“I told your coachman to drive on. I would like to speak with you, Mademoiselle le Princess.”
What about? Violet hesitantly followed him into a parlor, which was opposite the dining room. Monsieur Lanier kept the door open, and stood looking at Violet without asking her to sit down. She watched him nervously, noting the distance between herself and the door, and the obstacles she’d have to navigate to reach it—a sturdy armchair, a tall table with square legs filled with knickknacks, a little desk.
“Mademoiselle, I must ask you to remove those veils.”
“Oh no, Monsieur.” Violet needed no hesitation over that. The veils both provided a fiction and anonymity. She could run about the city in her ordinary clothes and have no one connect her to their show. “I cannot. It is forbidden me.”
Monsieur Lanier’s lips relaxed from their stern line. “Nonsense, you are a guest in my house. You may trust me.”
He moved quickly for a sedentary man. Before Violet could evade him, he deftly caught and threw back the veils.
Violet swung away and made for the door, but Monsieur Lanier got ahead of her, cutting her off and closing the door before Violet could reach it.
“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 cafés. 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 who accompanied them glittered. They wore frocks of blue, green, gold, silver, the bodices daringly cut, delicate skin protected from the cold with furs. Diamonds sparkled on bosoms and hair, cheeks were rouged, hair crowned with feathers. Long gloves hid slim arms but showed off bejeweled bracelets.
These were not the shy, young debutantes of society; they were courtesans.
As Violet watched, the red-haired lady next to Daniel wound her fingers around his arm and ran her other hand up his back to his shoulder. Daniel turned to laugh down at her, the smile on his face full of warmth.
Violet’s heart squeezed so hard she had to put her fist to her chest. She ducked back into the shadows, but Daniel never turned, never saw her.
Not for you, a voice inside her head said. Not for you.
Violet watched numbly as the group turned from the restaurant and sought waiting coaches. Daniel helped the red-haired woman up into his carriage with the same gallantry he’d used to assist Violet. He removed his hat as he stepped into the coach with the woman, followed by another gentleman and lady.
The other men and women swarmed into the rest of the carriages, but Violet scarcely noted them. Her gaze was all for Daniel, his broad arm that rested against the window, the flash of his face as he threw back his head and laughed at something.
The carriages jerked forward, moving off in the direction of theatres and cabarets.
Violet remained in place until they’d rumbled well away. She tried to force herself to stand upright, to leave the shelter of the passage to continue her way home.
She ended up against the dirty wall, half doubled over, her fists balled into her stomach. Sobs wracked her body, and tears streamed down her face.
Violet cried as her heart broke, the warmth of her night with Daniel dissolving before the heat in his eyes as he’d smiled at the courtesan.
Daniel was happy to see Richard Mason, an old university mate with a brilliant mind, but Daniel hated watching the man waste that brilliant mind on drink and sexual diversions.
The women Richard had brought for Daniel and his other friends were charming but they had nothing in their eyes. Before meeting Violet, Daniel would have happily dallied the night away with one or two of them, wallowing in a warm bed and all kinds of debauchery. Why not? Bodily pleasures must be sated or they distracted him too much. At least, that was his excuse.
But now Daniel had met Violet.
The looks the ladies gave him contained too much avarice. Daniel was rich, and they wanted him to move some of his money from his pocket to theirs.
He’d seen such sentiment all too often in the women his father used to bring home, and he wasn’t much interested tonight. Nor was Daniel interested in sating himself while remaining detached. Not appealing. Not after Violet.
He’d tried to call on her earlier this evening, but the prim landlady had informed him Violet and her mother had gone out. No, she didn’t know where, and it was their business, wasn’t it? Daniel had thanked her and departed.
In Richard’s carriage on their way to a cabaret, Daniel feigned exhaustion from his long balloon flight, mention of which brought boredom to the ladies’ eyes. Daniel contrasted this with the glowing excitement in Violet’s as they’d soared across the countryside.
When Daniel said he’d return alone to his hotel, Richard expressed genuine sorrow to lose Daniel’s company tonight. Daniel silently vowed to spend more time with the man. Richard needed true friends.
Daniel said good night to them in front of the cabaret, slipping a thick wad of banknotes into the hand of the red-haired courtesan to ease the sting of his leaving her. Her disappointment lessened considerably.
Richard and his ladies would be surprised to learn that after they entered the cabaret, Daniel left the glittering hotels, restaurants, theatres, and illicit casinos of the city to walk to a more frumpy side of town, replete with boardinghouses and shops for the poor but respectable.
More surprised to watch him stop across the street from one particular boardinghouse, step into the shadows of a closed shop’s doorway, and look up at the soft glow of a window opposite.
Daniel waited there until he saw the glow go out, then he kissed his fingertips toward the window and walked away.
Back on the glittering side of town, he entered his hotel room, truly tired now. Every lamp had been lit in the parlor of his suite, in anticipation of Daniel’s return, including the multiarmed gas chandelier and a host of wall sconces.
All these provided bright illumination for the figure of the girl child lying fast asleep on the scrolled French sofa, she curled up around herself, her red gold curls tumbling over her cheeks.
Chapter 14
Daniel stifled his dismay at the sight of the little girl. He lifted a throw from the armchair and draped it carefully over her. With any luck she’d continue sleeping.
The girl’s eyes popped open, gray and full of mischief that matched her mother’s—both the color and the mischief. She squealed in delight and sat up straight. “Danny!” she shouted in a voice that would wake half the hotel. “I waited for you!”
Daniel retrieved the throw from the floor and wrapped it around her again. “I see that, mite. What are you doing here? If you’ve run away from home again, your mum’s going to scold both of us something bad.”
“I didn’t run away.” Gavina Mackenzie smoothed her hair in a very grown-up gesture. “Only down the stairs. We’re staying in your hotel. Isn’t that grand, Danny?”
“Staying here? Who is?”
“All of us. Mum and Dad. And me. Stuart is with Aunt Eleanor, because he’s too little to travel all this way.” Gavina looked very pleased with herself that she at seven was more grown up than her four-and-a-half-year-old baby brother. “Mummy said we should stay here and surprise you.”
Daniel pressed his hands to his chest. “Consider me surprised.”
And a bit annoyed. Daniel loved his family, but the collective lot of them could never mind their own bloody business. Obviously Daniel’s stepmother Ainsley had dragged out of Ian where Daniel had gone and decided to rush off to France to find out what he was up to.
A tap at the door was followed by Ainsley Mackenzie herself. She was dressed for evening in a gray silk trimmed with maroon lace, her shoulders bare over small puffed sleeves. Tiny diamonds sparkled in her hair and at her throat—Richard’s courtesans in contrast had coated themselves with the things.
Ainsley had fair hair, which she’d dressed in the latest fashion, but somehow Ainsley never looked overdone or artificial. The spirit of her shone through, and Daniel regarded her fondly. She was the woman who’d rescued his father.
“Hello, Danny. I saw you come in.” Ainsley enclosed him in a lemon-scented hug. “Gavina wanted to wait in here for you. I forbade her, but I see she managed to get here anyway.”
“Without a key,” Daniel said. “What have you been teaching
her, Stepmama?” In addition to her womanly charms, Ainsley was also an excellent picklock.
“The maid let me in,” Gavina said. “I said I was your sister and gave her a coin.”
She was learning young. Daniel leaned down and lifted Gavina into his arms. She was growing tall and strong.
“You haven’t answered the question, either of you,” Daniel growled. “Why are you here, Stepmama, and not in London helping Aunt Isabella run the Season? Or preparing to go to Berkshire for the training?” Ainsley and Daniel’s father moved to Berkshire every year so Cameron could prepare his horses for the racing season. The entire Mackenzie family would descend upon them there later in the spring, as per tradition.
Ainsley gave Daniel a little frown. “I was worried about you, Danny. I heard you were done over by louts and left in the gutter. But you never said a word.” Ainsley touched Daniel’s cheek where the bruises were still fading, covered by new ones from the rough balloon landing. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing interesting. Uncle Ian peached on me, did he?”
“Ian?” Ainsley’s eyes widened. “You don’t believe I could pry anything from Ian Mackenzie he didn’t want me to know, do you? No, I pried it out of Beth. She’s worried about you as well.”
“And she told you I’d gone to Marseille,” Daniel said guardedly, while Gavina watched from the safety of Daniel’s arms. It was midnight, and the girl didn’t look tired at all.
“Beth didn’t know why,” Ainsley said. “Are you in another scrape?”
Daniel couldn’t help his laugh. “I haven’t been in a scrape since university. I gave them up. My friend Richard Mason is here, and I’ve been spending some hours with him.” Not a lie.
“Ah yes, the young man you’re worried is wasting away in debauchery. I have no doubt you’ll set him straight. You’re good at that sort of thing. I did hear you went off ballooning and wrecked the thing. Don’t look so surprised. Word travels, especially among the English abroad.” Ainsley gave him a knowing smile. “And I heard a young lady was with you when you crashed. I see she is not with you now. She must have decided being in your company was too fraught with danger.”
The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie hp-6 Page 15