“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.”
He walked unerringly to the wallpapered panel and removed it from the wall. Behind the panel lay the cables that ran the machine, which issued the air through the register below it. Daniel had the machine unhooked and out of its slot in two minutes—it had taken Violet an entire day to put it in.
The device was a fan encased in a metal box, turned by gears hand-cranked by the lever in the room above. Tubes of water circulated around the fan, cooling the air that came out of the machine to a chilly temperature.
Daniel examined the device closely, turning it this way and that. “Oh, what I couldn’t do with this.” He turned it over again. “You know, if you hook this up to electrics, ye could get more power from it, get the fan to turn faster.”
Violet watched his quick eyes take in every facet of the machine, his fingers running over it. “Mind if I take this away with me?” he asked. “Won’t keep it long. I’m trying to build something like it—as a part of something even bigger.”
His gaze held interest, a focus more intent than Violet had seen in him since he’d entered the house. Gone was the lazy aristocrat, bored by the entertainments of his acquaintances. Gone even was the roue who’d dared her to take the cigarette, who’d kissed her lips with such finesse.
He was alert, interested, and had a razor-sharp intellect. Dangerous.
Daniel held in his hand evidence of Violet’s fraud, the fact that she took money from people and pretended she brought forth spirits in return. Mr. Mackenzie could rush out of here and take the device to the police, or worse, a newspaper. The police could arrest and imprison Violet and her mother; the press could stir up a mob to chase them out of the country—again.
Though Daniel’s eyes didn’t hold the vindictive glee of a man wanting to expose her, he might show the device to his friends. What if Mortimer discovered the secret?
“No,” Violet said quickly. “I need it.”
“To impress gents like Ellingham? You know, your gift is enough without props. You had them in the palm of your hand, love. You’re a master.”
“Not really. My mother has the true gift.” Violet’s mother, Celine, could hold a room—indeed, a concert hall—in thrall with her trances and her conversations with her spirit guide. Violet didn’t trust her own talents to keep an audience’s attention without effects.
Daniel looked at the device with a kind of hunger Violet had seen men reserve for courtesans. Not an average gentleman, was Daniel Mackenzie.
Daniel looked over the device one last time then replaced it in its niche. He closed the panel, dusted off his hands, and straightened up. Violet found him standing in front of her, very close.
“Mortimer brought me here tonight because he owes me money,” he said. “He was banking on me being so impressed by your performance that I’d forgive the debt. He used you. I don’t like that.”
Violet shrugged. “He is my landlord. He can come into the house whenever he likes.”
Daniel frowned. “Don’t stand still and resign yourself to him. He’s a right bastard, and if I’d had less compassion tonight, I would have let the bone-breaker have him.”
“Bone-breaker?” Violet hadn’t seen such a person in the dining room, only Mortimer’s friends, fair flowers of the English aristocracy.
“A man who works for a man to whom Mortimer owes even more money. Except the bone-breaker now works for me.” Daniel leaned forward a little, taking all the space around Violet. He didn’t do it deliberately, as though he tried to intimidate her. He merely leaned to her, uninhibited, as though they were great friends. “I don’t like you beholden to Mortimer. If he gives you trouble, you tell me, eh, lass? Right away. Promise me?”
Violet opened her mouth to say something like,
Daniel was speaking again before Violet could drag her thoughts together, and she only caught the last words.
“And all this has given me a beautiful idea.”
A smile replaced his scowl so quickly that Violet blinked. Mr. Mackenzie’s lightning-swift changes of mood were astonishing and a little bit frightening.
The next moment, Violet found her back to the colorful wallpaper, Daniel an inch away from her, his touch on her face. He was shaking his head, his smile vanishing again, his voice low, almost as though he spoke to himself.
“You’re the loveliest lass I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Mr. Mac—”
“It’s cold here.” Daniel’s words cut through hers, drowning sounds and thought. “Come home with me, and let me warm you.”
Violet had taught herself a hundred retorts for forward gentlemen, but they dissolved under Daniel’s heat, and then the touch of his mouth. Daniel kissed her, replacing her breath with his.
Upstairs, he’d stunned her with a quiet press of lips. This time he kissed her fully, pushing her back against the wall, his mouth on hers.
Violet couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t stand. She put her hand to the sideboard next to her to steady herself, and Daniel’s strong hands came around her waist.
He parted her lips with his, his body a firm length of heat. No one should be so strong and vibrant at this hour of the night, no one this overwhelming. Violet’s knees were buckling. Only Daniel’s arms and the solidity of the sideboard kept her from falling.
Daniel brushed his lips to the corner of her mouth, so softly he made her shake. Then he licked his way inside her mouth again, the taste of him bold, dangerous.
Black spots spun before Violet’s eyes. She gasped and found her mouth full of Daniel, tried to break away only to be wedged between the sideboard and wall, blocked by Daniel’s body.
Because Daniel was a handsome, virile, funny, intriguing, and sensual man, the situation should have had her melting in surrender. And Violet might have, despite her better judgment, if the panic hadn’t come.
Daniel’s face vanished, to be replaced with flashes of another—a red-bearded man with a white, mean face, small eyes, and hands that took and hurt. Sixteen-year-old Violet screamed and beat on her attacker.
But no one came. Her fists contacted an unyielding body, a weight she couldn’t move. Violet screamed again, terror swallowing her.
“Lass?” a voice asked from far away. It was a voice Violet wanted to reach, one that meant safety, but waves of panic poured over her and wouldn’t let her free.
“Are ye all . . .” the distant voice said, and then it grunted.
Violet’s vision half cleared to see Mary, her maid, with the bolster from the parlor sofa in her hands. Violet’s attacker backed from her, rubbing his neck.
Her panic returned. She needed something stronger than a pillow to stop him. Violet’s hand connected with a heavy vase on the sideboard. Without stopping to think, she lifted it, brought it around, and bashed her attacker on the side of the head.
Violet heard a heavy groan, a “Lass,” and Mary’s startled cry.
Her vision cleared completely. Violet was standing in the dining room of the London house, a vase in her
