Dancing With Danger

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Raphael had to turn away. What a shit time to realize he was terrible at lying to his brother.

  He wasn’t going to stay.

  He was going where no one could follow. Going to find his father in hell and be part of the bevy of demons tormenting the bastard for eternity.

  “I saw you last night.” Gabriel’s low murmur whipped his head around.

  “Pardon?”

  “Sneaking into Cresthaven.” His brother picked a sliver of tobacco from his tongue.

  “Are you following me?”

  “No.”

  Raphael narrowed one eye at him. “Then what were you doing at Cresthaven?”

  It was Gabriel’s turn to look away. “I had business nearby.”

  “No, you bloody didn’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Gabriel made a dismissive gesture. “It said on the police records that Felicity Goode was in the police wagon with you, but that wasn’t her. It was her twin.”

  Raphael didn’t have to feign indignance this time. “How can you tell them apart? You’ve spent all of five seconds in their company.”

  “Felicity doesn’t speak like Mercy.” Gabriel’s voice changed in a way that sparked a dark and painful knowledge in Raphael’s gut. There was a reverence there. Something that echoed in his own hollowed-out soul. “She doesn’t move so sharply through the world. So decisively. Her steps are...careful. Her words are soft.”

  Raphael narrowed his eyes at his brother. It couldn’t be... “You were at Cresthaven last night watching Felicity Goode? For shame, you voyeur!” He nudged at him with an elbow.

  “I am ashamed.” Gabriel refused to be mollified. “I can’t help but wonder if I feature in any of her nightmares.”

  “I’m certain she’s forgotten you even exist,” Raphael said over a derisive noise.

  That didn’t seem to make it better.

  “This isn’t...guilt, is it, brother?” he accused. “You like her. You want her.”

  Gabriel had looked at women before, but he’d never watched them. Not like this. He seemed to have come to terms early in life with the fact that his face condemned him to the life of a monk.

  “Two brothers tempted by two sisters.” Gabriel made a grunt that might have been humor or grief. “It’s all rather Shakespearean, isn’t it? One of the tragedies, in our case.”

  “I’d never love Mercy Goode,” Raphael claimed, wondering why he still felt as though he were lying to his brother. “It wouldn’t be safe for her. But...I didn’t want to leave without...” He couldn’t seem to finish his sentence.

  “You’re not being cruel to her, are you? Didn’t leave her with promises that will break her heart?”

  That Gabriel even cared surprised him more than he could express.

  Ultimately, he shook his head. “No. She is in no need of entanglements. That woman has made it abundantly clear, a man would only get in her way.”

  Gabriel nodded, taking a deep breath of the crisp air, turning his face to the sky to let the rain plink against his mask.

  “Don’t worry about Mercy and Felicity Goode,” Raphael advised, though whether to Gabriel or himself, he couldn’t quite figure. “They have a fierce bond, unshakable trust, and a future together.”

  “As do we, brother. As do we.” Gabriel turned to him and clasped his shoulder in a rare show of fraternal affection. “Enjoy your last few weeks as the handsome one, Rafe. Or should I say, Remy? I’ll see you in Antigua.”

  Raphael could only bring himself to nod.

  Turning, Gabriel conquered the steps to the grand building with an almost jubilant jog, taking two at a time.

  The next words were lost to the soft sound of the rain as it pattered against the cobbles of the streets that would become his grave.

  “Goodbye, mon frere. Vive la vie.”

  Live life.

  Chapter 13

  Mercy resolutely did not think of Raphael all the next day.

  She awoke to find he’d vanished like the night mist off the Thames when the sun burned it away. If not for the whisper of heat and the musk of his aftershave haunting his side of the bed, one might have thought last night nothing but a fever dream.

  She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow he’d so unceremoniously abandoned. Intimate muscles ached and protested in a way that was both wicked and dispiriting.

  He was gone.

  Of course, he would be. She’d expected it. Accepted it. And refused to feel any sort of ridiculous melancholy about it.

  Except...had he even kissed her goodbye? Did she sleep through it?

  Or had he simply slithered away like a wary thief in the shadows, grateful to be spared any inconvenient or emotional farewells?

  Not that he’d have had to suffer such nonsense.

  They’d both understood that they were lovers for one night only.

  And, Holy Moses, did they ever make the most of their evening.

  She’d had him three times in three different ways, though he’d sent her rocketing into the stars a total of five.

  Dear God, but was he insatiable. She’d had to beg for respite, and only then did he wrap his large, warm body around her and lull her to sleep with his even breaths stirring her hair.

  She refused to be sentimental about it, dammit. She wasn’t one of those ridiculous women who took to their beds when neglected by a man.

  It was only that...she’d felt like a treasure lying wrapped in his embrace. Something coveted and rare.

  It’d been rather lovely.

  Different.

  It wasn’t that she needed to feel that way, of course. She’d come to terms with the fact that she was a thorn in the collective side of the world at large.

  Forever too much or not enough.

  It was just that, the sensation of fitting so perfectly against his hips, her head resting in the deep groove of his chest. The way the tempo of their hearts seemed to harmonize with the effortless synchronization of their breath.

  For the moment in between waking and the oblivion of sleep, she’d felt like a part of him.

  Rather than apart from the world.

  Perhaps because she was untried in the ways of intimacy. Affection wasn’t something their family encouraged. Or even condoned.

  That had to be it.

  Raphael’s disappearance wasn’t the architect of this strange sense of attachment and loss. This empty sort of yearning that hollowed out the space behind her breast.

  It was simply that she was untried and unaccustomed to such an arrangement, and needed to amend her reaction to it, lest she become some simpering ninny and do something atrocious.

  Like cry over Raphael Sauvageau.

  How many tears had fallen for the rake? Likely enough to fill the Atlantic.

  Hers would not be added to the tide.

  She had work to do. A murderer to find. And no mere man would get in the way of her mission. All she had to do was be unwavering in her relinquishment of him. Not allow him to permeate her other incredibly weighty thoughts and important tasks.

  He would, no doubt, attend the masquerade that evening, but it was best she avoid him as he’d made it clear in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want her there.

  Well...she wasn’t one to be ordered about.

  She would take a weapon. Would stay in safe and crowded areas with plenty of witnesses.

  And she’d solve the murder before him, by Jove.

  See if she didn’t.

  That decided, she did a marvelous job of not thinking about him all day.

  She didn’t think of him as she lingered over breakfast and read the newspapers in bed. Because such an activity would surely not be enjoyable with a companion. It wouldn’t do to imagine all sorts of amusing opinions he might have about things. Or wonder if he’d maybe share a nibble of her toast. A man his size probably had quite the appetite of a morning...

  Did he prefer tea or coffee?

  It didn’t matter,
she forcefully reminded herself. It didn’t bear consideration.

  She did not think of him when she soaked in the bath and scrubbed the memory of his clever—no, masterful—fingers and mouth from her skin.

  He’d been inside of her. Joined with her.

  What a novel thing that a human could connect with another in such a way...that they were made to do just this. To delight in it.

  Did everyone fit together so perfectly? Was their pleasure so overcoming and instinctual?

  She wanted to find out, but something told her that to do so with another man would find her disappointed.

  Better not to wonder. Not to dwell.

  Did he feel altered somehow by their night together? Like it merited some sort of distinction. Like a change in the very map of the stars?

  Why would he? Why would anyone?

  She did not think of him when she viciously chopped the heads off their hothouse flowers for her maid to arrange in her hair.

  Nor when she selected a dagger to strap to her leg.

  She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t hurt.

  She didn’t miss him.

  She didn’t even know him.

  Unlike Detective Eddard Sharpe, Mercy had not mastered the art of infiltration and disguise.

  Not yet, in any case.

  So, she was incandescently glad when Felicity insisted upon accompanying her to the Midwinter Masquerade. Social functions were not her sister’s forte, as such, but Felicity’s attachment and sense of obligation to Mathilde’s memory was no less intense than her own.

  They dressed in identical sapphire gowns and donned masks the color of the moon on an overcast evening, intricately decorated with gems and filigree.

  Once again forgoing her spectacles proved to make the night interesting for Felicity.

  Mercy might have told her sister about her night with Raphael, if she’d been allowing herself to think of it.

  But she wasn’t.

  * * *

  Mercy remembered her father once reading from the Bible about a den of iniquity. The phrase haunted her now as she watched the spectacle that was the Midwinter Masquerade. It made the sedate balls she attended appear like absolute child’s play.

  Killgore Keep was a grand old Plantagenet fortress that’d been renovated over the years by obscenely wealthy owners. It hunkered next to a quaint canal complete with a Tudor-era mill and extensive grounds. Amelia Trent, the widow of Captain Rupert Trent, a long-dead hero of the now defunct East India Company, was the first woman to own the keep. She spent her late husband’s ill-begotten fortune as a patroness for artists of all kinds, and a rumored haven for the darker, more deviant side of the bohemian set. Mrs. Trent was famous for her bacchanalian fêtes, and her February spectacle was said to be a bombastic balm for the late-winter gloom.

  Mathilde had procured Mercy an invitation, as they were to abscond that very evening.

  Mercy made certain to impress herself upon the footman as she arrived so that when Felicity followed a quarter hour after, he’d assume he was merely allowing her reentry.

  The ruse worked splendidly, and after she and her sister met for a moment in an alcove to work their stratagem, they broke apart, doing their best not to be seen together.

  In such a massive manse, stuffed to the brim with the celebrities of the demimonde, it wasn’t difficult to remain obscure.

  Not only did they need to find the Duchesse de la Cour, they also endeavored to ascertain if there was a chance Gregoire had found out about Mathilde’s lover. The Archambeaus’ innermost circle of friends might have known about Mathilde’s infidelity, and Mercy had a list of names to approach. Even though Gregoire himself had left the country, there was a possibility he’d found the money to pay for his wife’s demise.

  After an hour or so of idle but probing conversation—and not so idle eavesdropping—Mercy found herself both perplexed and concerned. There were not merely artists, actresses, naughty nobles in attendance, but a rather disproportionate congregation of rough-looking and incongruously well-dressed men.

  Some were part of the joviality, drinking and dancing beneath the massive crystal chandeliers, or playing chance in one of the many illegal game rooms. Others tucked themselves in corners or alcoves, locked in conversations.

  Or illicit embraces.

  People sniffed powders from snuff boxes and smoked pungent substances from hookahs, pipes, and elegant cigarette holders.

  Mercy was aware of an expectancy hovering over the gathering.

  As if something violent waltzed in their midst, waiting for the right moment to unleash unholy chaos. She thought it must be why people celebrated and laughed uncommonly loud, in an attempt to drown out the low din of their disquiet.

  Did they not see certain men placed strategically around the manse? Adjacent to the revelry but taking no part of it.

  Like sentinels.

  Waiting.

  Were these men all Fauves, perhaps? If so...how did they gain entry?

  And where was their leader?

  Mercy lurked just out of sight of the ballroom where she peeked in to find that Felicity had been escorted to the dance floor and might have been floating on a cloud in the arms of an elegant man with a roguish mask.

  Her sister was not the easiest of conversationalists, but she’d always been an extraordinary dancer. Fluid and graceful and astonishingly comfortable.

  It was the only time she forgot to be afraid, Mercy supposed. The music would sweep her away, and she knew the steps so well, her perfection was artless. She didn’t have to look at her partner, nor did she have to talk to them if she didn’t want to.

  She positively glowed, and Mercy wasn’t the only person to appreciate that.

  Her sister really failed to notice how often men stared at her.

  Or maybe she did realize, and that’s what made her so afraid all the time.

  Too often, the notice of a man was a dangerous thing.

  One figure in particular stood half in the shadow of the grand staircase, his features shrouded by a lupine mask. Something in the way he stood, so absolutely still surrounded by chaos.

  Like a mountain besieged by storms.

  “Your sister is a beautiful dancer.”

  Goosebumps erupted all over Mercy’s body at the seductive murmur, tinged with a French accent, that slid like a blade into her ear.

  Partly because she’d been so intent on the shade of the wolf, it distressed her that someone could have crept so close. And partly, because she’d not heard that sort of sensual appreciation in the voice of a woman.

  Whirling, she found herself staring into the gentle leonine eyes of a statuesque lady with a wealth of russet hair. She’d the regal bearing of a queen, though the elegant hands in her crimson gloves trembled slightly.

  “I did not think you would come. Not after Mathilde—” She broke off, swallowing twice before continuing. “I suppose I must introduce myself. My name is Amelie Beauchamp, Duchesse de la Cour. Which one of the Misses Goode are you? The kind-hearted Felicity, or the delightful Mercy?”

  “I can’t speak to delightful, but I am Mercy Goode.” Bewildered, she took the woman’s extended hand and gave the ghost of a curtsy. For a villainess, the Duchesse certainly did have a dulcet voice. One only made for gentle solariums and sedate rose gardens, not such turmoil as this.

  “I have heard you are asking after Mathilde tonight.” The Duchesse watched her carefully from behind a mask the color of burgundy wine and gold. “Am I to presume that you are searching for the architect of her demise?”

  “Her murderer, yes.” Even though the woman apparently kept a tight rein on her composure, she thought she saw a reaction to the word.

  Not a flinch, per se. But something close to it.

  As the waltz ended, the two women took a moment to study each other while the shift in dance partners caused a din above which it was difficult to converse.

  The Duchesse de la Cour was an incredibly elegant figure. Though uncommonly tall,
her undeniable presence had less to do with her stature than the fine set of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, the sense of both wisdom and fragility emanating from her.

  Could this woman bedecked in rubies and silk and swathed in an atmosphere of gracious courtesy be capable of murder?

  Mercy didn’t have to look to see that her sister had appeared at her elbow. She could always tell when Felicity was near with a satisfying sort of click, like that when a puzzle piece found its place.

  One could only call the Duchesse’s smile fond as she welcomed Felicity into their midst. “In her letters to me, Mathilde did not exaggerate your uncommon resemblance. I feel as if I know you two merely from your antics.”

  “Letters?” Taken aback, Mercy said the word with more emphasis than it called for. “I was under the impression Mathilde came here to escape you. Or at least the scandal you caused.”

  The Duchesse gave their surroundings a furtive glance. She gestured to a cozy cluster of furniture arranged in a shadowed corner by a billiard table that had evidently been abandoned in the middle of a game.

  They drifted to it, the Duchesse sweeping a glass of champagne from a passing footman on her way.

  Mercy sat with her back to the corner, noting the Duchesse did the same.

  She wasn’t certain who the other woman was keeping an eye out for, but in Mercy’s case, it was certainly not Raphael.

  Not in the least.

  “Tell me, Your Grace, have you come to collect whatever it was Mathilde allegedly stole from you?” she asked, spearing the woman with a look she imagined an inquisitor might employ.

  “Mercy,” Felicity admonished in a whisper as she settled herself across from them on a high-backed chair. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be antagonistic just now.”

  “It’s all right.” The Duchesse tipped her glass of wine back and drained half of it in two bracing swallows. After taking a moment to compose herself, she said, “There was a scandal with Mathilde and me...and it had to do with treasure, but not jewels or trinkets. Something infinitely more priceless.” She cast Mercy a meaningful look. “Is it not said that the heart is worth more than any fortune?”