette to her.

  Violet eyed the dark stick and its faint glow at the end. She knew that some scandalous women smoked alongside their lovers, but Violet had never formed a taste for it. She found she preferred the warm, herbal scent of pipe smoke in any case, although cigar smoke was what clung to most gentlemen these days.

  She imagined Mr. Mackenzie’s fancy ladies wouldn’t reject an offer to share his smoke. The young debutantes he’d be courting, on the other hand, to put an heir in his nursery, would be shocked and turn up their noses. Or they might giggle at Daniel’s audacity.

  The thought of those giggling, perfect young debs with their soft fingers and no worries in their spoiled little heads made Violet almost snatch the cigarette from him.

  She closed her lips around it. Violet had learned when she practiced on cigars—ghostly smoke appearing in a room while her mother was in her trance never hurt—that if she closed up her throat and didn’t let the smoke into her lungs, she could tolerate it.

  Daniel watched her, standing so close that she could smell the shaving soap he’d used before he’d ventured out tonight. She also caught the scents of cigar smoke mixed with that of the cigarette, plenty of whiskey, and a woman’s heavy perfume. Her heart burned.

  Violet exhaled the smoke little by little, while Daniel fixed his gaze on her. As the last of the smoke trickled out, Daniel leaned down and fitted his lips over hers.

  The pressure was barely a kiss at all, only a resting of his lips against hers, allo
wing her to feel his smooth mouth, the bite of warmth, the strength of him.

  No hesitant kiss of a man who knew he was being more forward than he ought. Likewise, it wasn’t a commanding kiss—it gave more than it demanded.

  Daniel eased back, a smile spreading across his face. “Ah, lass, I knew ye’d taste fine.”

  She could only stare at him. Time for a biting quip, the wit Violet had learned that put a forward gentleman into his place. Time for the half-amused, half-scornful look the Parisian courtesan called Lady Amber had taught her—it stopped men before they got above themselves, Lady Amber had assured her.

  But Violet’s heart pounded, and she couldn’t move. Flashes of white light slapped her eyes, and the flickering lamp across the room didn’t help.

  “Ye all right, love?” Daniel asked, stooping to look into her face.

  The quiet question almost killed her. Violet wanted to wrap her arms around him, to hang on to him until everything, absolutely everything was all right again.

  But that way lay danger, and terror so great it immobilized her. Lady Amber had tried to help Violet become right again, but Violet had long ago faced the sad fact that she never could be.

  “Yes. Fine.” She made herself sound brisk. “The hour is late.”

  Daniel touched fingers to Violet’s chin, the caress so gentle her knees threatened to buckle. Violet thought he’d kiss her again—hoped—but Daniel only took a step back, ground out the cigarette on the bottom of his boot, and said, “Now, show me this wind machine.”

  Without waiting for her to escort him, Daniel left the room.

  Violet had to hurry after him, her heels clicking on the bare floor. He moved fast, his long stride carrying him down the stairs before Violet could catch him.

  By the time she reached the ground floor, Daniel was already in the dining room, all the candles lit, he standing in the middle of the room, turning a slow circle. “Your bobbing ghost lights issued from that register,” he said, pointing upward. “The icy breeze of death from . . . ah.”