But the blow that had put this dent in Daniel’s skull hadn’t come from Simon. He remembered all that had happened now, as clearly as the afternoon light pouring through his window.
“Mr. Mackenzie, sir.” Simon leaned over the bed and released a sigh of relief, with a breath that made Daniel note he would buy the man a toothbrush and tooth powder. “I thought you were a goner for sure.”
“I’m a robust, obnoxiously healthy Scot,” Daniel said. He tried to sit up then decided the pillows were the best place for his head. “How did I get here? What happened?”
“A constable was called to a doctor’s house in Marylebone—he’d found you near to his doorstep. I was coming to find you after having a little rest at me old mum’s place, to take you up on your offer of a job. I asked around about where you lived—everyone knows, so it wasn’t hard to find. When I got here, a couple of constables were carrying you inside. I said I was your new man, and I’d take care of you. They didn’t know no more about what happened to you than where they found you.”
“So she dumped me in the street,” Daniel said, putting his hand to his temple. His skin stung there, and he made a soft noise of pain.
“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.