The gentlemen finally ceased speaking, quieting to watch her prepare. Violet’s preparation was part of the show—when she closed her eyes and drew long breaths to calm herself, her breasts pressed hard into her tight décolletage. Distracted the clients wonderfully.
When she opened her eyes again, however, she found Mr. Mackenzie not distracted in the slightest. Instead of letting his gaze drop to her rising bosom, as the other gentlemen had, Mr. Mackenzie smiled straight into her face.
Never let skeptics make you nervous, Jacobi had said. Give them a show in spite of their disbelief. Make them doubt their own doubts.
Violet glanced around the table, trying to ignore Daniel. “All is calm tonight, the veil so thin. Mr. Ellingham, I believe we were very near reaching your father the last time. Shall we try again?”
Before the eager Mr. Ellingham—who was attempting to find out where his now-deceased father had hidden away about ten thousand pounds—could answer, Mortimer broke in.
“Contact someone for Mackenzie. He’s my guest tonight. His dear old mum, perhaps.” Mortimer’s eyes glinted with dislike.
Violet didn’t miss Daniel’s flash of anger. The flicker was brief and instantly gone, but Violet had seen it. Whatever had happened to Mr. Mackenzie’s mother, his anger about it ran deep; the hurt that accompanied it, massive.
“Perhaps that would not be for the best,” Violet said quickly.
Mr. Mackenzie’s mask dropped into place. “Aye, let me mum rest in peace. Tell you what, why don’t you contact me dad, instead?” He sent her a guileless look.
Too transparent. Violet gave him a sweet smile. “If you wish me to contact your father, Mr. Mackenzie, I suggest a telegram, because that gentleman is very much still living.”
Mr. Mackenzie stared at her for a heartbeat then burst out laughing. His laugh was deep and true, a man who knew how to laugh for the joy of it. “You were right, Mortimer. She truly has the second sight.”
“I don’t need second sight to read the newspapers,” Violet said. “First sight will do. Your father appears in many pages of the sporting news. Now, if he’d like me to tell him which of his racehorses will do best this year, his lordship is welcome to join us.”
Daniel wound down to a chuckle. “I’m starting to like you, Mademoiselle.”
Violet let her eyes go wide. “I am pleased to hear it, Mr. Mackenzie. However, if you have come tonight to mock me and my work, I will have to ask you to depart. Or at least wait in the hall.”
“Why?” His eyes held an impish twinkle. “Does my mockery disturb th’ spirits?”
“Of course not. Those on the other side can be quite forgiving. But I find it a bit distracting.”
Mr. Mackenzie raised his hands in surrender. “Forgive me, lass. I’ll be the model of goodness from now on. Promise.”
Violet knew better than to believe him, but she returned her attention to the others. “Shall we see what spirits are close tonight?”
The other men readily agreed. They liked the show.
“Then, as you know, I must ask for silence.”
Violet closed her eyes again, and thankfully, the gentlemen quieted down, their guffaws finally dying off.
Violet let her breathing become slow and deep. She rocked her head forward then let it go all the way back, turning her face to the ceiling. She kept her eyes closed as her breathing grew more rapid, faster, faster.
Soft noises escaped her mouth. Violet moved her head from side to side, making sure she didn’t overdo it. Too much gyration looked fake. A little bit was far more frightening, a person in the grip of forces she didn’t understand. Violet also knew that a young woman moaning, perspiring, and letting her bosom move with her panting froze gentlemen into place.
A large, warm hand landed on hers, and Mr. Mackenzie said in a quiet voice, “You all right, lass?”
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 finge
rs 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?”
The planchette said Yes.
Mademoiselle Violette was very good, but Daniel was good too. “What message?” he asked.
Ellingham joined them on the planchette again, and it started to move. Around and around it went on the board, back and forth, sliding toward a letter only to slide away before it could stop. Daniel felt Violette’s subtle but steady pull, and he subtly but steadily pulled back.
Mademoiselle kept her countenance absolutely still. If the spirit’s indecision vexed her, she made no sign.
The planchette at last halted at the letter F. Ellingham said excitedly, “Someone should write this down.”
A gentleman obligingly drew a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and wrote, F.
The planchette moved again. It stopped at U, paused for a time, then slid innocently to the letter C. After another pause, it began a rapid journey toward the letter K.
Mademoiselle jerked her hand back, and the planchette stopped dead. The room filled with snickers and chortles.
“Well,” Violette said, turning to fully face Daniel. “The spirit seems in a mischievous mood tonight.”
Her eyes sparkled like candle flames on a frosty night. They looked at each other, neither offering to glance away first. Mademoiselle’s cheeks took on a faint flush, but other than that she sat as still as marble.
Damn, but she was beautiful, and defiant too. No simpering miss in her first Season, hoping to snare the wealthy Mr. Mackenzie, one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain. Why the hell young women were taught that pretending to be frail should make men fall madly in love with them, Daniel didn’t understand. The frail act made Daniel want to suggest the lady eat robust food and take plenty of exercise until she felt better.
This young woman could walk five miles in a storm, brush off her skirts, and comment offhand that the wind was a bit brisk today. Then in the next breath she’d tell someone like Daniel and all his money to go to the devil.
Mademoiselle Violette’s lips parted. The moisture between them beckoned. Daniel wanted to send Mortimer and his irritating cronies out into the cold and have Mademoiselle to himself, to ask her to perform for him alone. No layabouts of the English ton watching, no Mortimer. Just Daniel and this lovely lady, a candlelit room, and time.
“Enough of these parlor games,” Mortimer broke in angrily. “I told you, Mademoiselle, Mackenzie came here to see the whole show. So give it to him.”
Daniel had to turn away from Violette’s beautiful eyes, and for that, Mortimer would pay. “Shut your gob,” Daniel said. “She’s done enough for tonight, and you still owe me two thousand quid.”
Mortimer was halfway out of his chair. “I’m paying for a show, and by God, I want one.”
Daniel started up himself, ready to go over the table to him, but Mademoiselle raised her hands, her voice cutting through the impending tempest.
“The spirits are here! Now!”
A freezing wind swept through the dining room, extinguishing the candles in one go. The room plunged into darkness. In the middle of the table, where the candles had burned, a pale, luminescent blob began to form and spread.
Before Daniel could sit down, a heavy grip seized him by the arms, and someone very strong dragged him up and out through a door and into a pitch-dark room. The door shut, cutting him off from the wind, Mortimer, and the enchanting Mademoiselle Violette.
Jennifer Ashley, New York Times bestselling author and winner of a Romance Writers of America RITA Award, writes as Allyson James and Jennifer Ashley. She’s penned more than fifty novels and twenty novellas in historical romance, paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and mystery. She now lives in the Southwest with her husband and cats, spends most of her time in the wonderful world of her stories, and enjoys hiking, music, and building dollhouses and dollhouse miniatures. More information about Jennifer's books can be found on her website, http://www.jennifersromances.com.
Jennifer Ashley, The Untamed MacKenzie
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