The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

“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 cafes. 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