Dancing With Danger (Goode Girls #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,21

I’ve forgotten that you mentioned you might have an idea of who it could be.”

His eyes shifted, as if sifting through the truths to give her.

“There’s no need for you to find a lie,” she prompted. “You can tell me what you know. You can trust me.”

His assessment of her was slow, but not languorous nor seductive as it had once been. This time, it was full of questions she couldn’t define, and a cynical sort of sadness that slid through her ribs to tug at her heart.

“A man achieves what I have by trusting only that other people will betray him. In my world, naïveté is the chief cause of untimely death.”

“How awful that must be.” She grimaced with distaste. “Why anyone would join a world like that is beyond me.”

“Some of us have no choice,” he murmured, his eyes fixing to a far-off point. “Indeed, it is the belief of the Fauves that the entire world is just such a savage place. We merely chose to accept the fact, and then grant ourselves the greatest chance of survival in this jungle man has crafted for us.”

Mercy considered this. Considered him. For the first time, she imagined that she peeled back the years from his sardonic beauty. Erased the cynical set to his mouth and the ever-present tension in his shoulders. She relieved him of the mantle of menace and the threat of violence, to uncover who he might have been once upon a time.

A boy. Carefree and mischievous. Precocious and witty with that disarming dimple in his left cheek.

What sort of variables formulated by the Fates created this man who stood before her?

What choices had he made?

What choices were made for him?

“How do you know, then, if anyone is ever giving you correct information?” she wondered aloud.

He pondered this. “Oftentimes, if they owe me, or if our interests align, that can make an ally for a time.”

“Well, there we are then!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together once. “I suppose I owe you for the gold you gave Nora and Titus, so—”

He shook his head in denial, and the sun shone blue off his ebony hair. “That was a payment for services about to be rendered. And I forfeited that to your sister and her husband, not to you.”

“What about a transaction, then,” she offered. “Surely that’s a language you understand.”

At that, his eyes flared with interest. “I’m listening.”

“You tell me what I want to know, and then I’ll tell you what information I have. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”

His expression flattened. “Not the transaction I was hoping for, but... I suppose it’ll do.”

“Excellent.” She offered her hand for a shake to seal their deal.

He took it, looking a bit bemused.

Even through her glove, she was suffused with the potency of his touch. Something as innocuous as a handshake with this man felt wicked.

Not wrong, per se.

Illicit.

She was aware of every tactile sensation. Of the rasp the very whorls his finger pads made on the silk. Of the restrained strength in his grip. The way he lingered over the gesture, as reticent as she to let go.

Clearing her throat, Mercy plucked her hand away and reached into her reticule, pulling out a notepad. “You first. Who do you suspect wanted Mathilde dead?”

Raphael’s voice altered as he spoke, too heavy and low to be easily heard over the squeals of happy children, the sounds of unhappy animals, and the chatter of the London elite. “Mathilde was a woman of glorious highs and devastating lows. She often indulged in...substances to help her manage these riotous moods of hers. I knew this could be destructive, but I could not bring myself to admonish her for seeking to control her suffering.”

“Did you provide her with these substances?” Mercy asked, careful to keep the judgment from her voice.

“Sometimes.” He looked out over the heads of the crowd, as if searching the past. “She had spells when she seemed as though her energy would never cease. She did reckless, devastating things. Initiated brawls in public. Seduced other women’s husbands. She even stole from me once to sell to her friends in the demimonde. I’ll admit I have killed for that, but I would never hurt a woman, least of all, her.”

He couldn’t even trust his own lover. The thought made Mercy desperately melancholy, even as he continued.

“After these spells, she’d sleep for an entire week, as if her very soul was weary.” He blew out a sigh, as if fighting a bit of