Jennifer Ashley: The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

She ought to look gleeful and revel in her power. But Mademoiselle only looked worriedly upward, frightened that someone was about to end her show, possibly for good.

The desperation she tried to hide while she looked up through the chandelier—realizing her trusted maid was no longer above her—decided it.

Daniel gently pulled another lever, and a rap sounded deep inside the dining room wall.

“What was that?” one young man gasped.

Daniel pulled the lever again, producing another loud knock. Mademoiselle Violette must have rigged a block of wood or something to bang against a wall or another block, to make a hollow, rapping sound.

The lever operated smoothly, needing the lightest touch. After a little experimentation, Daniel discovered he could control the pacing and volume of the knocks.

“Is it trying to send a message?” Ellingham asked.

Violette took a deep breath and forced her gaze from the chandelier. “It is indeed. Hush now, while I listen.”

Daniel wondered how many of the club fodder below knew Morse code. Had they ever operated a telegraph machine? Or were telegrams only what they dictated to lackeys to send for them?

Daniel rapped out . . . I am the ghost of . . . No, wait.

Mortimer is an ass.

From the expressions below, none of the gentlemen had so much as seen a telegraph machine. They waited patiently for Mademoiselle to tell them what the sounds meant.

Violette kept her countenance serene. Wonderful woman. “The spirits are unhappy,” she said in her whispery contralto. “They wish us to stop. To leave them alone.”

Daniel kept knocking in code. You are lovely, do you know, lass?

A blush spread over her face. She knew exactly what Daniel was rapping out, which meant she knew Morse code herself. Interesting.

How did a fine lady like you become a confidence trickster?

“Enough!” Violette said abruptly, rising to her feet. “Evil spirits, be gone from this place!”

Daniel left off the knocking and pulled the chandelier again. It swayed and rocked. He tried another lever, which released a cluster of tiny spheres on thin wires. The spheres, painted with phosphorescent paint, swirled and danced like ghost lights. Yet another lever released a groaning sound, probably through bellows or a bag of some kind.

He also found the lever that controlled whatever machine had blown the cold wind—it not only turned on the machine but regulated the speed. Wonderful. Daniel wanted to get his hands on this machine, more sophisticated than the other tricks. He’d take it apart and see how it worked.

The wind blew out the candle again. Daniel worked levers until the room below was filled with moaning, the chandelier swaying, ghost lights dancing in the wind. Violette plopped down to her chair, giving up.

Ellingham and the others stared, round-eyed, as the room lost control. When Daniel decided they’d had enough, he slammed all the levers back to their resting places.

The wind died, the ghost lights vanished, the noise stopped, and the chandelier creaked slowly to a halt. The facets gave one last shiver, then went still.

Violette rose, and another match flared to life in her hand. “Well . . .”

Her words were drowned out by thunderous applause. Ellingham got to his feet, face glowing, gloved hands clapping hard. “My word, Mademoiselle, you have a wonderful gift. I’ve always said so.”

“They didn’t hurt you, did they, Mademoiselle?” another man with a little more compassion asked. “Are you well?”

“I will be.” Violette took out a handkerchief and delicately dabbed at her forehead. Oh, she was a master. “I have some protection from them. But I fear, gentlemen, that I feel a bit faint.”

The gentlemen climbed to their feet, suddenly solicitous, assuring her they’d leave her to rest, that they were grateful to her. And when could they come back and bring their friends who needed to see, to believe?

Daniel watched Violette as she handled them all, on her feet, but holding the table as though barely able to stand. She encouraged them to make return visits, but with an appointment, so they might be better able to reach the spirits. Violette apologized for her weak talent—her mother’s was much better. Worth it to wait until her mother was well.

The gentlemen fell all over themselves agreeing with her, only Mortimer silent.

Daniel also heard the lads speculating on what had happened to Mackenzie. One said he’d seen Daniel run out of the room, no doubt in a fright when the spirits had started up in earnest. Ah well, everyone knew the Scots were yellow.

Mortimer was the last out of the dining room. He paused at the door. “A fine show, Mademoiselle,” he said. “You are to be commended.”

Violette inclined her head, managing to look haughty and meek at the same time. “I thank you, sir.”

“Hmm.” Mortimer kept his hand on the door frame. “Well, I’ll be back, Mademoiselle, in the daylight. To speak to you.”

“I look forward to the meeting,” Violette said.

She didn’t. She’d rather eat a toad. But she only wrapped a light shawl about herself as she spoke, her exhaustion not feigned.

Mortimer gazed at her another long moment before he made a bow and said good night. Daniel heard him join the others at the front door, the door close behind them, and their voices on the street. None of them mentioned Simon, so Simon might have ducked away out of sight, or perhaps he’d gone home to nurse his wounds.

Daniel lingered, fascinated by the pulley system. There were more levers he hadn’t tried. One sent a deep bell tolling—a person could imagine the specter of Death himself following such a noise. Another . . .

A pair of feet in white leather boots stopped in front of his face. The laces of the boots covered a fine pair of ankles. Better still, from his position, Daniel could glimpse the legs that rose from the boots, gossamer black stockings fitting tightly over shapely calves.

He rolled over onto his back and put his hands behind his head. From this angle, he looked all the way up her straight skirt to the tight bodice that swelled over her bosom. “As grand a setup as I’ve ever seen,” he said. “The pulley system, I mean. What engineer strung this for you? Whoever it was, I want to meet him.”

Mademoiselle Bastien’s schooled face remained carefully blank. “I did it,” she said.

“Did you, now?” Daniel’s eyes widened in amazement and he brought his ungloved hands together in a burst of clapping. “Brilliant. I think I’m in love with you.”

Arrogant, impudent . . . Violet and her mother were about to be ruined by this scion of aristocracy, and he was laughing at her.

Mr. Mackenzie returned his hands behind his head and lay full-length on Violet’s floor, relaxed and confident. What did he intend to do? Expose her? Alert the newspapers? The police? Violet’s heart beat hard. She needed to wake up her mother, to pack what they could, to leave .

But Mr. Mackenzie remained unmoving, eyes glittering in the lamplight, his handsome face and athletic body the best things that had ever decorated this room.

Violet had no business thinking of that, absolutely no business. Existence was difficult enough. Men believed that women’s lives were theirs to dictate, to own. Look what had happened the last time Violet had thought a man sympathetic to her, had trusted him. Absolute disaster.