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
“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.
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.
