Jennifer Ashley: The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

The concern in his words sent a shock through Violet, and her eyes popped open. For a moment, her rapid breaths choked her, and she struggled for air.

No one had ever spoken to her thus—not her mother, not Jacobi. Daniel Mackenzie, a stranger of warmth by her side, touched her in worry and asked after her with a protectiveness never before directed at her.

It nearly broke her. A moment ago, Violet had prided herself on being able to handle a roomful of unruly gentlemen. Now she felt her façade crumbling to reveal the lonely and weary young woman she was—nearly thirty years old, taking care of an ill mother, living by her wits and her skill in hiding her lies.

Violet found it easy to keep a barrier between Mortimer and his ilk, but she recognized that Mr. Mackenzie could rip down any wall she erected with one touch.

She tried to catch her breath, tried to keep her persona in place, but for a moment, she was only a frightened young woman angry at a man for exposing her.

Mr. Ellingham, oblivious, broke the tension. “Damn it, Mackenzie. We’ll never get a contact if you interfere with the medium’s trance. Everyone knows that.”

Daniel kept his gaze on Violet. “You sure you’re all right, love?”

Violet moved her hands to the table again, pressing down to stop their trembling. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You’re an ass, Mackenzie,” Mortimer said, his voice tinged with fury. “Now we’ll have to start all over again.”

“No, we won’t,” Daniel said, still looking at Violet. “We’ll go and leave Mademoiselle Bastien to her sleep.”

“The hell we will,” Mortimer said, standing up. “We’re not leaving this house. Not until we have satisfaction.”

Daniel shot Mortimer a look of disgust. He knew damn well why Mortimer didn’t want to leave—the ruffian waited outside for him. Mortimer wouldn’t make it back home tonight without trouble.

Mortimer met Daniel’s gaze with rage and fear mixing in his dark eyes. Why the idiot wouldn’t take Daniel’s offer of paying off the bone-breaker, Daniel didn’t know. Daniel had been sympathetic at first, but watching how Mortimer treated Mademoiselle Violette had wiped away any sympathy. Mortimer would be the loser tonight.

Mortimer went on. “If Mackenzie is too prissy to watch Mademoiselle Violette go into her trance, then let us bring out the talking board.”

The other gentlemen eagerly agreed. Before Daniel could voice an objection, Ellingham had sprung from his chair with the energy of his twenty-two years. He seemed to know his way around Mademoiselle Bastien’s dining room, because he made for the sideboard, opened one of its lower drawers, and brought out a wooden board and planchette, which he set in the middle of the table.

The wooden board was rectangular, burned with the letters of the English alphabet— A through R on the first row, S through Z on the second. Below the letters were the numbers 1 through 9 with a 0 at the end. In the top-left corner was the word Yes , in the right, No . On the bottom in the middle were the words Thank You and Good-Bye . A very polite piece of oak.

Daniel hadn’t seen a talking board before, but he’d heard about them. The idea was for the medium and her guests to put their fingers on the planchette—a more or less oval piece of polished wood—and ask a question of the spirit. The planchette would then obligingly drag itself to the letters to spell out an answer—which supposed that the spirit was fluent in the language of the questioner and a reasonably good speller.

Daniel had his own idea about how the planchette moved—the questioners moved it themselves, he believed, even if they didn’t realize they were doing it. Thoughts fixed in the head stimulated muscles in the arms and fingers, making the person pull the planchette to spell out what they wanted the spirit to say. Amazing what the human brain could convince the body to do.

As soon as Ellingham resumed his seat, eager hands shot to the planchette. Mademoiselle Bastien waited for Daniel to place his fingers on it, before she put hers next to his.

The warmth of her hand touched Daniel through his glove. He liked her fingers, not too delicate, but long and strong. He had a swift image of those fingers unbuttoning his shirt, peeling it from his body, running across his exposed skin . . .

Daniel shifted in his seat, hot and suddenly hard.

“Are you ready, Mr. Mackenzie?” Mademoiselle Bastien asked him. God help him, Daniel hoped he wasn’t blushing. “This can be quite daunting for the novice,” she went on. Her dark blue eyes held a light that said she was ready for his challenge.

And I’m damned good and ready for hers. “Carry on, lass.”

Mademoiselle Violette took another of those bodice-lifting breaths that left him dizzy and said, “Very well. Spirit, do you have a message for anyone here?”

Candlelight brushed the polished wood of the board, the gloved hands of the gentlemen present, and Mademoiselle Violette’s bare fingers, so feminine and beautiful amidst the sea of masculinity.

The planchette was only so large, so several of the men, including Mortimer, got left out. Mortimer didn’t seem to mind. He sat back and watched, his dark gaze planted on Violette’s body, his ratlike face not hiding his lecherous thoughts.

Beneath Daniel’s fingers, the planchette wobbled then started to move. Ellingham drew an excited breath.

The planchette stopped, rocked again, and moved in the opposite direction. After a few seconds it changed once more. Every hand trying to drag it where the gentleman wants it to go .

Daniel relaxed his fingers, waiting to see what Mademoiselle Violette would do.

She called softly into the darkness, “Spirit, do you have a message for us?”

Any spirit hearing Mademoiselle Violette plead to it in that sensual, contralto voice should spring forward and agree to do whatever she wanted. Daniel moved in his seat, trying to still his rising fantasies. He was as bad as Mortimer.

The planchette trembled, then made a rapid but smooth move to the word Yes.

A collective sigh went through the men present. Difficult to believe that a few hours ago, they were hardened gamblers trying to win packets of money at poker.

“To whom is the message directed?” Mademoiselle Violette asked the air.

The planchette fanned back and forth among the letters, seeking. Finally it stopped at the letter M.

“Mortimer?” one of the gentlemen asked.

The planchette nearly ripped itself across the board to the word No. It then backed away to a neutral area, as though apologizing for its rudeness.

“Will you show us more letters?” Mademoiselle asked.

The rest of the gentlemen leaned forward. Daniel had no doubt that those with M ’s in their names—including him—silently begged, Please, please, let it be me.

The planchette traveled slowly across the letters again and stopped at C . It moved on to K , then to E , N , and Z .

“Mackenzie!” Ellingham shouted. He jerked his hand from the planchette, and it stopped.

Of course the thing had spelled out Mackenzie . Or at least McKenz . Daniel shot a glance at Mademoiselle Violette, who studied the board with a serene look.

Little vixen. His estimation of her rose again. She knew bloody well that Daniel knew she was a charlatan, and she was going to play on him every trick she could.

So she thinks.

Violette asked the air in her smooth voice, “Do you have a message for Mr. Mackenzie?”