Dancing With Danger Page 4

  Just as he had.

  Her sister blanched as pale as startled milk.

  Felicity was, no doubt, remembering the night at the docks when she’d stumbled into Gabriel Sauvageau’s arms. The man had been wearing a wicked mask and brandished a long, sinister blade.

  He’d not cut her. In fact, he’d not hurt her in the least.

  But they couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t have, had the night gone differently.

  “What’s this about Raphael Sauvageau?” Pru asked, approaching with a knobby, bent officer whose age dictated that the largest responsibility he could handle was the keys.

  “Found with the dead body, he was,” the sergeant rasped, shaking his finger at the door as if the man in question stood there. “You’re lucky he didn’t slit your throat before he escaped the prison cart. Or worse.” He eyed Mercy with a grandfatherly warning.

  “He was arrested with you?” Pru gasped.

  “And he escaped?” Felicity cried at the same time.

  “In the wind, that one. Unlikely we’ll ever catch him again.” Sgt. Treadwell attempted to thread the key into the lock three times before the tremors in his liver-spotted hand would allow it.

  Mercy waited until they’d thanked the officer, who released her with a stern word and told her that Trout had dropped all charges when he learned who her family was.

  No doubt, the inspector didn’t want to be the man who’d struck Chief Inspector Carlton Morley’s sister-in-law.

  The she struck me first argument didn’t hold much water.

  Once they’d bundled into the coach, Mercy regaled them with the horrors of the afternoon as quickly as she could, knowing that once she got home, she’d have to spend at least an hour in the bath to scrub the day away.

  She told them about everything.

  Everything...but the kiss.

  Their eyes were both big and round as the full moon when she finished her tale, and no one spoke for a full half minute.

  It was Felicity who broke the silence. “Do you think the Fauves supplied Mathilde with all the...medicines she took?”

  “Who else?” Mercy surmised. “They’re brigands and we know they’ve smuggled cocaine before. Let us not forget the inconsiderate bastards didn’t spring me from the prison cart. They left me there!”

  “Yes, their most heinous crime, indeed.” Pru chuffed out a little laugh as she studied Mercy with a quick, level look. “Did he truly break Trout’s nose?”

  “Possibly his jaw...and a few fingers.” Mercy wondered how a man’s features could be both savage and eerily blank all at once as he methodically put Trout in his place. “Sauvageau threatened to break every bone below the man’s elbow.”

  “Did he?” Pru’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “It sounds to me like he fancies you.”

  “I agree.” Felicity nodded.

  “Fancies me?” Mercy huffed, sliding her palms against one another, wishing they’d not taken her gloves on such a cold day. “Over the corpse of his freshly murdered lover? I don’t care if he is the handsomest rake in the empire, I’d not consider such a thing in this lifetime.”

  Felicity chewed on the inside of her cheek, her eyes looking at some distant spot outside the window. “So, his brother leapt onto the carriage, picked the padlock, and sprang him without the drivers knowing? That sounds rather...Well, it’s a bit extraordinary, isn’t it? Like something out of an adventure novel.”

  “Extraordinarily infuriating is what it was.” Mercy swatted Felicity’s knee. “Or did you forget the part where they left me there? It’s not funny!”

  “I’m not laughing,” Pru said from behind her hand as her shoulders shook with mirth.

  “It was rather inconsiderate of them,” Felicity rushed to concede. “No doubt they left you because they knew you’d be safe in police custody, whereas they were likely off to do something diabolical and undoubtedly dangerous.”

  Mercy didn’t tell them that he’d said as much.

  “I imagine they didn’t want you following them.” Felicity brushed aside the curtain of the coach to check on their progress through the city.

  “I wouldn’t have had to follow them,” Mercy said mulishly. “I know exactly where they will be.”

  “Where’s that?” Felicity asked.

  “The loo at the zoo.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I heard them talking, and while my French isn’t perfect—”

  “Your French is atrocious,” Prudence teased.

  Mercy ignored her. “They said they were going to meet someone named Marco in front of the loo at the London Zoo.”

  “They’re not going to meet at the toilet.” Felicity remained distracted until she realized she’d said something out loud and then snapped her lips shut.

  Mercy lunged, seizing her shoulders and shaking them. “What? Felicity, what do you know?”

  Her sister gulped. “What will you do if I tell you?”

  “What Detective Sharpe would do. Obviously.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

  Prudence cut in, resting a motherly hand on Mercy’s arm. “This isn’t a storybook caper, Mercy, these men are lethal. You should tell Morley where they’ll be. He’ll find out about them for you.”

  “I will,” Mercy vowed. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you where they’ll be.”

  Felicity gulped, squinting at her for a different reason than her blindness. This time, it was true suspicion. “In French, the word spelled l-o-u-p is pronounced loo.”

  “And?” Mercy pressed.

  “It means wolf.”

  Mercy’s heart sped. “There you have it. They’ll be at the wolf exhibit at the zoo at three o’clock.”

  Prudence reached into her vest and pulled out a dainty watch. “It’s half five. We’ve missed them.”

  For once in her life, Mercy kept her mouth shut.

  She’d also kept her promise. She’d told them where Raphael Sauvageau could be found.

  Just not exactly when.

  Chapter 4

  A week later

  It turned out to be a beautiful day to plan a war.

  Raphael Sauvageau loitered by the den of wolves at the London Zoo, idly watching across the way as two delighted children were given rides on the back of a sardonic-looking camel.

  The morning had been blustery and grey. Stinging rain blown sideways by errant gusts pelted citizens who were brave or foolish enough to venture out. After luncheon, the rain disappeared as if someone had turned off a spigot in the sky, and celestial pillars of light pierced the late February clouds with the shafts of spring.

  By three o’clock, the brick and cobbles of London glittered with gemlike droplets of golden light, and the city came to life, people bustling back into the streets.

  The animals kept by the Zoological Society of London were likewise pleased with the changing weather. Zebras frolicked in their pastures and a giraffe licked a treat from out of the hands of a passing boy, who promptly burst into tears.

  Adjacent to the zoo, the London elite flooded Regent’s Park, eager to bask in the rare warmth and to hunt for any hint of emerging buds on the winter-bare flora.

  Raphael watched the skeletons of the trees with grim detachment.

  Knowing he would not live long enough to see them blossom.

  What would she look like in the spring, surrounded by blooms shamelessly baring their colors for her? The most vibrant lily couldn’t compete with the shade of her lips once they’d been plumped and pinkened by his kiss. The bluebell would wither in contrast to the hue of her eyes.

  She was unlike anything or anyone he’d ever before encountered.

  Mercy.

  Even her name was a phenomenon he’d never known.

  A concept he didn’t understand.

  It surprised him how powerfully he longed to explore her. Desired her to show him Mercy. In any form.

  Her delectable form.

  Indulging in a faint sigh, Raphael turned to
see Marco Villeneuve saunter toward him, adjusting the diamond-encrusted cufflinks on his shirtsleeves.

  A tittering group of schoolgirls in beribboned hats passed by, accompanied by their chaperone, a middle-aged woman with a sour face and cheeks drawn down by years of disappointment.

  The handsome Spaniard touched the rim of his hat, and the ladies giggled.

  When Raphael did the same, they sighed.

  When he winked, two of them stumbled.

  “You are shameless, hermano,” Marco drawled, drawing closer and clasping his hand in fond greeting. Were they in their own countries, they’d greet with a kiss on each cheek.

  Raphael scoffed. “Shame is a futile emotion crafted to plague those fragile enough to care what others think of them.”

  “Indeed.” Marco leaned his shoulder against the wrought iron gate of the wolf enclosure and flashed his cocksure grin. Though his suit was of the finest craftsmanship, his chocolate-colored hair hung longer than was proper beneath his hat. It lent his tall, rangy form an untamed element that added to the dangerous allure he weaponized against women.

  Intelligent females saw through him before he was able to break their hearts.

  The others, well...they went away more cynical and suspicious of handsome rogues.

  Marco slid his whiskey-colored gaze to the wolf enclosure and studied the five creatures as they paced and panted, eyeing the men as if to invite them in rather than warn them away.

  They were of a kind, these beasts.

  Raphael hated to see them caged.

  One wolf, a dark, scruffy fellow with a blaze of white on his wide chest, climbed the hill that had been artfully arranged with boulders and soil to appear as if made by the chaos of nature. As the beast approached a lounging grey wolf, he flattened his ears and made a feral sound, yellow eyes snapping with ferocity.

  The grey wolf bolted upright, relinquished his position, and slunk away, head and tail low as he found a new spot to rest.

  The alpha sat above all.

  “Well, Jefe, everything has been arranged as you instructed.” Marco extracted a box of matches and lit a cigarette with a long draw before releasing the smoke on a heavy exhale. “Lord Longueville will be attending the Midwinter Masque, and will be likely to bring his generals from the High Street Butchers. You, Gabriel, and I will be present, of course, though I wonder if we should invite a third party to witness our conversation with Longueville. Word will spread that the battle for control of supplying vice to the ton is about to commence.”

  “I do not disagree.” Raphael was careful not to let his complicated emotions show on his countenance. He was stirring trouble.

  The lethal kind.

  “I thought this was loco—I still do—but it might actually be crazy enough to work.” Marco puffed out a breath filled with smoke and wonder before he glanced up. Whatever he read in Raphael’s expression caused him to amend. “I should know better than to doubt you, Jefe.”

  Raphael waved his hand, absolving him of all that. “We Fauves do not follow without question. We are predators, not sheep, and we must be cunning. Question everything.”

  “As you say.” Marco’s head dipped in deference.

  The hierarchy of the Fauves was not unlike those of the wolves. Intricate, subtle, and yet, brutally uncomplicated. There were no figureheads. No pomp or ceremony. There was the uncontestable leader of the pack. The alpha and his subordinates.

  He was the one who led the hunters to their prey. And he was the one who took first blood. He claimed the greatest bounty before the rest of the pack fell upon it like scavengers.

  But as the leader, it was incumbent upon him to provide, to remain uncontested. Or, if he was challenged, he must meet it with all the dominant ferocity of any king of beasts.

  He had to win. Every time. To prove he was fit to lead.

  That he was a man to be followed.

  The mantle threatened to smother him sometimes.

  But what else could he do? What else did he know?

  Nothing.

  This was all he was. All he had. A legacy of vice and villainy and a lifetime of lies. He was a man whose past was nothing but shifting shadows and secrets, and his future was—

  An endless wasteland coated with the same.

  Battles and blood, until one day a lesser beast would challenge him...and tear his throat out.

  He’d have to.

  Raphael was not the sort of man to submit to the sovereignty of another.

  “Are you second-guessing the plan?” Marco queried, peering up from beneath the lowered brim of the hat. “If this goes awry, there will be blood.”

  “There’s always blood,” he quipped. “This will be no different.”

  Blood. Both red and blue.

  He was playing a dangerous game, pitting his enemies and allies against each other.

  A game where there would be victors, but no one truly won.

  “No second thoughts,” he clarified. “All has been prepared except—”

  A flash of light struck him blind for a moment and he winced, blinking rapidly. When he opened his eyes again, it was gone, leaving a disorienting shadow in his vision as if he’d glanced directly at the sun.

  Once his vision cleared, he found the culprit immediately upon searching over Marco’s shoulder.

  The sun had reflected off binoculars peeking over a shoulder-high hedge.

  No, not binoculars. A shiny gold pair of opera glasses.

  Gold, like the lovely ringlets surrounding said item. A charming coiffure held in place by butterfly combs and garnished with baby’s breath.

  Detective Eddard Sharpe would be proud of this intrepid investigator. He was often quoted in his books as saying that when a necessary implement was not readily at hand, a true investigator improvised.

  Opera glasses of all things. Raphael couldn’t fight the tremor of a smile softening the corners of his lips.

  Christ, but Mercy Goode could not be more endearing.

  She’d, no doubt, donned her taupe, high-necked coat in the hopes of blending with the crowd. However, the light color actually caused her to stand out amongst people swathed in grey or black wool jackets against what had once been intemperate weather.

  Who wore beige to the zoo on a wet day?

  Of course, she’d understood the conversation he and Gabriel had in her presence. Gentle ladies were taught French, weren’t they?

  Marco, realizing that Raphael’s notice had been directed elsewhere, glanced behind him to find the culprit. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Raphael said, shifting his gaze to the side. “I saw someone I recognized.”

  “Not the police, I hope. They are searching for you in every nook and shadow of the city.”

  “Which is why I’m hiding in the sunlight.”

  Marco chuckled and tapped his temple. “Always a step ahead, Jefe. That’s why you’re in charge.”

  Raphael put a hand on Marco’s solid shoulder, only half meaning the fond gesture as he drew the gangster toward the lion’s den—in the opposite direction of the curious girl. “I’m avoiding a woman,” he explained as he ducked them behind a shed and then quickly changed their direction.

  “Say no more.” Marco winked conspiratorially and kept up with nimble strides.

  Raphael got to business as he led Marco toward a back gate. “I had you meet me here because Dorian Blackwell is said to be fond of taking his children to Regent’s Park in the late afternoon. Sometimes they come to the zoo, sometimes not, but I need you to find him and invite him and his most trusted men to the masquerade.”

  Marco’s eyes widened. “Dorian Blackwell? The Blackheart of Ben More? He and his men ruled this city not so long ago, but everyone says he’s reformed since he married a Countess. Retired, even.”

  Raphael inclined his head. “I think he would be interested in a market share of this product. He still holds enviable economic influence, from the dregs of the underworld all the way to Parliament.”


  Marco’s eyes flashed with greed. It was something Raphael knew he could always rely upon...a man’s own self-interest.

  “Consider it done.” Marco crushed his cigarette beneath his bootheel and strode toward the zoo’s gate, one hand on the lapel of his dandy plaid suit. He held said gate open to a fine elderly couple who thanked him with wide smiles.

  They’d miss their valuables later.

  Raphael doubled back toward the wolf exhibit.

  Flattening his back against the reptile enclosure, he peered around the corner to find exactly what he thought he would.

  Mercy Goode standing before the wolves, forehead wrinkled and plump lips tightened into a recalcitrant frown.

  He’d lost her and she resented him for it.

  Poor thing. He wanted to tell her it didn’t detract from her considerable detective skills. He was a professional criminal, and she little more than an inquisitive girl.

  She had no chance of capturing him.

  It surprised him to find that his hand had found its way inside his suit coat, to rest over his chest.

  She made the muscles around his lungs squeeze at the same time his heart seemed to double in size and radiate a confounding warmth.

  Kissing her in the carriage had been a mistake.

  And yet, when he searched what passed for his conscience, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

  Since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d been transfixed.

  Beguiled.

  No one that bold and brash should have such innocent eyes.

  She was a force of nature, like a firestorm or an earthquake. Something that left the terrain forever altered in her wake.

  She was unforgettable. Indescribable. Delectable.

  How could he go to war without tasting that for himself?

  Especially when she’d looked at him in that way. With the heavy-lidded gaze of a woman who wanted to be kissed but was too proud to ask and too untried to take what she wanted.

  Raphael bit into his fist. He couldn’t tell which was a more exquisite hell. Wanting to taste her? Or having sampled her flavor, knowing that a more sublime pleasure awaited the man who unlocked the passion roiling beneath the barely contained surface of her propriety.