The Seduction of Elliot McBride

from him and seated herself, trying to ignore the warmth of his body at her side, the fold of open coat that brushed her shoulder. The breath went out of her again as Daniel eased her chair forward, his strength unnerving.

Violet laid her hands flat on the table, trying to use its cool surface to calm herself. She needed to appear utterly composed, sugar-sweet and ready to help.

“Will you all give me a moment to prepare myself?” she asked, throwing out an appealing look.

The gentlemen readily agreed. Most had been here before, most often as Mortimer’s guests, but some returned alone for private consultations with Violet and her mother.

Only Mr. Mackenzie kept watching her, leaning on the table so he could look her in the eye. “Prepare yourself for what?” he asked.

Mortimer answered him from down the table, “To contact the other side, of course.”

Daniel kept his gaze on Violet. “The other side o’ what, mademoiselle? The room?”

“The ether,” one of the other men said in a superior tone. “She’s a spiritualist, man. Didn’t you know that? Madame and Mademoiselle Bastien are the most famous spiritualists in London.”

The flash of disappointment in Daniel’s eyes stung Violet. Stung her hard. Why she should care what this gentleman she’d never seen before should think of her she didn’t know, but she did.

Plenty of people didn’t believe in spiritualism and scoffed at what she did. They didn’t believe that a trained medium could contact the departed beyond the veil, to let the dear departed send comforting messages to the survivors, warn of impending danger, or just have a little chat with those who remained behind.

Just as well, Violet’s inner voice drawled. You don’t believe it either.

Violet had never felt the cold touch of the otherworld or the trembling ecstasy her mother found in her trances. She’d never seen a ghost or a spirit, and had never had one talk to her, or knock at her, or do any of those other useful things spirits could do.

But she’d become very, very good at pretending she had.

That Daniel Mackenzie didn’t believe shouldn’t bother her. Jacobi had told her never to argue with an unbeliever, but to move on to the next mark. She should close to him and concentrate on the other gentlemen, to make Mr. Mackenzie feel that he was somehow left out, to make him doubt his disbelief just a little bit.

So why couldn’t she turn away with her superior little smile, her amused disdain? Why did she keep wanting to look at him, to explain that she did this for survival, and beg him not to dislike her for it?

Daniel leaned his elbow on the table, stretching the fine cloth of his coat. “The other side of the ether, eh? I’d like to see that.”

Mortimer said, “You’re in for a show then. That’s why I said she’s worth more than a motorcar or a horse.”

Violet suddenly wished she did have the powers her mother claimed to, so that she could curse Mortimer into living out his life as a rabbit—or at least being a disappointment to any ladies he took to bed.

The room at last quieted, the gentlemen calming down to watch her prepare. Violet knew why they liked to watch her—when she closed her eyes and drew long breaths to calm herself for her trance, her breasts rose to press tightly against her decolletage. Distracted the clients wonderfully.

This time, however, when she opened her eyes again, she found Mr. Mackenzie not distracted in the slightest. Instead of letting his gaze drop to her chest, as the gazes of the other gentlemen had, Mr. Mackenzie smiled straight into her eyes.

Never let a skeptic make you nervous, Jacobi had said. Give them a show in spite of their disbelief. Make them doubt their own doubts.

Violet drew on the techniques the middle-aged man had painstakingly taught her. A glance around the table, ignoring Daniel. A small smile, the look of inner serenity, soft movements of her hands as she spoke.

“All is calm tonight, and very clear. Mr. Ellingham, I believe we were very near reaching your father the last time. Shall we try again?”

Before eager Mr. Ellingham—who was trying to find out where his now-deceased father had hidden away about ten thousand pounds of the family money—could answer, Mortimer broke in.

“Contact someone for Mackenzie. He’s my guest tonight. His dear old mum, perhaps.”

Violet turned without hurry back to Daniel. She didn’t miss the flicker of disgust at the mention of his mother, disgust aimed at both Mortimer and the mother in question.

“Perhaps that would not be for the best,” she suggested gently.

Mr. Mackenzie gave her a guileless look that masked his growing anger. “Let me mum rest in peace,” he said. “Why don’t you contact me dad, instead?”

Too transparent. Violet gave him a sweet smile. “You are trying to trip me, Mr. Mackenzie. If you wish me to contact your father, I suggest a telegram, because that gentleman is very much still living.”

Daniel gave her a look of new assessment, then he burst out laughing. His laugh was deep and true, a man who knew how to laugh for the joy of it. “Fancy you knowing that. You are right, Mortimer. She has the gift.”

“I don’t need the gift to read the newspapers,” Violet said. “Your father appears in many of them, especially the sporting news. Now if he’d like me to tell him which of his racehorses will do the best this year, he is welcome to join us.”

Daniel wound down to a chuckle. “I’m starting to like you, mademoiselle.”

She let her eyes go wide. “I am pleased to hear it, Mr. Mackenzie. However, if you have come tonight only to mock me and my work, I will have to ask you to depart. Or at least wait in the hall.”

“Why?” His eyes took on an impish twinkle. “Does my mockery disturb th’ spirits?”

“Indeed, no. Those on the other side can be quite forgiving. But I find it a bit distracting.”

Daniel’s laughter rang out again, and he raised his hands in surrender. “Forgive me, lass. I’ll be the model of goodness from now on. Promise.”

Violet knew better than to believe him, but she returned her attention to the others. “Shall we simply see what spirits are close tonight?”

The other men, laughing along with Mr. Mackenzie, or perhaps at him, agreed enthusiastically. They liked the show.

“Then, as you know, I must ask for silence.”

Violet closed her eyes again, and thankfully, the gentlemen quieted down, their guffaws finally dying off.

She went into the movements she’d rehearsed so many times. She let her breathing become slow and deep, spread her hands on the table, and rocked her head from fully bent forward to all the way back, her face to the ceiling. Violet kept her eyes closed as she let her breathing become more rapid, faster, faster, twisting her face as though something pained her.

Soft noises escaped her mouth, and she moved her head the slightest bit from side to side, making sure she didn’t overdo it. Too much gyration looked fake. A little bit was far more frightening, a person in the grip of some force she didn’t quite understand.

Violet also knew bloody well that a woman moaning, perspiring, and letting her breasts move with her panting breath froze a gentleman in place.

A large, warm hand landed on hers, and Mr. Mackenzie said in a quiet voice, “You all right, lass?”

Violet froze. For a moment, her rapid breaths choked her, and she couldn’t find air.

His voice was filled with concern. That concern sent a shock through her. No one had ever spoken to her like this—not her mother, not even Jacobi, who’d been closer to her than a father. Daniel Mackenzie, a stranger, a man of warmth by her side, touched her in worry, and asked after her with a kind of protectiveness she’d never experienced before.

It nearly broke her. A moment ago, Violet was priding herself on being able to handle a roomful of half- drunk, unruly gentlemen who’d come upon them so rudely in the middle of the night. Her mother had been too upset by their arrival to rise from the bed, and Violet had said she’d take care of everything.

The moment Mr. Mackenzie voiced concern, Violet felt herself shattering, the facade she strove to maintain crumbling to reveal the lonely and weary young woman behind it—nearly thirty years old, unmarried and unlikely