Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Not tomorrow, you don’t. I heard you tell the audience Saturday. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Plenty of time.”

  “My mother needs me for her private consultations. The machine is handy then.”

  Daniel shrugged, walking close enough to her that she felt the movement. “Make all the consultations for later in the week. I’m right that you handle all the appointments, aren’t I? She’d welcome the rest, I’d wager.”

  “Blast you.” Violet clenched both hands now. She wanted to go with him, to see what he was building, to find out what on earth he needed her wind machine for.

  But how gullible was she? If Violet went somewhere with this man alone, he could take her anywhere, do anything to her, and Violet could do nothing about it. She was as helpless with him as she’d been with Mortimer.

  “Blast me all you want,” Daniel said. “But bring the wind machine. This will be interesting.”

  He was so easy, so casual. As though Violet could throw everything to the wind and run off with him, instead of stay in the boardinghouse looking after her mother, doing the accounts, paying the bills, setting appointments. Her life was real life. Daniel’s was . . . a fantasy.

  The eager girl in her, the one who’d been interested in life in all its variety, longed to go with him. The woman Violet had become advised caution.

  “So it’s arranged,” Daniel said, meeting her gaze. “I’ll call for you tomorrow—with a cab this time, and tickets for the train. I’m not walking all the way to my friend’s workshop.”

  “I haven’t said I’d go.”

  “But you want to.” Daniel’s grin told her he knew he was right. “You’re curious. Think on it tonight, and I’ll call on you tomorrow. Either way, I want to borrow your device. Better you come with me to make sure I don’t damage it. Or I might take a liking to it and decide to keep it.”

  Violet stopped abruptly, this time in front of the boardinghouse where she and her mother truly stayed. She hoped Daniel had no intention of following her in. Her landlady had a strict no gentlemen policy—fine with Violet—and she couldn’t risk them all being turned out.

  “Must you always have everything your own way, Mr. Mackenzie?”

  “Aye, I think so. For a long time I was an only child, and you know how spoiled they get to be.”

  Violet ignored the glint of humor in his eyes. She was an only child herself, but she’d never had the chance to be spoiled. “You said you had a ‘wee baby sister.’”

  “Aye, and a little brother even more wee. Best thing that ever happened to an only child, Dad marrying again and having more children.” Daniel shook his head. “The trouble those two can get into and blame on me is beautiful to behold. I’ll introduce you sometime. They’d like you.”

  The offhand way he spoke about Violet interacting with his family—his wealthy, powerful, untouchable family—unnerved her. Such people had nothing to do with young women like Violet.

  Violet hadn’t known much about Daniel before he’d turned up at her house in London, but since then she’d made it a point to find out as much about him and his family as she could. The Mackenzies were well known not only for their money and standing, but for the scandals they’d engendered. Not one of the four Mackenzie brothers had managed to marry without some kind of scandal, and the two older brothers—one of whom was Daniel’s father—had taken some of the most notorious courtesans in England as their lovers. One of the younger brothers, Mac, had become a painter, living the most open life in Paris. He’d even taken his young wife among the artists and their models, before she’d left him. The youngest brother was said to be insane, though he too was now married and had children.

  Daniel was gaining his own notoriety. He’d taken a degree in Edinburgh so quickly that everyone remarked on it, and had traveled extensively through Germany and France in the years since, meeting inventors and eccentric scientists.

  Not that he wasn’t decadent as well. Daniel usually had a woman with him, from all reports—never the same one twice—and the three-day-long crushes he hosted in whatever house in whatever city he happened to be living in were not for the faint of heart.

  Daniel had plenty of money—his mother’s family had put a fortune in trust for their daughter, which Cameron had been unable to touch, and Daniel had inherited it. He’d always had a generous allowance, but came into the full money of the trust when he’d finished university.

  As far as Violet was able to make out, Daniel was a man who lived as he pleased, did what he wanted, then moved on to his next interest, next town, next woman. The likelihood of Violet meeting his pampered little sister and brother was so small she didn’t bother to answer the suggestion.

  But she made her decision. “Very well, Mr. Mackenzie. Call tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and I will place my device in your hands. I will require a receipt. And its replacement if damaged.”

  Daniel’s eyes warmed with his smile. “That’s more like it. I’ll be here.”

  Violet gave him a nod and tried to step away, but Daniel’s strong hand closed around her elbow, keeping her in place.

  “Good night, lass. Sleep well.” Instead of letting her go, he kept hold of her and brushed his thumb lightly over her lower lip.

  The warmth in the touch made her shake. Violet had always held herself rigid, because she had to. Any bending or breaking would be disastrous for her.

  Now Daniel stood close and merely touched her, fingertips sending a trickle of fire through every nerve. If Violet leaned into his tall body, she’d just fit under his chin. His large arms would come around her, pulling her close, keeping her safe.

  The image of him holding her was so palpable that when Daniel removed his touch from her face, Violet was startled to find herself standing a foot away from him. So much empty space between them . . .

  She cleared her throat. “I truly am pleased you’re all right.”

  Daniel’s amusement vanished to be replaced by something dark and dangerous. “You know, lass, I think that’s the sincerest thing you’ve said all night.”

  Violet pulled back, uncertain how to respond. She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Well, good night, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  His gaze held her as solidly as an iron chain. “Good night, lass.” Even though he wasn’t touching her, Violet couldn’t move until he released her.

  As he had at the other boardinghouse, Daniel stepped back and tipped his hat, then stood still, waiting for her to go inside. This time he didn’t smile, but watched her with his unnerving scrutiny.

  Violet finally made herself turn away and walk the few steps to the house. Her hand trembled on the door latch, and she found the door locked.

  A maid answered her knock immediately and let her in. The foyer was bone cold, but Violet was still hot from Daniel’s touch.

  She went up the stairs, clutching the wooden railing for balance. Once inside her bedroom, in their little suite of rooms, Violet moved to the front window and lifted the curtain to look out.

  Daniel was still there, scanning the windows, waiting to make sure she’d gone into the right boardinghouse this time. He saw Violet, broke into his smile, and gave her a lazy salute. Violet lifted her hand in farewell, then forced herself to let go of the curtain, cutting off Daniel from her sight.

  Daniel arrived at precisely ten the next morning to be ushered into a dreary parlor on the ground floor. He’d had to talk swiftly to be admitted at all, but finally the landlady agreed that Violet could speak to him in the parlor, if they kept the door open, and he departed right away.

  Two middle-aged ladies fled through a far door as he was let into the parlor from the hall—probably nothing masculine had walked into this room in a decade. He heard whispers and giggles from behind the cracked-open door, which he pretended to ignore.

  This parlor was not as crowded with keepsakes as the sitting room at the Mortimer house i
n London had been, but there were enough tables draped with cloth and covered with trinkets that would make brushing past them a disaster. Daniel navigated the safest path he could to a side chair under a gaslight, where he sat, pulling his kilt modestly over his knees. The giggling intensified. Likely the ladies had never seen a man in a skirt before.

  Violet walked into the parlor, thanking the severe-looking landlady who had come with her to it. Giving the far door a hard look, Violet moved to Daniel, who had sprung to his feet.

  “You are punctual,” she said.

  “One of my many skills,” Daniel said, trying not to be obvious about feasting his eyes on her. “Punctuality.”

  Violet didn’t look as refreshed from a night’s sleep as she might. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though her hair was pulled neatly into her pompadour, her shirtwaist buttoned to her chin, her skirt holding nary a wrinkle. Even with her slightly haggard look, her skin was flawlessly smooth, and her eyes—those dark blue eyes that could reach a man’s soul—fixed on him and wouldn’t let him go.

  Violet held out a wooden box about two feet wide and one high, with heavy hinges and a sturdy clasp. “Take good care of it. It cost me a bit.”

  “Oh, I will, lass.” Daniel took the box, unfastened the clasp, and peeked inside. The machine didn’t look like much—a metal casing, fan blades showing through a cage, and a few wires.

  Violet gave the box an anxious glance as Daniel closed it, as though she’d handed a stranger her only child. “What will you do with it?”

  “See if it will enhance an engine idea I have. I don’t have the engine here, but my friend down the coast has something close, and a vehicle for testing it. He’s letting me loose on it with my theories today, trusting man.”

  “What kind of vehicle?” Violet asked, interested. “Is it a motorcar?”

  The excitement in the question changed her. For a moment Violet the careful woman vanished, as did the Violet who used blunt rejoinders to keep those who might hurt her at bay. Daniel liked this Violet, curious and interested.

  “Not a motorcar. I haven’t finished building mine. When I do . . . that will be a fine day.”

  “What, then?”

  Violet’s eagerness was unmistakable, as was the wistfulness with which she looked at the box. Daniel caught her hand in a sudden, hard grip.

  “Come with me, lass, and see.”

  Again the hesitation, the little frown, the quick look upward, to where her rooms lay. “My mother . . .”

  “She can do without you one day, can’t she? With all these ladies here to look after her?”

  “Well . . .”

  Daniel tightened his grip. She needed this, and he needed it. A day spent in Violet’s company, with the opportunity to peel away her layers and find out all about her, was not to be lost.

  “I’m not letting you say no,” Daniel said. He gave her what he hoped was his most promising smile. “Come on with me, and I’ll give you a day out you’ll never forget.”

  Madness, absolute madness. Violet’s thoughts flipped one over the other as she sent word up to Mary that she was going out, possibly all morning and on into the afternoon.

  The next thing Violet knew, Daniel was leading her out of the house, past the interested ladies who’d stuck their heads out of the next room to watch them go. He took her out into the street and pushed her up into his tall, hired carriage.

  The coach took them to the nearest train station, and not many minutes later, they were boarding a train, for which Daniel had already bought two tickets. Two, the presumptuous man.

  The train glided out of the city, steam pumping, bells clanging. Violet and her mother and Mary had arrived in Marseille at night, traveling through most of the southern part of France in the dark. Violet had seen nothing of the countryside. Now she trained her gaze out the window to high hills, swaths of empty fields, and cliffs tumbling to the sea, which was gray under scattered clouds. The winter wind was brisk, but the private train compartment was toasty warm, with coal boxes for their feet and oil lamps to chase away any darkness.

  Of course it was a private compartment. Daniel, lounging back on the seat opposite her, seemed surprised when Violet mentioned it. When he traveled in England and Scotland, Daniel said, he often used his ducal uncle’s entire private car attached to the back of whatever train he wanted to take.

  He said it casually, not boasting. In the next breath Daniel explained that when he didn’t take his uncle’s private coach, he rode rough by himself or with his friends in second class. But he’d thought Violet would appreciate the soft seats of first class today.

  The statement brought home how different Daniel’s existence was from hers. Violet regarded riding second class as a luxury up from third, while Daniel obviously thought nothing of making a train wait while a separate car was attached for himself and his family. Violet and her mother had often hunkered in crowded stations waiting for privileges to be given to wealthy men like Daniel.

  Daniel leaned back into the corner of his seat and swung his long legs up on the cushions, resting his hands behind his head as the train swayed on. He said, with a wink, that he didn’t sit next to her, because it was bad etiquette, as they weren’t related. Besides, she needed somewhere to put her machine.

  The box rested next to Violet, she not wanting to put it on the rack above. The mechanisms could be delicate.

  The journey to the small town near the coast took about an hour. They emerged from the train to the sound of seagulls and the smell of fish and brisk sea air. The wind was cold but not nearly as dank and bone-chilling as in London.

  Daniel, speaking French with a strange mixture of Parisian slang and coastal dialect, hired a cart. He explained to its owner that he wanted to drive the cart himself, and reinforced his request with a large handful of francs.

  The man laughed with Daniel, slapped the horse on the rump, and said in a dialect so thick Violet barely understood him, “Tell Dupuis, that old bastard, that I said he owes me money.”

  Daniel grinned, helped Violet onto the front seat with him, and touched the reins to the horse.

  “Sorry it’s not a better conveyance,” Daniel said as the cart jerked from the middle of the village up a steep hill. There was no other seat but the driver’s, and Violet was squeezed tightly against Daniel’s side. “The ducal coaches all seemed to be out.”

  “It’s perfectly adequate.” Violet pulled her coat closer about her, but it was Daniel who kept her warm.

  “You’re a sweetheart, you are. The females of my acquaintance, with the exception of my resilient aunts, would be shrieking in dismay. Pierces your eardrums, those shrieks. My aunt Eleanor, on the other hand, would tell them to buck up and enjoy the fact that they didn’t have to walk.”

  “Isn’t your aunt Eleanor a duchess?”

  “Aye, she is now. And she was an earl’s daughter, but she grew up without a penny, and learned how to fend for herself. You’d like her. You’d like my stepmum too. She’s as resilient as they come.”

  “Your stepmother was a lady-in-waiting to the queen of England,” Violet said in a rather bewildered voice.

  “What do ye think made her resilient? The queen, she doesn’t believe in heat in her drafty Scottish castle, and she’s a hearty woman. Very hearty. Her frail look and any worry about her health is a nice façade. She can ride around the countryside in her little cart all day long and then stay up all night demanding to be read to. Marrying Dad was a relief to poor Ainsley. Putting up with him is easy in comparison.”

  Violet had never met anyone who talked about a queen behaving like a real person. A few of her mother’s clients had believed they were queens, or had been queens centuries ago, or claimed they knew the deceased Prince Albert. None of them had ever mentioned driving around in pony carts or skimping on coal in the palace.

  Daniel, son of a lofty lord and nephew to a duke,
drove the rattling cart and old horse with competence. “Not much longer,” he said after a time. He clucked to the horse. “Come on, old fellow, you can make it. Then a nice long rest for the afternoon, eh? Better than dragging a cart up and down a cobbled street all day.” The horse flicked his ears back to Daniel, seeming to like his voice.

  Their destiny turned out to be an old farm in the hills away from the sea. This one looked ancient. Three wings of a two-story house surrounded a pitted courtyard, the house’s doors and windows facing the courtyard rather than outward to the land. Plaster crumbled around the walls’ wooden half-timbering, revealing worn bricks beneath. A barn and storage rooms took up the entire lower floor; the living quarters for the farmer and his family looked to be on the upper floors.

  The farm, however, was long gone. The fields around them were overgrown, though farther away, on the next farm, neat plowed rows, bare with winter, lay ready for spring planting. The courtyard was littered with coils of metal and pieces of wood, and the only animal in the barn was one large draft horse.

  Two men were carrying what looked like a giant basket out of the courtyard as Daniel pulled up. One of the men broke away from the basket and came to take the horse’s reins as Daniel jumped down. The man was large, with a hard face and a nose that had been broken more than once.

  Daniel reached back and handed Violet out of the cart. “Lass, ye remember Simon? Who followed Mortimer to your house with every intention of beating five thousand guineas out of him? Or maybe you never saw Simon that night. He works for me now. Carry on, Simon. I’ll take care of the cart.”

  While Violet stood aside and Simon returned to help the other man carry the basket, Daniel deftly unhitched the cart. He left it braked on one side of the courtyard, and led the horse past Violet to the stall next to the draft horse. He talked to the cart horse all the way, little endearments in his broad Scots as he gave the old animal a brief brushing down and made sure it had hay and water.