The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

The future looked bleak. But the most frightening thing about going to prison was that Violet wasn’t sure she wouldn’t welcome it. At last, she’d be able to stop.

An hour later Detective Bellec returned, a uniformed policeman behind him. Bellec was in a bad temper.

“Your pimps are here,” Bellec snarled, his face dull red. “That’s what I assume they are. Two foreign men, filthy rich, demanding you be released into their protection. What is the law, when money can buy freedom for criminals?”

The uniformed policeman unlocked Violet’s cuffs as she blinked at him in shock. Two men? Was one Daniel? But how would Daniel have known to find her here?

“They are commanded to take you out of the country and not let you return,” Bellec continued. “May they have the joy of you.”

Violet still didn’t answer. Anything she said would be useless, as would bowing her head in shame. She got to her feet in silence, gave the detective a cold glare, and followed the policeman from the room.

The uniformed man led her down a dingy hall, up dingy stairs, and out into an equally dingy foyer.

Violet’s knees nearly gave way when she saw Daniel, in kilt, tailored greatcoat, and tall hat, looking every inch a wealthy aristo. With him was a bigger man, dressed in similar fashion—Lord Cameron, Daniel’s father. Lord Cameron’s face was harder than Daniel’s, and he bore a deep scar on his cheek—where his first wife had slashed him with a knife, the stories said.

If the floor would open up and let Violet sink into it, she’d go willingly. Daniel, bailing her out of jail, with his father. Heaven help her.

“Hello, Princess,” Daniel said, sotto voce, as he closed his hand around her wrist. “Your carriage awaits. So does your mum. This is my dad. Shall we go?”

Daniel balled his fists on the carriage seat, trying to stifle his rage. His anger had begun when he’d seen Violet’s mother and maid come flying down the street from the boardinghouse as though the hounds of hell were after them.

Daniel had been on his way to see Violet again, ready to sweep her away for another adventure in the country. He’d taken time to bathe, breakfast, and dress, then he’d run to her like an eager swain.

Violet’s maid had been carrying two overflowing valises, Violet’s mother hobbling behind the maid, sobbing. Daniel had ordered the carriage to stop. He’d stepped down himself, taken the valises and tossed them into the carriage, then helped the two terrified women inside.

His rage had increased when he heard Mary’s half-coherent story that the police had come to arrest them. Mary and Violet’s mother had fled, leaving Violet behind.

Daniel had ordered the two to remain in the coach while he sprinted alone to the boardinghouse. He’d found no sign of Violet when he arrived, but a crowd had gathered in the usually quiet street. One of the loiterers had told him that a young lady staying in the boardinghouse had been taken away in a police van. Probably a thief, possibly a lady of the evening.

Red fury had filmed Daniel’s vision. His father had a famous temper, and Daniel had inherited it. Daniel had spent his life trying to conquer it, preferring to win over the world with honeyed words, but sometimes the temper won.

He had to enlist Cameron’s help to bully their way into the Marseille police station and extricate Violet. The detective in charge, a man called Bellec, had wanted to make an example of her. He hated frauds, he said.

Bellec also hated foreigners coming to tell him his job, especially rich and titled ones. Bellec’s ancestors had no doubt herded scores of aristocrats to the guillotine.

Bellec and his superiors agreed to give up Violet only if Lord Cameron gave them his word to take her and her entourage out of the country. If Bellec saw Violet again, he said, he would make sure she went to prison.

Daniel hated the defeated look Violet wore when the uniformed policeman brought her out to the foyer. She held her head high, even then, glaring defiantly at everyone in her path.

But she looked at Cameron in worry, and the first question she asked when Daniel got her into the coach was, “Where is my mother? Is she all right? Is Mary with her?”

The shiftless mother had left her own daughter to the police, and Violet’s worry was for her.

Daniel still didn’t trust himself to speak. His father answered for him, his rumbling voice filling the coach. “Your mother is waiting at the railway station. With my wife and daughter.”

Violet blinked. “With Lady Cameron?”

“You’re leaving town,” Daniel said, unable to keep silent any longer. “And we’re coming with you.”

Violet’s eyes widened. “Coming with us? No, that’s not necessary . . .”

“It is entirely necessary,” Daniel said. “A condition of them releasing you, in fact. We’re going to Berkshire, and you and your mother are coming with us.”

“But . . . Daniel, no. You can’t leave. Your experiments . . . Your papers and drawings in your flat . . .”

Daniel wasn’t in the mood to worry about trivial things. “Simon stayed behind to box everything up and send it on. It’s more important to get you out of town.”

“I’m . . .” Violet wet her lips, looking from Cameron to Daniel. “I’m grateful. Thank you. How did you know where to find me?”

“Dad knows people,” Daniel growled. “But what the devil happened? And why was your mother hurrying off to save her own flesh, and your maid pushing her on, leaving you to take the blow?”