The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie (15 page)

Mary produced smelling salts, which calmed Celine. Coralie hovered, wanting to help, but Madame Lanier held out her hand, her anger making the curls of her carefully coiffed gray hair tremble.

“Come away, Coralie. These are tricksters and frauds, and they are not getting a penny of my money.”

Oh, damn and blast. Violet ground her teeth. They
needed
that fee.

Coralie showed some backbone at last. She refused to leave, gave orders to the servants, and oversaw getting Celine into a hired conveyance she sent a footman to fetch.

Madame Lanier loudly announced her intention to retire, ignored by everyone but her son, and marched upstairs as Celine was bundled out the door. Celine, surrounded by servants and breathless with gratitude for them taking care of her, entered the coach. While the attention was around her, Violet stepped back into the dining room, wiped the remains of phosphorus paint from the walls, and stuffed the handkerchief into her pocket. She’d already shoved the box of their accoutrements and the candelabra at Mary.

Violet reached the foyer again to see the hired coach pulling away from the door, Mary looking anxiously out the window. Violet rushed out, but the coach kept moving, its lights growing smaller in the darkness.
Bloody . . .

A touch on her arm made her jump. Monsieur Lanier stood next to her, a look of apology on his face. Violet remembered, in her agitation, to remain in her persona. “But where have they gone?” she asked, her Russian accent heightened.

“I told your coachman to drive on. I would like to speak with you, Mademoiselle le Princess.”

What about?
Violet hesitantly followed him into a parlor, which was opposite the dining room. Monsieur Lanier kept the door open, and stood looking at Violet without asking her to sit down. She watched him nervously, noting the distance between herself and the door, and the obstacles she’d have to navigate to reach it—a sturdy armchair, a tall table with square legs filled with knickknacks, a little desk.

“Mademoiselle, I must ask you to remove those veils.”

“Oh no, Monsieur.” Violet needed no hesitation over that. The veils both provided a fiction and anonymity. She could run about the city in her ordinary clothes and have no one connect her to their show. “I cannot. It is forbidden me.”

Monsieur Lanier’s lips relaxed from their stern line. “Nonsense, you are a guest in my house. You may trust me.”

He moved quickly for a sedentary man. Before Violet could evade him, he deftly caught and threw back the veils.

Violet swung away and made for the door, but Monsieur Lanier got ahead of her, cutting her off and closing the door before Violet could reach it.

“Really, Monsieur, I must go.”

“In a moment. Don’t worry, I will not be summoning the police. I had a wager with myself—either you covered your face because you truly were a dangerous beauty, or you were so ugly you feared you’d drive your audiences away.” He gave her an admiring look. “I am pleased to see that the beauty is true.”

“You are too kind, Monsieur,” Violet said, pretending shyness. She ducked her head—he’d seen her, nothing she could do, but she didn’t need him memorizing her features.

“I also wanted to apologize for my mother’s behavior,” Monsieur Lanier said, sounding businesslike now. This banker would not fall to the ground and worship a deadly beautiful princess. “My mother is elderly and sometimes forgets her manners. She said she will not pay you, but please accept this for your trouble.”

He held up a roll of banknotes. The bundle was pleasantly thick, but Violet, who could count notes faster than a bookmaker at a racetrack, knew it was still only about one-quarter their usual fee.

Monsieur Lanier pressed the money into Violet’s hand, closing her fingers around it. He kept his hand wrapped around hers, and clamped the other about her wrist.

“And perhaps you may do me the honor . . .” He smiled into her face. “My wife is of a sickly disposition. Not often at home to me, if you know what I mean.”

Violet’s mouth went dry, her heart jumping in the beginnings of panic. “Monsieur, I must go tend to the countess. She needs me.”

“Why? She has plenty of servants. You’re a
princess
, aren’t you?” He said the word with a knowing sneer. “Not the sort of woman who waits on other women. The countess is a good actress, and she will be quite well when you reach her.”

“Truly, I must go.” Violet tried to pull away, but his grip was powerful.

Monsieur Lanier grabbed her other wrist. He pushed her against a wall—the wallpaper a pleasant cornflower blue with sprigs of white roses on it. The shape and size of the little climbing roses fixed in Violet’s mind, the loops of the vines becoming a mesmerizing pattern.

Monsieur Lanier released one of Violet’s wrists so he could squeeze her breast, hard. Violet tried to scream, but her throat closed up in dryness.

She struggled—
how dare he?
—and kicked with her high-heeled boot. Monsieur Lanier blocked her kick with surprising deftness, and he curved over her, his breath wine scented, his eyes glittering.

“Now, you stay still and give me what I want, and your fee will be considerably higher. Be a good princess . . .”

He said more, but his words were lost as Violet’s fear came.

Stay still, girl.
The voice drifted from the past
. You have me so randy, it won’t take long.

Violet could hear nothing more, but she could feel, sensations tearing her back to the moment twelve years ago.
Rough hands inside her bodice, pantalets yanked down, cold fingers between her thighs. She tried to fight, but the hands were too strong, his fingers over her throat pushed her into the wall . . .

“Be quiet, damn you. I said, be
quiet
!”

The voice saying the words was in the present, immediate and insistent. Violet swam back to awareness to hear a high-pitched keening coming from her own throat. She was still dressed, on her feet, her head against the wall with its cornflower blue wallpaper and too many white roses.

A slap sounded. Violet felt the sting on her face, heard her keening turn to hiccups.

Monsieur Lanier shook her, her head banging into the wall. “Stop it. What is the matter with you?”

Violet found her strength, and fought. Monsieur Lanier slapped her again, then grabbed her swinging fists as he shouted, “Help me! She’s gone mad!”

Violet barely registered the Lanier servants hurrying into the parlor. Her veils were down again, concealing her face, but she continued to flail against Monsieur Lanier.

Strong hands seized her, and she found herself stumbling into the hall then the foyer. The front door was open, cold air cascading into the house. A shove on her back, and Violet staggered out into the street. Her coat landed on the cobbles next to her, and the door slammed firmly behind her.

Violet’s self-preservation made her snatch up her coat and take a few hurrying steps down the street. She stopped a few houses along and hung on to railings in front of it to catch her breath.

She was all right. She was on her feet, her heart was beating, her clothes were whole, and her gloved hands kept her upright by holding the cold railing. She was all right.

Violet realized she’d thrust the wad of money Monsieur Lanier had given her into her skirt pocket. Something inside her had made her not let it go.
At least we salvaged that from this disaster
.

The coach taking her mother home had long gone, but Violet didn’t worry too much. Violet, Mary, and her mother had a rule—if something went wrong at a sitting or presentation, they were to escape on their own and meet at a designated spot. No waiting for one another, because they had a better chance of slipping away into the streets on their own.

Violet had instructed that for their Marseille sojourn they’d meet back at the boardinghouse, unless that had been compromised. But it hadn’t, thanks to Violet insisting on not using Monsieur Lanier’s private conveyance. They’d have a warm place to sleep tonight.
Small mercies.

Violet thrust her shaking arms into her coat sleeves. She wanted to run, run, back to her tiny room to curl around herself and weep. Instead, she dragged in a breath and started down the street, moving at a brisk walk.

When she judged herself far enough from the Lanier house, she ducked into a darker passage and jerked off the veils, which she stuffed into her coat pocket. They were so gauzy they rolled up almost into nothing. Violet smoothed her hair and settled her coat, ready to be the young woman walking home from work again.

But before she could take a step, her heart began pounding sickeningly fast, and bile rose in her throat. Reaction.

Violet feared she’d have to stop and heave up her small dinner against the wall. She hugged her arms over her chest, willing herself to breathe normally, but sobs came regardless, the small sounds of them loud in the darkness.

Think of Daniel.

The thought sailed into her head as though one of her mother’s spirits had spoken it to her.
Think of Daniel.

The comforting weight of him as he’d kissed her in the high bed, the way the wind had tugged his hair as he’d frantically tried to steer the balloon. Daniel’s shirt sticking to his damp torso, the black tattoo that curled around his tanned arm. Violet thought of the comfort of his hand in hers as they rode away from the village in the cart, then his ridiculous romantic farce of clinging to the side of his carriage and waving at her after he’d said good night last night.

Violet’s knot of terror began to loosen. Yesterday morning in the inn, as she’d eaten a brioche with fresh butter, she’d watched Daniel shave himself. He’d lathered his face with the soap and brush the innkeeper had brought him then carefully scraped at his cheeks, watching himself in the small, dark mirror above the washstand.

So cozy and intimate they’d been, Daniel shaving without embarrassment while Violet breakfasted a few feet away. The bed behind them had been rumpled from their sleep, as though they’d been husband and wife in truth.

Violet’s fear faded still more. She drew a long, cleansing breath and moved out from the passage, fancying she could still hear Daniel’s laughter.

No, she
did
hear it. This was a fashionable part of town, the street she emerged into lined with restaurants and cafés. A knot of young men and women stood near the entrance of one of the restaurants, either coming out or going in, Violet couldn’t say.

Daniel was with them. He wore a greatcoat and high silk hat like the others, but his kilt set him apart, as did his broad frame and his deep, booming laughter.

The men with Daniel were in their twenties or early thirties, she judged, his friends and cronies. The ladies who accompanied them glittered. They wore frocks of blue, green, gold, silver, the bodices daringly cut, delicate skin protected from the cold with furs. Diamonds sparkled on bosoms and hair, cheeks were rouged, hair crowned with feathers. Long gloves hid slim arms but showed off bejeweled bracelets.

These were not the shy, young debutantes of society; they were courtesans.

As Violet watched, the red-haired lady next to Daniel wound her fingers around his arm and ran her other hand up his back to his shoulder. Daniel turned to laugh down at her, the smile on his face full of warmth.

Violet’s heart squeezed so hard she had to put her fist to her chest. She ducked back into the shadows, but Daniel never turned, never saw her.

Not for you
,
a voice inside her head said.
Not for you.

Violet watched numbly as the group turned from the restaurant and sought waiting coaches. Daniel helped the red-haired woman up into his carriage with the same gallantry he’d used to assist Violet. He removed his hat as he stepped into the coach with the woman, followed by another gentleman and lady.

The other men and women swarmed into the rest of the carriages, but Violet scarcely noted them. Her gaze was all for Daniel, his broad arm that rested against the window, the flash of his face as he threw back his head and laughed at something.

The carriages jerked forward, moving off in the direction of theatres and cabarets.

Violet remained in place until they’d rumbled well away. She tried to force herself to stand upright, to leave the shelter of the passage to continue her way home.

She ended up against the dirty wall, half doubled over, her fists balled into her stomach. Sobs wracked her body, and tears streamed down her face.

Violet cried as her heart broke, the warmth of her night with Daniel dissolving before the heat in his eyes as he’d smiled at the courtesan.

Daniel was happy to see Richard Mason, an old university mate with a brilliant mind, but Daniel hated watching the man waste that brilliant mind on drink and sexual diversions.

The women Richard had brought for Daniel and his other friends were charming but they had nothing in their eyes. Before meeting Violet, Daniel would have happily dallied the night away with one or two of them, wallowing in a warm bed and all kinds of debauchery. Why not? Bodily pleasures must be sated or they distracted him too much. At least, that was his excuse.