Dancing With Danger (Goode Girls #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,10

swishing with her efficient strides over the well-worn wood.

“Thank you, darling!” Mercy called after her, wrapping her fingers around the cold iron bars. The sooner she had her freedom the better.

She hadn’t taken a full breath in hours.

Felicity, eyes wide with rapt incredulity, laced her fingers over Mercy’s until they knotted around the bars together in a complicated grip. “Are you all right?”

Mercy nodded, though her beloved sister’s affection was nearly her undoing. “Are Mama and Papa furious?”

At that, Felicity brightened a bit. “Actually, I received a postcard today in lieu of their arrival. They’ve decided to extend their stay on the Riviera another month, perhaps two. Perhaps if we can whisk you out of here without a scandal, they’ll never have to know.”

“You couldn’t have brought me happier news!” Mercy blustered in relief. The Baron and Baroness Cresthaven, their parents, were two of the most pious, pinched-faced fuddy-duddies to ever hold a title. Any time they spent away from the house was like a ray of sunshine on a frigid, grey day in late winter.

Like this one, for example.

“Did you really strike an inspector?” Felicity whispered, glancing around to see if anyone stood nearby.

“Martin Trout.” Mercy spat the words as if they tasted of his namesake. “He told me Mathilde deserved what her husband did. I barely swatted him.” Mercy rolled her eyes as righteous indignation tightened her rib cage. “And he repaid me tenfold.”

Tilting her head to display her bruising cheek, she enjoyed Felicity’s clucking and tutting over the wound, now that she didn’t have any handsome, smirking men to keep her chin up for.

“I have a poultice of parsley, arnica, and comfrey that will rid you of the bruise in half the time it would take to heal on its own,” her twin promised. “Titus even had me make some for him to disseminate to his patients. Wasn’t that wonderful of him?”

Mercy’s forehead wrinkled at the breathlessness in her sister’s voice when Dr. Titus Conleith’s name was spoken. He’d been a coal boy in their household when they were small, then a stable hand, and a footman as he’d grown into a man.

Though he was a few years younger, he’d loved their eldest sister, Nora, with a singular passion since the day he’d met her.

And, Mercy suspected, Felicity had loved him with the strength of a little girl’s hero worship.

Titus was handsome in that rough-hewn, somber kind of way. Studious, deferential and ruthlessly clever. He was a man of unflinching principle and a fathomless well of patience. The very picture of a gentleman with the shoulders of a war hero and a reputation of the most respected surgeon in Blighty.

But to Felicity, he was the boy who’d squirreled away books for her to read and didn’t poke fun when she used to pronounce her R’s as W’s.

“I hardly want to believe Mathilde is dead.” Felicity’s features crumpled with sorrow.

Mercy answered with a nod, gripping her sister’s fingers tighter.

It was Felicity who’d met Mathilde first. She volunteered at the hospital sometimes, reading to the infirmed and holding new babies. Helping Titus mix tinctures or taking stock of the pharmacy.

She was as much a liability at the hospital as she was an assistance, since she fainted dead away at the sight of blood. No one had the heart to suggest she go elsewhere, for fear it would make her feel unwanted.

Felicity had spent the crux of her life being told that, as the fourth and last daughter in a string of disappointing female births, she’d been the reason her mother could have no more children.

And there would be no heir.

However, when Gregoire Archambeau had fractured Mathilde’s wrist, landing her in the hospital, it had been Felicity who had coaxed the woman into seeking help with the Lady’s Aid Society where Mercy volunteered her time.

The twins had decided then and there that they were genius to split their attentions thusly. To be able to provide women and their children comprehensive help both medical, emotional, financial, and even offer protection and relocation if necessary.

Felicity put a white-gloved hand to her heart as if the news of Mathilde’s death had pierced it. “Did she...did she do it herself? Or was it an accident brought on by too much drink and—and such?”

They both knew what and such stood for. The cocaine and opium Mathilde had become a slave to.

“She was murdered,” Mercy revealed with a grave frown.

Felicity gasped. “It couldn’t have been Gregoire; I watched him mount the gangplank to the ferry and