Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

  “The doc stitched you up,” Simon said. “But I can look after you. My brother, he was a boxer afore he died of it, and I used to look after him regular. They said the doc thought you was dead, though, when he found you. But you were knocked senseless is all. You needed to be warmed up and tended, and a few blows on your chest didn’t hurt either.”

  “So you say.” Daniel lifted the collar of his nightshirt and observed the fist-sized bruises on his solar plexus. “Why did you feel the need to punch me in the chest? Hitting a man after he’s down?”

  “I didn’t do that. The doctor what found you did, so constables said. See, sometimes the heart forgets to beat, but the man is still alive. I saw it in a boxing match once—the fighter was on the floor, and his trainer slammed his hand to the man’s chest. Fighter woke up gasping. It’s like the heart needs a little boost.”

  “Like pushing a motorcar to start it. Well, whether it worked or not, here I am.”

  “What happened, sir? Did Mortimer and his bullies jump you?”

  “No.” Daniel tried sitting up again, and this time it worked. He leaned against his headboard and wished that in the clutter of his bedroom, he knew where he’d left his cigarette case. “It had nothing to do with Mortimer. The last thing I remember, Simon, is a beautiful woman swinging a deadly vase at my head. You ever been thumped by a woman for kissing her?”

  Simon’s mouth twitched. “Aye, sir.”

  “And what did you do?” Daniel rubbed his head, looking around for a cigar, a decanter of whiskey, anything to blunt the pain.

  “Kissed her again.”

  Daniel laughed. “Aye, well, I didn’t get the chance, did I? Help me to my feet, so I can get dressed. I need to go ask a lovely lass why she felt the need to crash an ugly vase into my skull.”

  An hour, a too-bumpy carriage ride, and half a flask of Mackenzie malt later, Daniel was back at the house near Portman Square where he’d met Violette Bastien.

  The front door was partway open. Daniel descended from his carriage in one step and walked inside.

  The house smelled cold and empty. A box of cutlery sat on a table in the hall near the staircase, and an empty valise waited forlornly on the steps. Daniel heard footsteps upstairs and voices, angry and male.

  He went down the hall and on into the dining room, remembering his first sight of Violette as she stood alone behind the table, a long match in her hand. Candlelight had fallen on a face that had taken his breath away.

  Now the room was cold and dark, the drapes shut. Daniel pulled open the curtains, letting in what light filtered through the high houses around them. By that he saw panels ripped from the walls, Violette’s devices gone.

  Of course. She’d take those and leave mundane things like cutlery and clothing. She could always find new dresses and new spoons, but her devices were unique.

  Daniel heaved a sigh, a little surprised at his disappointment. Violette should be just another female to him—she wasn’t as physically beautiful as the woman who’d dealt the cards at the gaming hell last night. Daniel had taken lovers in France and Italy with more striking looks than Mademoiselle Violette’s. None of those ladies had been anything like Violette, with her hair trickling from her pompadour, her intriguing devices, her cocky rejoinders.

  And eyes that held secrets. Violette Bastien—if that was even her name—was a woman who’d lived far more than the debutantes who currently pursued Daniel with determination to land him in matrimony. Even the courtesans he’d known had lived very narrow lives. Mademoiselle Violette fit neither mold.

  Find her, something inside Daniel said. Pluck out those secrets and discover what she’s made of.

  But Daniel had no time to go chasing after a woman who’d fooled a group of club fodder with her theatrics and skipped out on the rent. Good for her. He’d only gone to the hell last night to clear his head. Playing cards, thinking in simple numbers and odds, helped him solve more complicated mechanical difficulties. Daniel was finished with the encounter, and he had plenty to do.

  But he thought again of the first touch of Violette’s lips, how the taste of smoke only enhanced the taste of her. The subsequent kiss in the dining room had awakened a need in him he’d never felt before. Daniel had sensed the beginning of Violette’s surrender, her body going pliant and soft.

  Then a blow had landed on the back of his neck, followed by Violette looking at Daniel in absolute terror. No mistaking the blind panic—Daniel had frightened her half to death. Hence the blow with the vase.

  But why? In the upstairs room he’d read desire in her. Downstairs, fear. What change had one flight of stairs wrought?

  He wanted to know, and now she was gone.

  “Find them, damn you!” The cry rang down the stairs, echoing Daniel’s sentiment, but with much more fury. He recognized the voice and left the dining room to confront its owner.

  “Your bird has flown, has she, Mortimer?” Daniel asked.

  Fenton Mortimer swung around, greatcoat billowing, from where he’d been haranguing a young constable and a man in a business suit and bowler hat on the stairs.

  “What are you doing here, Mackenzie?” Mortimer demanded. “If you have anything to do with this, I’ll . . .”

  He trailed off, his focus moving to the bruise and cut on Daniel’s temple. He decided not to complete the threat. Wise man.

  “I’m looking for Mademoiselle Bastien, same as you,” Daniel said. “Frighten her off, did you?”

  “Madame Bastien and her daughter owe my family two months’ rent. Of course they fled. I don’t care how fine a show they gave us last night—they’re tricksters and thieves, and I will prove it.”

  “What, you don’t believe in the spirit world?” Daniel asked. “And you dragged me here so eagerly.”

  “Because I thought you’d like the girl and forgive my debt if you had a night with her. What did you do to make them flee?”

  “Not a damn thing.” But then, Daniel thought again of the fear in Violette’s eyes. She’d struck him to the ground, and now she was gone.

  She’d apparently dragged him down a few streets to lie alone until someone found him. Lucky for Daniel he hadn’t been quietly knifed to death, though he’d noticed that the wad of cash he’d won last night had vanished. Had a thief rolled him, or had Violette helped herself from his inert body?

  Perhaps everything between him and Violette had been false—the spark of passion, the beginnings of surrender, the fear. All contrived so she could smash wealthy, gullible Daniel over the head, steal his money, and slip away to a softer life in another place.

  Violette Bastien had admitted to him that she put on a show for the customer, using her fancy devices. He’d felt sorry for her at the same time he’d admired her ingenuity.

  But perhaps she was a confidence trickster all the way down, playing upon Daniel’s protectiveness to get what she wanted. And Daniel had walked into it with his eyes open. He was as much of an idiot as Mortimer.

  “Let her go,” Daniel said. “She’ll be miles away by now.”

  “Let her go?” Mortimer’s eyes were red with rage. “She owes me. The bitch is going to pay every penny of my debt to you as well. I’ll find her, I’ll have her in prison, and I’ll squeeze her dry.”

  Mortimer was a bully, plain and simple. Daniel remembered Simon saying that Mortimer owed money to a very bad man. Mortimer was the kind of person who would turn around and take out his fear and anger on those he thought weaker than he. Violette Bastien might have played Daniel for a fool, but he wished her out of Mortimer’s grasp forever.

  “How much did she owe you?” Daniel asked.

  “Forty pounds. And I want the two thousand I owe you out of her too.”

  The businessman cleared his throat. He alone of the three men pretended he didn’t notice the bruises and abrasions on Daniel’s face, although the constable studied them
with interest.

  “That would be unwise,” the suited man said to Mortimer. “The law will help you gain your rent money, but nothing you incurred with another party.”

  Daniel grinned. “And stating you brought me here last night so I’d forgive your debt in exchange for her body makes you a procurer, Mortimer. Not the best thing to say in front of a constable and a solicitor.”

  Mortimer’s weasel-like face became even more red. “That is not what I meant . . .”

  But he had meant that—Mortimer simply couldn’t control his tongue. Daniel knew as well that Mortimer had come here this morning for more than the rent. A debt of forty pounds to his family wouldn’t have him that hot under the collar, not when he owed someone who would employ a bone-breaker five thousand. Mortimer had come to badger Violette, likely to demand she pay him in another way. He’d no doubt summoned the constable and solicitor only after he’d found Violette gone.

  Daniel clenched his fists behind his back so he wouldn’t haul off and punch Mortimer in the face. “Tell you what,” he said, running his gaze along the staircase, to the ceiling, and back to Mortimer. “How much do you think this house is worth?”

  Mortimer’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I’ll buy it from you—or whoever in your family actually owns it. That way Madame Bastien’s rent is owed to me, not you. Knock off two thousand from the price, and I’ll consider the amount you owe me paid. Knock off another five, and I’ll buy your note back from Mr. . . . Who are you in up to your neck with?”

  Mortimer flashed an uncomfortable glance at the constable and magistrate. “Sutton,” he said, barely audible.

  Daniel’s day brightened. “You mean Edward Sutton? Are you a fool? Or just fond of pain?”

  “It’s none of your business,” Mortimer said angrily. “It has to do with America, and is between Mr. Sutton and myself.”

  Now even the constable looked amused. No constable would dare march to the house of Edward Sutton in Park Lane and tell him to release poor Mr. Mortimer from his debt, which was likely an illegal one. The solicitor, likewise, was pretending he didn’t hear this part of the conversation.

  “Figure the price for the house, and then knock off seven thousand from that,” Daniel said. “Give me your note of hand to Sutton, and I’ll run round and pay it for you.”

  Mortimer stared in astonishment. “What the devil? Why would you do that?”

  “In return, you’ll promise to abandon any chase of Mademoiselle Violette and leave her to her fate.”

  Mortimer bristled. “But she—”

  Daniel held up his hand. “I buy the house, I pay off Sutton for you, and in return, you leave Mademoiselle Violette alone. The price of assuaging your pride is this house plus me settling your debt. Take it, or I can tell Sutton about this lovely abode you have. I’ll guess he’d take it in lieu. Of course, he wouldn’t give you the money to make up the price of it, and your family might have something to say about that. What a right mess. I’m your best bet.”

  The solicitor cleared his throat again. They did that, solicitors, gave a dry cough that preceded sage advice. They must learn it when they apprenticed—morning lessons featuring precise throat clearing.

  “Mr. Mackenzie’s offer is good, Mr. Mortimer,” the solicitor said. “One that will save you much trouble in the end.”

  Mortimer’s indecision was comical. He so much wanted to lay his hands on the Bastiens to satisfy the bully in him, but likewise he wanted the threat of Edward Sutton out of his life. Would he lord over the weak, or keep the strong from lording over him?

  Fear won. Mortimer gave Daniel a nod. “Very well. My solicitor will draw up the agreement. My father will comply. He’s been wanting to sell the house for ages.”

  “Excellent,” Daniel said. “Thank you, constable. You can go now. No longer needed, I think.”

  The constable touched his hat and backed away, happy to be out of it. Daniel pulled a card from his coat and gave it to the suited man. “Make an appointment with my solicitor, and we’ll sort this out. Meanwhile, I’m off to pay a call on Mr. Sutton.”

  “Hum,” Mortimer said, eyes glittering in dislike. “Don’t play fast and loose with me, Mackenzie.”

  “I said I’d pay your note, and I will,” Daniel said, taking up the hat he’d left on the hall table. “Sutton won’t be interested in you once he’s been paid, so he won’t send more men after you. The one he sent last night works for me now, anyway.”

  Daniel liked the worry in Mortimer’s eyes. Daniel was effectively taking Sutton’s place on the bully scale, and Mortimer, in his way of thinking, now had to placate Daniel.

  Whatever he liked. Daniel had no more interest in Mortimer. As long as the man stayed away from Violette, all was well.

  Daniel left the house and walked back to his hired carriage, whistling.

  Daniel’s errand to Edward Sutton in his Park Lane house didn’t take long. In sharp contrast to the overloaded parlor at Mortimer’s house, the study in which Sutton received Daniel was the epitome of plain elegance. In evidence were the clean lines of the new Arts and Crafts style—everything fashioned by artisans, nothing factory made. Priceless paintings from around the world hung on the walls.

  Sutton, a thin, spare man with graying hair and eyes that saw too much, was happy to receive five thousand for Mortimer’s debt and tear up the note.

  “Thank you,” Sutton said, his voice as dry as Mortimer’s solicitor’s. “I dislike Fenton Mortimer and was tired of dealing with him. Serves me right for giving him the money in the first place. And you say you’ve stolen the man I sent after him?”

  Daniel shrugged, pretending he didn’t notice the other bone-breakers Sutton had stationed around the room. “I need a man, and I like one who’s good with his fists. I lead an adventurous life.”

  “You will if you entice good servants out from under the noses of men like me.” Sutton’s cold eyes pinned Daniel. “But I’ll surrender him with good grace, since you’ve paid Mortimer’s debt. Some advice, Mr. Mackenzie. Don’t be so hasty to do good services for men like Mortimer. They’ll come back for more.”

  “Not in this case,” Daniel said. “And as I said, I had my reasons.”

  “To do with a woman, no doubt,” Sutton said, his voice even drier. “I see it in your eyes. An even more foolish motivation, Mr. Mackenzie. But you come from a family of fools. They were formidable until they went soft.”

  “But they’re happy, Mr. Sutton. My uncles are so much easier to live with now that they’re family men.”

  “If you say so. Go after your woman, Mr. Mackenzie. And if you ever need a favor—not about a woman—feel free to come to me. I prefer to deal with honorable men.”

  Daniel agreed to keep it in mind, but he made no promises. Sutton was the kind of man to twist a favor into lifelong servitude. Even Uncle Hart wasn’t as cold-blooded as Edward Sutton.

  Daniel entered his carriage again, but when the coachman asked where he wanted to go, Daniel had to debate. What now?

  If he wanted to find Violette, Daniel had resources at hand. Hart Mackenzie, the Duke of Kilmorgan, had a network to rival that of the best police force in Europe. But Hart, as head of the Mackenzie family, would demand to know why Daniel wanted to find the Bastiens, would want every detail, and wouldn’t help until he was satisfied with Daniel’s explanation. Or he’d refuse point-blank. Even if Hart did help, his assistance always came with a price. If Sutton was a cunning man, Hart Mackenzie was the very devil. Who knew what he’d ask from Daniel in return?

  Then there was Chief Inspector Fellows, another uncle, who was as tenacious in pursuit of his prey as any of the Mackenzies. Fellows could uncover Violette Bastien’s whereabouts faster than Hart if he wanted to.

  The trouble was, Fellows was a stickler for the law. The Bastiens were frauds, they’d absconded without paying rent after tearing up th
e house, not to mention Violette swatting Daniel over the head and leaving him in the street. Fellows would find Violette all right, then arrest her and her mother and turn them over to the magistrates.

  No, Fellows must be kept clear of Daniel’s problems. Daniel’s uncle Mac would ask as many questions as Hart, and Cameron, Daniel’s father, would as well. Cameron would be livid to learn anyone had hurt Daniel, and not be sympathetic to Mademoiselle Violette’s plight.

  The only member of the family who could be discretion itself was Ian—Ian never talked to anyone about anything if he could help it.

  The trick with Uncle Ian was persuading him to be interested. Once Ian found a puzzle intriguing, nothing and no one could stop him solving it. On the other hand, if Ian decided he had no interest in the problem, it would cease to exist for him, and no amount of persuasion would convince him otherwise.

  A risk, but one Daniel would take. He shouted to the coachman to drive him to Belgrave Square.

  Chapter 6

  The handsome house in which Daniel’s uncle Ian, aunt Beth, and their three young children lived belonged to Beth. She’d inherited it in a trust from a woman for whom she’d been a companion, and the trust did not obligate her to hand the deed over to her husband.

  Not that Ian cared one way or another—the man had little use for sumptuous houses or piles of money. Uncle Ian could fish for a week in the wilds of Scotland, sleeping on the ground rolled in his kilt. He’d be as content living in a hovel with his wife and wee ones as he was in this monstrosity of elegance.

  “Afternoon, Ames,” Daniel said to the stolid, middle-aged butler, who had replaced the butler Beth had inherited when she’d finally persuaded the elderly man to retire. “My uncle about?”

  “Yes, sir. In the lower study, sir. I believe he’s practicing . . . mathematics.”

  The butler intoned this as though relating that Ian was busy casting magic spells. But then, when Ian went at his maths problems, he might as well be doing magic for all anyone else understood. While Daniel used his love of mathematics to build things and tinker with the real world, Ian descended into a world of theory where only the sharpest minds could follow.