Dancing With Danger (Goode Girls #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,48
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