The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie by Jennifer Ashley Page B

little English. Even here, inside the boardinghouse, they spoke only French.
    The story for the stage Violet had wrought was that Celine—now Countess Melikova, a widow—had been forced to flee Russia when her gift for clairvoyance was deemed too dangerous. She’d left the splendor of her late husband’s manor house for a peripatetic existence in France, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, giving readings and séances for coin.
    Violet was now Princess Ivanova, the countess’s deceased best friend’s daughter. Princess Ivanova had left a string of broken hearts behind her from Saint Petersburg to Budapest, and had been forced out of Russia because four men had fought to the death over her. She’d been told never to return. The princess and the countess had agreed to travel and live together, and here they were.
    Violet and her mother had used the personas once before, in Italy, where they had worked well—at least, until the winter had turned unusually bitter, sending tourists home. Violet and her mother had moved to a milder climate then and transformed themselves into Romany women.
    Violet turned to the window again to avoid her mother’s continuing questions about why they’d left London. Violet had relived the dreadful moment in the dining room of the London townhouse again and again—her fear clearing to reveal Daniel giving her a look of confusion before he fell to the floor.
    He alone of the gentlemen that night had been kind to her. He’d discovered Violet’s secrets, but instead of being outraged and exposing her, he’d laughed and been interested.
    And the kisses . . . Violet remembered the smoke on Daniel’s breath, the touch of his lips. His gentle kiss in the upstairs room had awakened fires in her—fires, not fear. For the first time in her life, Violet had kissed a man without terror.
    Why, why then had she struck him when he’d tried again in the dining room? She wished she could be transported back to that moment, wished she could change her split-second decision. In the new scenario, her hand would never have landed on the vase, and she’d not have swung it, not seen his blood . . .
    Violet had left him on a doorstep like unwanted trash. A man, a human being, and Violet had left him alone, ready pickings for any thief.
    The kind doctor or a constable must have found him, Violet told herself once again. Found Daniel, found out who he was, sent him home to his family.
    Violet’s breath caught on a sob. She didn’t want him to be dead. She wanted that night back, to slow down with him and get to know him, to hear his warm laughter one more time.
    The police would be investigating what had happened. They’d learn that Mr. Mackenzie had been to the house Violet and her mother rented. Violet had been right to flee, or else she, Celine, and Mary might be in a prison cell right now.
    As always, Violet had done what she’d had to do. She couldn’t take it back, and she had to move on. She and her mother would perform, they’d count the takings, and they’d survive. That was Violet’s life.
    Her tedious, empty life.

    Marseille.
    Daniel stared down at the note he received from Ian a few days after he’d sought his uncle’s help. The thick sheet of writing paper bore the one word in careful script, nothing more.
    “Could you be more specific?” Daniel said to the air.
    “Sir?” Simon appeared from the back parlor, which held two-thirds of a motorcar and not much else. He’d been helping Daniel reseat the pistons. Daniel had wiped his hands and come out to answer the door, finding a delivery boy with the note.
    “Never mind,” Daniel said to Simon. “My uncle Ian can be so very cryptic. If he says they’re in Marseille, they’re in Marseille. Fancy a trip to the south of France, Simon?”
    Simon looked doubtful. “Never been, sir.”
    “Your chance to go now. I need to send off some telegrams. Kill a few birds with one stone.”
    Simon didn’t answer, having, in the last few