The Beautiful (ARC) Page 12
of magic and lords of mayhem. As Odette had suggested, this
place was unlike anything Celine had ever known.
Bastien followed her gaze. “Have you played roulette?”
Celine did not reply.
“You should try it,” he pressed.
“You’re encouraging me to gamble?”
“Does that riffle your delicate sensibilities?”
“Don’t be a cad.” Celine narrowed her eyes at him. “Perhaps
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I’m an excellent gambler,” she lied again, as she had to Boone.
“Perhaps you will rue the day you let me win.”
A spark of humor shone in his gaze. “A fair pun, though I’m
loath to admit it.”
“You dislike puns?”
“Almost as much as rhetorical questions.”
“There was a time when puns were the height of humor.” She
mirrored the angle of his head. “And are you not curious about
which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“Technically”—he sent her a wicked grin—“wasn’t it the
rooster?”
Celine’s brows shot upward, her mouth agape. The next in-
stant, bright laughter burst from her lips, the sound startling
those nearby for the second time that evening.
Bastien smiled wider, his teeth flashing white, distracting
her for an instant. They looked inordinately perfect, the points
of his canines almost wolfish. Something about it unsettled
her, as if Celine were gazing at a painting instead of a person.
Perhaps a piece by Rembrandt, a master who always managed
to catch details others missed, rendering his subjects in an
otherworldly light.
A timely reminder that young men like Bastien saw the world
through rose-colored glasses. Through a haze of wealth and en-
titlement.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” Celine blurted without thought.
“Nothing good will come of it.”
Surprise touched his features. “Then you intend to break my
heart?”
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“Most assuredly.”
“Duly noted.” Bastien appeared—by all rights—to be enjoying
himself. It unnerved Celine to realize that she, too, was enjoy-
ing his company. It had been weeks since she’d looked upon a
man without an air of suspicion clouding her every thought.
The next instant, Celine’s smile faded.
Pippa had reached the top of the stairs, Odette in tow. The
front of Pippa’s simple voile dress was wet, but the stain ap-
peared to be from water rather than wine. Celine moved away
from Bastien, clasping her hands behind her, turning her atten-
tion to the floor, as if she’d been caught committing an act of
subterfuge.
Bastien studied her with an odd look, his expression savoring
strangely of disappointment. It was only for an instant, but a
cold hand of guilt grasped Celine by the throat, making it dif-
ficult to swallow. As if her conscience believed she’d wronged
Bastien in some fashion. But how could that be possible? A boy
like this would not care what a girl he’d just met thought of him.
He’d said it himself:
He would be the last one to correct her assumptions.
Sure enough, Bastien stepped away. Stood straight, his brow
hooding his gaze, a shadow falling across his features once
more.
Another stab of guilt cut through Celine’s chest. She banished
it the following instant. If Bastien did not believe it necessary to explain himself, then why should she? Besides that, it wasn’t
proper for her to be seen enjoying his company, given his ear-
lier behavior.
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They were like two trains set on a collision course. Better for all those involved if they did not relish each other’s company.
At least that way they could avoid colliding at all.
Odette strode before them, her hands in the pockets of her
buckskin trousers, a lock of brunette hair escaping her coif.
“My, that was an odyssey. I never thought voile would be quite
so stubborn a fabric.” She arched her brows in question. “What
did we miss?”
Celine lifted a shoulder as if she were bored. “I was merely
conveying to Monsieur Saint Germain my displeasure at our
earlier encounter.” She squared her chin. “And especially with
the display of wanton violence.”
Bastien remained silent, his lips pressing forward. Celine felt
the weight of his gaze upon her, the steel turning colder with
each passing second.
“Violence?” Odette’s eyes shifted from Celine to Bastien and
back again. “Qu’est-ce que tu as fait?” she accused, her lovely
face crestfallen, her hands curling into fists at her sides, the skin there resembling polished Carrara. “At least do me the courtesy of not ruining my friendships before I’ve had the chance to
make them, s’il te plaît.” Huffing, Odette drew a lacquered fan
from inside her ballooned sleeve and flicked it open.
Bastien considered Celine for a tense spell. Then amuse-
ment tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Answering violence
with violence was a courtesy, ma souris. Perhaps in your quest for friendship, you could elect to choose fewer . . . unsavory
characters.”
Odette’s fan snapped shut. “You didn’t.”
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He crooked a dark eyebrow at her and said nothing.
“You démon,” Odette said. “I warned you not to get involved
in that matter with Lévêque. What did you do?” She glanced
about. “Never mind. Of course you won’t tell me. I’ll simply ask
Arjun instead.”
“Des questions, des questions.” Bastien held his hands out at
his sides. “Qui a le temps pour ces choses?” He sent her a devil-
ish grin.
“You should make the time.” Odette sniffed with disdain. “And
I wouldn’t be proud of that terrible joke, if I were you.”
“There are those who find me wildly clever.”
“Grâce à Dieu, I am not among them,” Odette retorted, “for
I have no need of your golden coffers . . . or your pretty face.”
Celine laughed softly. “And every man should be master of
his own time.”
Bastien turned to her, his features expressionless. He nodded
once. “Just as every woman should quote Shakespeare when
she has nothing better to say.”
Celine’s cheeks grew hot. Embarrassment coiled through her
as Pippa took hold of her left hand, bidding her to keep calm.
Gritting her teeth, Celine swiveled toward Odette. “Forgive
me, but time has gotten away from us. Is there a place we can
go to finish obtaining your measurements?” She paused, her
words pointed. “A place where we can avoid unwanted eyes?”
Odette’s petite nostrils flared at Bastien, her mouth caught be-
tween silence and speech for a breath. At any moment, Celine
were his elder sister or his aunt. But Odette simply nodded.
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“There’s a chamber in the back, past the washroom.”
With a withering glance in Bastien’s direction, Odette led the
way toward one of the two doors in the back, situated at op-
posite extremes along the wall. Between them rested an ornate
wooden credenza with a white cloth strewn across its middle.
Covering its surface were statues resembling Saint Peter and
the Virgin Mary, painted in vivid hues. A short blade lay across
the credenza’s center. Positioned in a semicircle around it were
carved figurines with skull faces and small dolls fashioned
of bone and straw. Scattered between were assortments of
wooden beads, dried fruits, and nuts, mingled with drops of
hardened wax.
The arrangement looked vaguely familiar to Celine. Linger-
ing traces of incense and scented candles curled into her nose,
painting flashes of memory across her vision. Recollections of a
low table decorated in a similar fashion, the fragrances of fruit and myrrh suffusing the air.
The display spiked her curiosity, but Celine did not stop to
study it further or ask any questions. She wished to be rid of
anything associated with this place as soon as possible, though
it troubled her to no longer feel welcome at Jacques’.
“Through here.” Odette reached for the handle of an entrance
intended to blend into the paneled walls, its hinges concealed
by the folds of a heavy silk curtain. When she pushed against it, the door refused to budge.
“C’est quoi ça?” Odette muttered, shoving harder, lines gath-
ering across her brow. She threw her weight against the heavy
oak. Finally it began to give way.
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A hand flopped through the opening.
A pale, unmoving hand.
It took a moment for the sight to register. A stutter of time
before everything sped forward in a rush.
“Mon Dieu!” Odette exclaimed. Using her shoulder, she
rammed through the opening with Celine on her heels. They
both stopped short, Pippa trembling behind them.
A girl lay sprawled across the floor of a darkened corridor,
her unbound auburn curls thrown over her freckled face. At her
throat was a jagged wound. Something had torn through her
flesh with razor-sharp teeth, like those of a large animal.
Her fingers shaking, Odette reached for the girl’s wrist, check-
ing for a pulse. When she jostled the young woman’s arm, a lock
of wavy red hair fell from her face.
Celine gasped. She knew that face. Had spent the better part
of the day in its company.
Anabel.
“Is she—?” Pippa’s voice broke. Then rose into a keening wail.
There was no need for anyone to answer her unspoken
question.
Beside Anabel’s lifeless body, a symbol had been drawn in
blood:
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An Aerialist on a Tightrope
i
Celine had seen death before.
She was no stranger to the sight. But that did not make
it any easier to bear witness to it now. Nor did it make its finality any less severe.
A life had been taken tonight.
Like that, Anabel was gone.
Many realizations gripped Celine in the moments following
the body’s discovery:
Anabel had died a violent death. That much was clear from
the jagged maw across her throat. Celine had never seen a
wound like that. For an instant, she toyed with the idea that
Bastien’s snake might be responsible.
Upon further consideration, however, it did not follow that a
snake like Toussaint would go to the trouble of killing its prey, only to leave it behind in a darkened corridor. If memory served
Celine correctly, pythons did not slash their victims’ throats;
instead they opted to squeeze the life out of them slowly.
And of course no snake would leave behind a calling card.
Written in blood, no less.
But if the snake wasn’t responsible for Anabel’s death, then
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who was? And why? Moreover, why had Anabel come to Jacques’ tonight? Clearly she’d followed Celine and Pippa here.
But why had she not made her presence known?
It took only an instant for Celine to parse out the truth.
The Mother Superior must have sent Anabel to spy on them.
It had to be the reason why the matron of the Ursuline convent
had changed her mind so easily earlier this evening, when she’d
suddenly granted Celine and Pippa permission to go, after pro-
testing against it at length.
Celine swallowed, her ears going hot. If the Mother Supe-
rior’s machinations explained why Anabel had come to Jacques’
tonight, it meant all of them—Pippa, the Mother Superior, and
Celine herself—had had a hand in Anabel’s violent death.
In Anabel’s murder.
Finally, if her death was at all related to the one along the
docks, then it meant a madman—or madwoman—was on the
loose.
Celine’s eyes shifted around the room slowly, her breaths
quickening. If someone had murdered Anabel in Jacques’ to-
night following their arrival, it meant anyone present now—
including all the members of La Cour des Lions—could be
responsible for killing her.
Odette. Nigel. Kassamir. Arjun. The man from the Far East
with the mother-of-pearl blade. The two ebony-skinned
women with their bejeweled claws. Boone. The harried young
server below. Not to mention the many nameless individuals
who’d been seated throughout the dimly lit chamber.
And of course Bastien.
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With each passing second, these thoughts raced through Celine’s mind, her skin tingling from the rush of blood, her
foot tapping against the plush carpeting. In contrast, Pippa
stared at the marble tabletop before them, her posture hol-
lowing like an apple left out in the sun.
It was nearing midnight. Celine and Pippa should have
returned to the convent hours ago. Instead they’d been seques-
tered in the shadowy chamber on the second floor, seated on an
ornate divan in the style of Louis XIV, surrounded by a gather-
ing of illusionists.
As well as five members of the Metropolitan Police.
Though it was the least of Celine’s concerns, the Mother
Superior would undoubtedly have their heads upon their re-
turn. But that could not be of issue now.
Far more pressing was the fact that Pippa and Celine were
likely being counted among the possible suspects in a murder.
If Celine found any humor in the irony, she would be on the
floor, laugh
ing maniacally.
But humor would not save her now.
Once the truth of Celine’s and Pippa’s association with
Anabel came to light, it would not be easy for them to explain
why they’d been unaware of Anabel’s presence until the moment
they’d discovered her body. Even to Celine, it sounded suspi-
cious. Not only had they been nearby at the time of the victim’s
death, but they’d also known the poor young woman person-
ally. Briefly Celine considered trying to summon the Mother
Superior to vouch for them. Alas, that old bat would be just as
likely to foist blame onto Celine as she would be to help her.
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It was too much of a risk.
Celine knew she should reveal these truths the instant after
she was introduced to the Metropolitan Police’s best detective.
But it might color his judgment against them, causing him to
forgo looking elsewhere for evidence. If she waited, however, he
would undoubtedly be suspicious.
Zut. Celine sighed to herself. When would be a good time to tell him?
Never was definitely not an option . . . was it?
Alas, Celine could not conceal these things from him forever.
Resentment swirled through her like a fog tinged in red light.
Pippa began crying quietly, her fingers winding around one of
the handkerchiefs Celine had fashioned to raise money for the
convent. One of the many embroidered fripperies Anabel had
sold Odette earlier that very day.
How had it come to this?
What kind of horrible misfortune had befallen Anabel?
And why the devil had she acquiesced to the Mother Supe-
rior’s wishes? Celine clenched her fists in her skirts, anger heating her blood.
Tonight, the cost of Anabel’s decision had been her life.
Celine shook her head quickly, fending off the rising guilt.
Wishing to banish the image of Anabel’s mauled body from her
mind. Her efforts proved futile. Even in the few seconds before
Pippa’s scream and Odette’s shout had torn through the night—
before Bastien and Arjun and Nigel had raced to their sides—
the image of Anabel’s death mask had seared itself forever onto
Celine’s eyelids.
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She glanced about, wondering how long the Metropolitan Police’s most celebrated detective would take to question them.