She needed to turn away from him and move on to the next petitioner. But her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t make her feet move.
The audience started applauding, taking up a chant of “Oui, oui.” Over this, Celine, in the voice of the child Adelaide, interrupted. “She is here, Monsieur. She has been waiting for you.”
Daniel’s back was to the audience, and he didn’t hide his amusement when he flicked his gaze to Violet’s mother. “Is she, now? That’s interesting.”
Celine’s voice changed pitch again, sounding more contralto, with rich, velvet tones. “I am so sorry, my son,” she said in perfect English. “I did not know my own mind. I never meant to hurt you.”
Daniel’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s all right, Mum. Don’t you worry about it, now.”
Celine breathed a soft sigh. “Thank you.”
The audience sighed with her.
Daniel winked up at Violet, then he patted the edge of the stage, turned from it, and strolled away, his kilt moving over his backside. Violet watched him as he made his way to an empty chair in the rear of the theatre, speaking congenially to the others in the row until he settled into his seat.
He wasn’t going to leave. He would sit there for the entire show.
And then what? Denounce her? Tell the audience that the countess and princess were confidence tricksters, newly come from London?
Daniel folded his arms, watching Violet, his grin in place. Her mother’s contact with his mother had not impressed him one whit. Violet forced herself to turn away, but her body was shaking, and she could barely stammer an answer to the next person.
Daniel remained in the back row as the performance went on—they were contracted for the full two hours. At any moment, Violet expected Daniel to stand up and declare the whole night to be nothing but flummery, that the audience should demand their money back and never trust Violet and those like her again. He’d tell them what Violet had done to him in London, and that he’d come here with magistrates to cart her off to prison.
But Daniel only watched as Violet talked to petitioners until her throat was dry, her ability to evaluate them evaporating. Fortunately Celine, who noticed nothing wrong, went on speaking to the spirits and conveying what the loved ones wanted to hear.
Violet was exhausted by the time Celine finally drooped back in her chair, her hands falling limp at her sides. “I can do no more,” Celine said in a tired whisper.
The gaslights on the stage flared up once, hissed, and went out. Mary was good at cues.
The audience burst into wild applause. There were cries of thanks, shouts for an encore. Violet signaled for Mary to pull the curtain closed, hiding her mother. Then Violet stepped out in front of the red velvet, her legs shaking.
She immediately looked to the back right of the house, where Daniel had been sitting. But that row was mostly empty, Daniel gone. Maybe he’d been a ghost after all, come to stir her guilty conscience.
The audience started to quiet, waiting expectantly. Violet raised her hands and launched into her rehearsed speech. “Please, the countess has given all she has. She is spent for the night, but she will reappear here on Saturday, after she has rested and meditated. If you wish a private consultation, you must write to the address on the card her maid will hand to you as you leave. I thank you for coming, and the countess thanks you.” Violet jerked around to look through the crack in the curtain, as though someone had called her. “What . . .?” She whirled to face the audience again, her veils trembling. “The countess. Please, you must go. I must . . .”
Violet broke off and scurried back through the curtains. The stage behind them was empty, Mary having long since escorted Celine away.
Violet paused to catch her breath as the fold of velvet dropped closed behind her. Dizzy and dry mouthed, she caught up the half-full pitcher of water, thrust her annoying veils aside, and drank a long draught.
Mr. Mackenzie was alive, and here, unless Violet, in her overwrought state, had dreamed him. Perhaps she’d played so long at spirits that she’d started to believe she truly could see the dead.
Tommyrot. He was alive.
How the devil had he found her? Violet had bought train and boat tickets under a false name, had taken the rooms to let here under still another name, neither of which were Bastien or their personas of the countess and princess. At the boardinghouse, she and her mother were plain Madame and Mademoiselle Perrault, from Rouen, with a maid. Mary kept her own first name, pronouncing it Marie, but no one paid much attention to maids, many of whom were called Marie, regardless.
How did Daniel discover that Violette Bastien and Princess Ivanova were one and the same? Daniel had not seen Celine at the London house, and Violet was always careful to never have their likenesses printed anywhere. Concealing herself behind her black tulle veil had obviously made no difference.
Had Daniel truly come here to have them arrested? Or perhaps to blackmail Violet for his silence? He could not have come to Marseille for any benevolent reason—for that he’d have stayed in England and left her in peace.
Violet wanted to rush to the dressing room, grab her mother and Mary, and run again. Somewhere, anywhere. Maybe to Russia in truth, a place they’d never been.
She made herself swallow a little more water and calmly walk to the theatre manager’s office to secure the takings. She’d learned to collect the money right away, after one unscrupulous manager had disappeared with all the cash one night. Violet counted the money, gave the manager his cut, then stashed their share inside her corset and hurried down the hall to the dressing room at its end.
Celine was there in a soft armchair, truly exhausted. She rubbed her bare forehead. “I should not have worn the turban. The blasted thing is so heavy.”
Her South London accent crept into her English for a moment before she heaved another sigh and reverted to cultured French. “Please, may we go home, Violet? I have such a headache.”
“Of course, Mama. You and Mary go in the carriage. I’ll change my clothes and walk home. It’s not far, and it’s still early.” And if Daniel lingered with constables to arrest Violet for assaulting him, her mother might have a chance to get away.
“You are so good to me.” Those words came often out of Celine’s mouth, in her weary tone, but Violet knew she meant them.
Violet gave Mary the takings to lock away at the boardinghouse. She wasn’t fool enough to walk down the street, even in this fairly safe part of town, with thousands of francs inside her bodice. And if constables were coming, her mother would have the money.
But no one waited to pounce on them outside the stage door. Violet made sure Celine and Mary were safely away in the hired carriage, with no one following them, before she returned to the quiet dressing room, breathing a little more easily. She changed out of her costume, packed their things, including the turban, into a valise, and slipped out the stage door again.
Violet walked down the narrow lane behind the theatre toward the main street, her head down. She now wore a workingwoman’s garb of plain skirt, shirtwaist, and coat, with a flat hat pinned over her simple knot of hair. She might be a typist or a telegraph worker hurrying home after a long, tiring day.
Before she reached the street, a hand landed on her shoulder, and Daniel Mackenzie pulled her back into the shadows of the passage.
Daniel had never seen a woman look so terrified. Violette Bastien stared up at Daniel with dark blue eyes wide with fear. Wariness lurked behind the fear, like that of an animal who has been repeatedly kicked.
Daniel softened his grip on her shoulder. “Easy, lass. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then what the devil are you doing here?” Gone was the French with the Russian tinge, gone was the French itself, even the faintest accent she’d had in London. She sounded English through and through, and not well-bred English. London, south of the river, if he were to guess.
“Ah, Mr. Mackenzie,” Daniel said in a mocking tone. “How good
to see you again. And that you’re unhurt after I whacked you over the head with my finest vase.” He rubbed his temple. “What was the damned thing made of, eh? Granite?”
“I’m sorry,” Violette said stiffly. “I never meant to hurt you.” They stood in deep shadows, but her pupils were pinpricks of shock. “You frightened me.”
“That was obvious. I remember you not minding me kissing you in your upstairs room. Not so downstairs. Or did you change your mind when your maid hit me with that sandbag of a bolster?”
“I never meant to hurt you.” The words softened as she repeated them. Violette lifted her hand as though to touch the still-closing wound on Daniel’s temple, but she stopped herself. “I swear to you.”
“It’s all right; ye only stunned me senseless. I’ve had ladies slap me before, but never with such vigor.”
Violette took a step back, letting out a heavy breath, some of the paralytic fear leaving her. “Well, you had no business kissing me like that. I’m not a doxy.”
“You’re right, lass. No business at all.” Daniel moved to her again. “But we were alone, it was night, and finding a woman who understood engineering excited me. It was your genius with the machines that did it. I tried to behave well, but once I’d seen your wind machine, I couldn’t resist stealing another kiss from you.”
The frozen terror eased further from her eyes at this speech, Daniel was glad to see, but the wariness remained. “You were after more than kisses, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“Aye, I don’t deny that.” Daniel ran his gaze over Violette’s body, not well hidden under the formfitting coat and cotton blouse. She still took his breath away.
Finding her, the triumph of it, beat through him. He wanted to catch her in his arms, push her back against the dirty bricks of the theatre, and find his relief with her.
“You are a beautiful woman,” he said, making himself stay in place. “Says so on your poster, doesn’t it? A beauty that drives sane men to madness, gentle men to duels. That’s brilliant, is that. I bet the punters come flocking.”
Violette gave him a sharp look. “You are mocking me, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“I am indeed.” Daniel stepped beside her and held out his arm in his tailored coat. “Let me escort you home, Mademoiselle Bastien, if that is your name. Even if it isn’t your name, I’m pleased to escort you anyway. There might be ruffians about.”
“This is a respectable part of town.” Violette’s chin came up. “The only ruffian in it is you.”
Daniel burst out laughing. “A shot to the heart, but accurate, lass. Dead accurate. Still, even respectable gentlemen might lose their minds when they come face-to-face with the stunning beauty of Princess Ivanova.”
Daniel kept his arm out, expecting her at any moment to turn and run, or at least look about for something else to hit him with before she went. Then he’d have to follow her, because damned if he’d let the woman he’d tracked halfway across the Continent slip from his grasp again. He’d found her, and he was keeping her.
Daniel hid his jolt of glee when she slid her fingers under the crook of his arm. “Very well. But only because it is darker out here than I thought.”
Got her, Daniel’s mind sang as they turned together out to the main street.
Ian’s direction of Marseille had brought Daniel here, and almost immediately he’d seen the advertisement that the clairvoyant Countess Melikova and her assistant, Princess Ivanova, the deadly beauty, would speak to an audience at a concert hall.
Walking in late to the performance, Daniel had beheld on the stage a middle-aged woman in black with a gold brocade turban, and the upright form of Violette, wearing a long black veil that concealed her face and hair. But he’d known she was Violette. He’d recognize that enticing body and sensual voice anywhere, didn’t matter how much she hid her face or what accent she put on.
“The bit of hair you let us glimpse behind the veil was blond.” Daniel touched a dark curl that fell over Violet’s cheek. “Clever. If smitten gentlemen waited for you at the back door, they’d strain their eyes for a woman with flaxen hair. Only I was on the lookout for the real Violette Bastien.” He winked at her. “Except that Mademoiselle Bastien doesn’t exist either, does she? Is the Violette real? Or were you christened with another name?”
“It’s Violet,” she said in a firm voice.
“No surname?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Hmm.” Daniel drew her a little closer. They walked slowly down the street like any courting couple, avoiding carriages with clopping horses and the little steaming piles that the clopping horses left behind.
Plenty of people strolled about—friends arm in arm, couples, businessmen walking from clubs back home to their families. None paid any attention to Daniel and Violet, except for a glance at Daniel’s Mackenzie plaid kilt. Daniel was the exotic creature on the street at the moment, not Violet.
“I commend you and your mother on your performance,” he said. “Well done. The phosphor-luminescent balls were a nice touch.”
Violet shrugged. “People expect to see tangible evidence of the ether.”
“No machines tonight?”
“My mother doesn’t need them as much as I do. I don’t have her gift.”
“Gift,” Daniel repeated, remembering the performance. “Aye, she has quite a good one. She’s masterful at telling people what they wish to hear.”
“Do not be so quick to dismiss her, please. She is always spot-on, and not only using what I tell her. What about what your own mother said to you through her? My mother was right, wasn’t she? And I told her nothing. I didn’t know you would be here—I thought you were . . .” Violet faltered, her fingers tightening on his arm.
“Deceased?” Daniel supplied. “Departed? Shuffled off this mortal coil?”
“Yes.”
Daniel heard the catch in her voice, and he took heart. “Poor lass. No wonder you ran from England.”
Violet loosened her grip again. “But my mother was right, wasn’t she? About your mother?”
Daniel shrugged. “Near enough.”
“Well, there you are, then.”
Daniel couldn’t stop his laughter. “Violet, sweet love, the gossip about my family and my crazy mum is common knowledge. Everyone who hears my name knows my mother tried to off me with a knife when I was a tiny babe, before my dad threw me out of the way and stopped her. Then Lady Elizabeth Mackenzie was dead. Did she kill herself, or did her husband, Lord Cameron, do it? People have speculated for years. Now, if your mum had given the correct answer to that riddle, then I would have been impressed. Only my dad knows the truth.”
“You’re saying my mother’s a fraud,” Violet said stiffly.
“A very good one. So are you, love. The best ones always get away with it.”
Violet gave him a haughty look. “We have been questioned before. Put through rigorous tests by other mediums, not to mention scientists and priests. We’ve passed every time.”
“As I said, the best ones always get away with it.” Daniel put his warm hand over hers. “Now, did you bring your machinery with you? And would you let me have a look at it? I was interrupted before I could examine it to my heart’s content last time, by being nearly done in.”
“That’s why you’ve come to Marseille, is it? For my machines?”
He enjoyed the dry skepticism in her voice. “Certainly. That, and I like Marseille. So much history—you know it was once a Greek colony? Then the Romans obligingly left us plenty of ruins to wander through, and there’s the Château d’If, where Dumas imprisoned poor Monte Cristo. One of my favorite novels as a boy was the Count. Have you been out to see the prison close to? It’s chilling.”
Violet stopped, skirts swinging. A man in a bowler hat pushed past them, growling a little. “Stop playing with me, Mr. Mackenzie. You came here to find me so you could drag me to the magistrates.”
Daniel made a show of looking around them. “Do you see me dragging you anywhere? We’
re walking calmly through a reasonably thin crowd, and I’m escorting you home.”
“And once you get me there, and your hands on my machines—then you will send for the magistrates. You think me a fraud, an imposter. And I assaulted you . . .”
“Your crimes, they keep increasing, don’t they? If I’d wanted the magistrates on you, lass, I’d have contacted my uncle the police inspector, who would have contacted his colleagues in the French police, who would have had you and your mum arrested and locked away long before I arrived. Then I would have strolled in, rifled through your gadgets, and taken what I wanted.”
Violet’s widening eyes started to fill with fear again. “Then I don’t understand. If you didn’t find me to arrest me, why did you come?”
“To see you again.” To feast my eyes on you. Daniel tucked the lock of hair on her cheek behind her ear. His gloved hands didn’t let him contact her skin directly, but the heat of her came through the thin leather. “To look at you.” To dream about having you. “And to ask you why the devil you hit me over the head.”
“I told you. You frightened me.”
“There’s much more to it than that, I wager. You’re not a lass who frightens easily. You stood up to Mortimer and his mates and were disgusted by the lot of them. Me, the one gent that night who would never have harmed you, you looked at in terror before you reached out for the nearest weapon. I’m going to find out why.” Daniel traced her cheek one more time then pulled her back into walking. “You might as well trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“That’s obvious. But you’re going to learn to trust me.”
Daniel felt Violet’s trembling, and he also felt her draw herself up, trying to master herself. “You are arrogant,” she said.
“That’s true, but is that the best you can do? I’ve been called far worse than that.”
“All right, then you are an insufferable, full-of-yourself, aristocratic prig.”
She kept her eyes straight ahead, a flush on her cheek making him want to kiss it. He settled for laughing again. “Not bad. But still not the best you can do. You, Mademoiselle, are a deceitful, cunning minx and a very talented liar. I heard you pinpoint every person’s greatest desires in that concert hall. You made them tell you everything you needed to know.”
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