“And how does he say I did these things?”
“Oh, there are ways. Phosphor-luminescent paint. Devices to make knocking noises—things like blocks of wood strapped to the knees. Tables moving with levers under the wrists. If I searched your pockets, would I find any of these things?”
“Certainly not.” Mary would have packed away the accoutrements and taken them with her. Violet’s valise, even if found and searched, would contain none of those things. More small blessings.
“The thing is, Mademoiselle, you’ve been accused, and we have to investigate. If we find nothing, well then.” He shrugged as if to say not my problem. “But I will warn you that Monsieur Lanier is poised to sue you and the Countess, um . . . Melikova . . . if you somehow wriggle away from the police.”
“Detective Bellec, I do not wriggle.”
“Maybe not, but . . .” Bellec leaned forward, his smile and nonchalant manner gone. “I dislike frauds, Mademoiselle. They prey on the gullible and take their money, same as a thief. Worse, because you coerce your mark to hand over the money willingly. You make people think you can talk to those dead and gone; you get inside their heads and play them for fools. A fraud is the worst kind of criminal, Mademoiselle. Even murderers are more straightforward.”
Violet stared at him, a chill in her heart, because she agreed with every word he said. She was a fraud, and she did take money from the gullible.
But she and her mother had to survive, and Celine truly believed in her abilities. The only fraud at heart was Violet.
Jacobi had shown Violet how to make a living using her mother’s eccentricities, and once she’d started, Violet hadn’t been able to stop. She was in a trap, no way out. She and her mother had no other means to live on, no place to go.
The detective rose and gathered his papers. “I’ll let you sit here awhile longer and think about all those fools you took money from. Money meant to feed their families, pay their rents, keep their children warm. Meanwhile, I will investigate. And if I find good proof of your fraud, you will go to court, and I will do my best to see that you pay to the full extent of the law.”
Bellec turned his back and walked out, no longer affable, his coldness sharp.
Violet, left alone, leaned her head back and tried to stop the tears that threatened to pour from her eyes. Bellec wasn’t going to let her go. Mary would have done her best to take the damning evidence away with her, but if she missed something, or she and Celine were caught . . .
The future looked bleak. But the most frightening thing about going to prison was that Violet wasn’t sure she wouldn’t welcome it. At last, she’d be able to stop.
An hour later Detective Bellec returned, a uniformed policeman behind him. Bellec was in a bad temper.
“Your pimps are here,” Bellec snarled, his face dull red. “That’s what I assume they are. Two foreign men, filthy rich, demanding you be released into their protection. What is the law, when money can buy freedom for criminals?”
The uniformed policeman unlocked Violet’s cuffs as she blinked at him in shock. Two men? Was one Daniel? But how would Daniel have known to find her here?
“They are commanded to take you out of the country and not let you return,” Bellec continued. “May they have the joy of you.”
Violet still didn’t answer. Anything she said would be useless, as would bowing her head in shame. She got to her feet in silence, gave the detective a cold glare, and followed the policeman from the room.
The uniformed man led her down a dingy hall, up dingy stairs, and out into an equally dingy foyer.
Violet’s knees nearly gave way when she saw Daniel, in kilt, tailored greatcoat, and tall hat, looking every inch a wealthy aristo. With him was a bigger man, dressed in similar fashion—Lord Cameron, Daniel’s father. Lord Cameron’s face was harder than Daniel’s, and he bore a deep scar on his cheek—where his first wife had slashed him with a knife, the stories said.
If the floor would open up and let Violet sink into it, she’d go willingly. Daniel, bailing her out of jail, with his father. Heaven help her.
“Hello, Princess,” Daniel said, sotto voce, as he closed his hand around her wrist. “Your carriage awaits. So does your mum. This is my dad. Shall we go?”
Daniel balled his fists on the carriage seat, trying to stifle his rage. His anger had begun when he’d seen Violet’s mother and maid come flying down the street from the boardinghouse as though the hounds of hell were after them.
Daniel had been on his way to see Violet again, ready to sweep her away for another adventure in the country. He’d taken time to bathe, breakfast, and dress, then he’d run to her like an eager swain.
Violet’s maid had been carrying two overflowing valises, Violet’s mother hobbling behind the maid, sobbing. Daniel had ordered the carriage to stop. He’d stepped down himself, taken the valises and tossed them into the carriage, then helped the two terrified women inside.
His rage had increased when he heard Mary’s half-coherent story that the police had come to arrest them. Mary and Violet’s mother had fled, leaving Violet behind.
Daniel had ordered the two to remain in the coach while he sprinted alone to the boardinghouse. He’d found no sign of Violet when he arrived, but a crowd had gathered in the usually quiet street. One of the loiterers had told him that a young lady staying in the boardinghouse had been taken away in a police van. Probably a thief, possibly a lady of the evening.
Red fury had filmed Daniel’s vision. His father had a famous temper, and Daniel had inherited it. Daniel had spent his life trying to conquer it, preferring to win over the world with honeyed words, but sometimes the temper won.
He had to enlist Cameron’s help to bully their way into the Marseille police station and extricate Violet. The detective in charge, a man called Bellec, had wanted to make an example of her. He hated frauds, he said.
Bellec also hated foreigners coming to tell him his job, especially rich and titled ones. Bellec’s ancestors had no doubt herded scores of aristocrats to the guillotine.
Bellec and his superiors agreed to give up Violet only if Lord Cameron gave them his word to take her and her entourage out of the country. If Bellec saw Violet again, he said, he would make sure she went to prison.
Daniel hated the defeated look Violet wore when the uniformed policeman brought her out to the foyer. She held her head high, even then, glaring defiantly at everyone in her path.
But she looked at Cameron in worry, and the first question she asked when Daniel got her into the coach was, “Where is my mother? Is she all right? Is Mary with her?”
The shiftless mother had left her own daughter to the police, and Violet’s worry was for her.
Daniel still didn’t trust himself to speak. His father answered for him, his rumbling voice filling the coach. “Your mother is waiting at the railway station. With my wife and daughter.”
Violet blinked. “With Lady Cameron?”
“You’re leaving town,” Daniel said, unable to keep silent any longer. “And we’re coming with you.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “Coming with us? No, that’s not necessary . . .”
“It is entirely necessary,” Daniel said. “A condition of them releasing you, in fact. We’re going to Berkshire, and you and your mother are coming with us.”
“But . . . Daniel, no. You can’t leave. Your experiments . . . Your papers and drawings in your flat . . .”
Daniel wasn’t in the mood to worry about trivial things. “Simon stayed behind to box everything up and send it on. It’s more important to get you out of town.”
“I’m . . .” Violet wet her lips, looking from Cameron to Daniel. “I’m grateful. Thank you. How did you know where to find me?”
“Dad knows people,” Daniel growled. “But what the devil happened? And why was your mother hurrying off to save her own flesh, and your maid
pushing her on, leaving you to take the blow?”
Violet shook her head. “Mary was right. Mother would never survive being arrested. If I had gotten away, we would have met elsewhere.”
“So you were the sacrificial lamb, were you?” Daniel asked. “What was your idea—divert their attention so your mum could get away?”
“Of course it was. My mother isn’t strong.”
“She seemed plenty fit sprinting down the street, leaving you in the dust. A mother protects her children, Vi. She doesn’t throw them to the wolves.”
Violet looked bewildered. “She didn’t. She doesn’t.”
“Then what the bloody hell do you call that? She took my help fast enough. As soon as your Mary convinced your mum she could trust me, your mum was in the coach without fear, urging me to get her away to the train. Leaving you to take the consequences.”
“It’s what we do,” Violet said, sounding patient, damn her. “If something happens, we scatter and meet in an appointed place. My mother was only following the plan.”
“When I told her you’d gone to jail, she was still ready to fly.” Daniel drew a breath to say more, but Cameron broke in.
“Leave it alone, Son.”
Daniel didn’t want to leave it alone, but he made himself close his mouth. He knew Cameron understood Daniel’s rage at a mother who would leave her child behind in danger. Daniel could pretend indifference about what his mother had done to him, but it had left scars.
Daniel balled his fists again and sat back in his seat. He wanted to strike out in disgust, but there was nothing to hit.
“Daniel’s not wrong,” Cameron said to Violet. “You don’t leave people you love to rot for you.”
Violet’s brows came down. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but neither of you have any idea what you’re talking about. We do what we have to do. It’s survival. Until you’ve had to live on your wits on the streets, please do not lecture me on how I or my mother should behave.”
Daniel was too angry to answer. Cameron pulled out a cigar and lit it. He leaned back, filling the coach with fragrant smoke. “I like her,” he said to Daniel, then continued to smoke in silence.
“I will pay for my railway ticket,” Violet said, her voice stiff. “All our tickets. If I am required to leave the country, we can part ways in Paris, and my mother and I will travel on someplace else, Bavaria perhaps. We’ll be all right then.”
“No,” Daniel said. “Mr. Bellec made it clear we are to make sure you remove yourself from France. The only way to do that is to watch over you all the way to England. So you’ll be coming with us to Berkshire, Vi, whether you like it or not. And I’m not letting you out of my sight until we get there.”
Berkshire. Daniel had to be mad. Violet’s stomach fluttered. She was still unbalanced by her arrest and confinement, not to mention Daniel’s abrupt rescue. Daniel was furious with her and with her mother, but he seemed to think nothing of cutting short his stay in Marseille to herd Violet out of it.
All too soon, Violet found herself boarding a train car, a private one hired by Lord Cameron. He’d taken the entire car, which had a little parlor and dining area in front and four tiny bedrooms in the back. It even had a bathroom.
Cameron and Daniel oversaw the loading of what little luggage they’d managed to bring. Ainsley’s servants and Mary settled their charges then left for the compartments Cameron had purchased for them. Mary looked startled that she’d have a compartment to herself, all without having to pay her own ticket.
Cameron took over one of the small dining tables in the private car and started leafing through racing newspapers in both English and French. A little girl with red gold hair placed a large plush horse on the table, climbed confidently into Cameron’s lap, and looked interestedly at the newspapers with him. Cameron absently hooked an arm around the girl’s waist and pressed a soft kiss to her hair.
Daniel didn’t speak to Violet at all. Ainsley, on one of the sofas, reached out a hand to her. “Come and sit with me, Violet, dear. You’ve had quite an ordeal.”
Celine had already taken a soft armchair by one of the windows, looking completely at home in the elegance. She fanned herself and let out a breath as the train jerked forward. “Yes, quite frightening. Poor Violet. Was it very awful?”
“A bit,” Violet said, sitting down next to Ainsley.
“I could not have stood a jail cell,” Celine said. “The aura would have been too much for me.”
“They didn’t put me in a cell, Mama. Just a room with a chair and table.”
Her mother looked relieved and disappointed at the same time. Violet knew Celine would have loved to hear horror stories about rats and squalid jail cells.
Ainsley’s look held sympathy. “Don’t worry, we will fill you both up with hot tea and plenty of cake. And then put you to bed. It’s early, but you must be tired.”
As the train gained speed, Marseille falling behind, several waiters wheeled in a cart loaded with food. Violet’s stomach rumbled as they set out breads and meats, cheese, tea, cakes, and—heaven—coffee.
Violet ate the cakes Ainsley shoved at her and gulped coffee. By the time her head ceased spinning and her stomach calmed down, they were well into the countryside.
Violet set down her coffee cup. “I am very grateful to you for helping us,” she said to Ainsley. “You are all impossibly kind. I intend to pay you back for the tickets.”
“Nonsense,” Ainsley said. “But we will speak of it later.”
Ainsley bent a glance at Daniel, who was seated at another table drinking coffee, his back to them. Violet knew Ainsley and Cameron had helped her for Daniel’s sake, no other reason.
She also knew Daniel was quite angry, and rightly so. Violet had many things to tell him, and he might be even angrier afterward. But she wouldn’t shy from it.
Ainsley sent Violet a shrewd look. She rose briskly, going to Celine. “Now, then, Madame, you are drooping and need to sleep. You too, Gavina. Come along. No, sweetheart, do not bother to argue.”
Gavina, who was seven, had started to protest, then caught the look in her mother’s eye and snapped her mouth shut. A child who had learned at a young age when not to argue.
Ainsley held out both hands, one for Violet’s mother and one for Gavina. She marched them through the door of the rocking car that led to the bedrooms. Cameron, in silence, pushed aside his tea leavings, rose, put a folded paper under his arm, and strolled casually out the front door of the car, heading for the main part of the train.
Leaving Violet alone with Daniel. Daniel went on drinking coffee, his silence heavy.
Violet rose from the sofa, picked up her empty cup, and went quietly to his table. She sat down opposite him and poured out another stream of coffee into her cup. Daniel watched her, not pretending to ignore her, but he still didn’t offer to speak.
“You saved me today, Daniel,” Violet said. “I know I can never repay you for it, but you saved my life. Monsieur Bellec was not going to let me go.”
Daniel had lifted his cup to drink but now he clattered it back to his saucer. “Damn it, Violet, stop talking about repayment. I don’t want any kind of payment from you.”
“I know you don’t. But you deserve to know some things about me.” Violet set down her coffee and twined her fingers together on the tabletop. If she clasped her hands hard enough, maybe they wouldn’t tremble.
Daniel waited, saying nothing.
“I was born Violet Devereaux. My father was a Frenchman, as I’ve told you. His family emigrated to England before he was born. We lived in South London—you guessed right about that—in a poor but respectable neighborhood. My mother learned when I was about eight that she had clairvoyance, or so she thought. She started out giving séances for friends then was hired by others to do them. She decided to go to Paris when she’d saved enough in fees to try our luck there. That’s
where I met Jacobi, who taught me about how to give a memorable stage performance and sell more tickets. I’ve taken many names since then, all to sell tickets and keep us out of trouble.” Violet took a breath. “The name Violet Devereaux is the real one. But my married name is Violet Ferrand.”
Chapter 23
“Married name.” Daniel sat still, the words meaningless to his stunned brain. He felt the same as when she’d crashed the vase into his head.
“Yes.” It was a whisper, filled with shame and a little bit of defiance.
Daniel was on his feet, his realization returning. “Married?”
“Yes.” Violet said again.
Daniel walked to the door that led out of the car then swung around and strode back, his temper rising with every step.
All the Mackenzies had berserker rage within them, inherited from generations of men fed up with people trying to kill them and steal their land. Daniel’s grandfather had used the rage to terrorize his family. Uncle Hart had used it to terrorize England. Uncle Ian’s anger had turned around and terrorized himself. Daniel felt the rage beat through his veins now—at Violet, at himself, at whoever had made her like this.
“Bloody hell, woman!” His Highland Scots erased every bit of English elocution ever drilled into him. “When were ye planning to tell me? Or were ye at all? If you’d gotten away from the police by yourself, I’d have never seen you again, would I? You would have run, just like ye did in London, just like ye’ve done time and again in the past, haven’t ye? Not bothering to tell Daniel, that poor blithering idiot, that ye’d gone!”
Violet’s face was stark white. “I was going to tell you. About both things. I promise. I planned to tell you all about the marriage at the inn if you took me there today. But the police arrived . . .”