Daniel couldn’t move. His feet had grown into the floor, disobedient to his will. They wanted him to stand in that place all night long and gaze upon this woman.
Mortimer leaned to Daniel, his eyes glittering. “You see? Did I not tell you she’d be worth it?” He cleared his throat, straightening up. “Daniel Mackenzie, may I introduce Mademoiselle Bastien. Violette is her Christian name, in the French way. Mademoiselle, this is Daniel Mackenzie, son of Lord Cameron Mackenzie and nephew to the Duke of Kilmorgan. You’ll give him a fine show, won’t you, mademoiselle? There’s a good girl.”
The man Mortimer called Daniel Mackenzie came around the table and boldly stopped right next to Violet.
Scottish, she thought rapidly, taking in his bright blue and green plaid kilt, fashionable black suit coat, and ivory waistcoat. Rich, went her assessment, noting the costly materials and the way in which the coat hugged his broad shoulders. Tailor-made, and not by any cheap or apprentice tailor. A master had designed and sewn those clothes. Used to having the very best.
The other word that came to her was dangerous. Violet didn’t know why she should think this, but every inch of her flesh itched with it, every breath threatened to choke her.
Mr. Mackenzie topped most of the other gentlemen here by at least a foot, had a hard face, a nose that would be large in any other man’s face, and eyes that made her stop. Violet couldn’t decide the color of them in this light—hazel? brown?—but they were arresting.
So arresting that she stood there staring at him, not taking the hand he held out to her to shake in greeting.
“Daniel Mackenzie, at your service, mademoiselle.”
He gave her a light, charming smile, his eyes pulling her in, keeping her where he wanted her.
Definitely danger here.
He kept a barrier in place behind his eyes, she saw when she risked a look into them, a closed door. This man gave up his secrets to very few. He would be hard to read, which could be a problem.
He did nothing but stand waiting with his hand out. Violet finally slid hers into his gloved one, making the movement slow and deliberate.
“How do you do,” she said formally, her English perfect. She’d discovered that speaking flawless English reinforced the fiction that she was entirely French.
Daniel closed his giant hand around hers and raised it to his lips.
The quick, hot brush of his mouth to the backs of her fingers ignited a spark to rival that on the match she’d tossed away. Her nerves tightened like wires, forcing the deep breath she’d been trying not to take.
The little gasp sounded loud to her, but Mortimer’s cronies were making much noise as they shed coats and debated where each would sit. Daniel’s gaze fixed on Violet over her hand, challenging, daring, knowing.
Show me who you are, that gaze said.
Violet was supposed to be thinking that about him. Whatever the world believed about the talents of Violette Bastien, medium and spiritualist, she knew that her true gift was reading people.
Within a few moments of studying a man, Violet understood what he loved and hated, what he wanted with all his heart and what he’d do to get it, what made him happy, and what hurt him. She’d learned these lessons painstakingly from Jacobi in the backstreets of Paris, had been his best pupil.
But not Mr. Mackenzie. He did not let anyone behind his barriers, not easily. But when he did…
When he did, worlds would unfold.
Violet snatched her hand from his grasp. “Please, gentlemen,” she said again, striving to maintain the cheerful note in her voice.
She moved to sit down and found Daniel Mackenzie’s hand on the back of her chair. She forced her gaze from him and seated herself, trying to ignore the warmth of his body at her side, the fold of open coat that brushed her shoulder. The breath went out of her again as Daniel eased her chair forward, his strength unnerving.
Violet laid her hands flat on the table, trying to use its cool surface to calm herself. She needed to appear utterly composed, sugar-sweet and ready to help.
“Will you all give me a moment to prepare myself?” she asked, throwing out an appealing look.
The gentlemen readily agreed. Most had been here before, most often as Mortimer’s guests, but some returned alone for private consultations with Violet and her mother.
Only Mr. Mackenzie kept watching her, leaning on the table so he could look her in the eye. “Prepare yourself for what?” he asked.
Mortimer answered him from down the table, “To contact the other side, of course.”
Daniel kept his gaze on Violet. “The other side o’ what, mademoiselle? The room?”
“The ether,” one of the other men said in a superior tone. “She’s a spiritualist, man. Didn’t you know that? Madame and Mademoiselle Bastien are the most famous spiritualists in London.”
The flash of disappointment in Daniel’s eyes stung Violet. Stung her hard. Why she should care what this gentleman she’d never seen before should think of her she didn’t know, but she did.
Plenty of people didn’t believe in spiritualism and scoffed at what she did. They didn’t believe that a trained medium could contact the departed beyond the veil, to let the dear departed send comforting messages to the survivors, warn of impending danger, or just have a little chat with those who remained behind.
Just as well, Violet’s inner voice drawled. You don’t believe it either.
Violet had never felt the cold touch of the otherworld or the trembling ecstasy her mother found in her trances. She’d never seen a ghost or a spirit, and had never had one talk to her, or knock at her, or do any of those other useful things spirits could do.
But she’d become very, very good at pretending she had.
That Daniel Mackenzie didn’t believe shouldn’t bother her. Jacobi had told her never to argue with an unbeliever, but to move on to the next mark. She should close to him and concentrate on the other gentlemen, to make Mr. Mackenzie feel that he was somehow left out, to make him doubt his disbelief just a little bit.
So why couldn’t she turn away with her superior little smile, her amused disdain? Why did she keep wanting to look at him, to explain that she did this for survival, and beg him not to dislike her for it?
Daniel leaned his elbow on the table, stretching the fine cloth of his coat. “The other side of the ether, eh? I’d like to see that.”
Mortimer said, “You’re in for a show then. That’s why I said she’s worth more than a motorcar or a horse.”
Violet suddenly wished she did have the powers her mother claimed to, so that she could curse Mortimer into living out his life as a rabbit—or at least being a disappointment to any ladies he took to bed.
The room at last quieted, the gentlemen calming down to watch her prepare. Violet knew why they liked to watch her—when she closed her eyes and drew long breaths to calm herself for her trance, her breasts rose to press tightly against her décolletage. Distracted the clients wonderfully.
This time, however, when she opened her eyes again, she found Mr. Mackenzie not distracted in the slightest. Instead of letting his gaze drop to her chest, as the gazes of the other gentlemen had, Mr. Mackenzie smiled straight into her eyes.
Never let a skeptic make you nervous, Jacobi had said. Give them a show in spite of their disbelief. Make them doubt their own doubts.
Violet drew on the techniques the middle-aged man had painstakingly taught her. A glance around the table, ignoring Daniel. A small smile, the look of inner serenity, soft movements of her hands as she spoke.