The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

  Luca. “Sit, sit, before the food runs away from you.” She snorted.

  “Can you believe my grandson didn’t want me to come here

  today?” Nonna said as they all gathered around Michael’s desk

  for a makeshift meal of ribollita. “He protested most ardently.

  So of course I made Luca bring me.” She tucked away a silver

  curl. “Though the circumstances are less than ideal, I was eager

  to meet you, dear Celine.” Her eyes sparkled. “Michael speaks

  well of you.”

  “All the time,” Luca added in a teasing tone.

  Michael’s gaze pierced into his cousin’s skull with the preci-

  sion of a lance. “Christ Almighty, let this end soon,” he grum-

  bled as he stirred his soup slowly, his features morose.

  Quicker than a bolt of lightning, Nonna smacked the

  back of his head. “Non pronunciare il nome del Signore

  invano, Michael Antonio Grimaldi!”

  Michael closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, all while Nonna

  continued eating as if nothing at all had transpired. As if she

  hadn’t just struck New Orleans’ premier police detective for

  daring to take the Lord’s name in vain.

  Celine’s lips twitched. She coughed. Then snorted in a most

  unladylike fashion. “I’m deeply sorry.” She cleared her throat.

  “For what?” Luca asked, his question tinged with amusement.

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  “That I can’t watch that happen over and over in my head.”

  Luca barked, a meaty fist pounding against the desk, jostling

  Celine’s soup. “She’ll do nicely, cousin.” He howled. To his left, Nonna tittered, her slender shoulders shaking with laughter.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter that no one asked your opinion,”

  Michael replied, his words coolly cutting.

  “Not at all.” Luca slurped his soup and leaned toward Celine.

  “I’d tell you awful stories about him, but I fear we’ve already

  pressed my proper cousin too far by gracing his doorstep un-

  announced.”

  Celine curved a brow. “Was he as trying a child as I suspect?

  Lots of sanctimonious questions and smug answers?”

  “Worse. Next time I’ll tell you about his fifth birthday, when

  he stabbed me in the side of the neck with a newly sharpened

  pencil.” He bent closer. “I still bear the scar right here.” Luca pointed at a small dark spot just below his left ear.

  Celine tsked, delighted to sense Michael’s ire flare hot from

  beside her.

  “Basta, Luca,” Nonna commanded. “You deserved it for

  breaking his other pencils as you did, and I think Michael has

  suffered enough for one evening. Let’s speak of pleasant things.”

  Her spoon clattered into her bowl. “Such as when you plan to

  bring that young woman to see me. The one who keeps writing

  you those lovely letters. It’s time I met her. You know I’m not

  getting any younger, Luca Grimaldi.”

  Luca guffawed, choking around a mouthful of ribollita. “I

  thought you wanted us to discuss pleasant topics, Nonna.”

  “She meant pleasant for herself,” Michael interjected.

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  Nonna harrumphed. “I will resort to all manners of shame if it means I get to hold my great-grandchildren before I die.”

  “What about you, Michael?” Luca eyed his cousin with a dev-

  ilish smirk. “Didn’t you tell me only last week that a young lady had caught your attention?”

  Celine expected Michael to glare at his brawny cousin in

  response. But he merely glanced back at Luca with a look of

  unchecked annoyance.

  “Who has caught your eye?” Nonna demanded, her outrage

  clearly feigned. Far too dramatic to be real. “And why am I only

  learning of this now?” Her tiny hand slapped the edge of the

  desk. “Rispondetemi.”

  Luca laughed softly, crossing his arms and leaning back in

  his chair while Celine stared into her bowl of soup, praying for

  someone to change the subject.

  Michael wiped his mouth with a linen handkerchief, his

  words measured. “I haven’t told you about her because I’m still

  trying to prove I’m worthy of her notice.” He leveled his gaze at the clock along the wall with a determined stare.

  Celine refrained from squirming in her seat.

  “Any young woman who fails to see what a wonderful man you

  are must be a fool,” Nonna said, her words pointed. “My Michael

  has always been the smartest boy in the room. So hardworking.

  And handsomer than any young man has any right to be.”

  The color rose in Celine’s neck with unbridled ferocity. A part

  of her wished to say something to disrupt the course of the con-

  versation, but she lacked the right words. No matter what she

  said or how she said it, she was bound to offend someone.

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  And Michael’s family had been so kind to her. Kinder than she deserved.

  “She isn’t a fool,” Michael said with great care. “Far from it, in fact. She’s sharp and quick-witted. Notices details others would

  miss. Despite her own difficulties, she manages to be warm and

  selfless. Moreover, she refuses to bow at the altar of money,” he continued. “But she is stubborn, and a bit distracted.”

  Celine’s jaw almost dropped. She’d never heard Michael speak

  of anyone so highly, least of all her.

  “Well, you’ll simply have to get her to focus,” Nonna said, the

  side of her hand slicing toward the table as if it were a knife.

  “Turn your charms on her.”

  Luca laughed. “His charms? No young lady wants to be inun-

  dated with useless facts, or be forced to contend with starched

  collars and ungodly hours of work.” He slid his attention to

  Celine, his expression shrewd. “Might you have any suggestions

  for my cousin, Miss Rousseau?”

  “Pardon?” Celine sat up straight, her spoon jangling to the

  desk, the delicious broth splashing in its wake.

  “You’re a young woman,” Luca pressed. “What would a young

  man need to do to catch your attention?”

  The outlandishness of his request nearly unseated Celine.

  Only the daftest fool would fail to see what Luca and Nonna

  were trying to do. When she peered in Michael’s direction,

  he looked just as uncomfortable as she felt. “Perhaps”—

  Celine firmed her tone—“Detective Grimaldi should start with

  a poem?”

  “Do you hear that, Michael?” Luca braced both elbows along

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  the desk, an eager spark in his chocolate eyes. “You should send the young lady a poem.”

  Michael considered his cousin’s suggestion, as if nothing at

  all were strange about this conversation. Then he turned to-

  ward Celine, watching her intently while he spoke. “I’m partial

  to Blake myself. Or perhaps Byron?”

  Celine swallowed. “I favor Shakespeare, though I do enjoy

  Blake on occasion.” She didn’t know what po
ssessed her to say

  it. Perhaps it was Michael’s compliments still ringing in her

  ears. But even if he recited her favorite sonnet by memory, it

  wouldn’t give life to a sentiment she did not hold for him. What

  she felt for Bastien was not yet love, but it was . . . something. A feeling Celine could no longer ignore.

  “Shakespeare.” Michael nodded once, his brow resolute. “It’s

  worth a try.”

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  A Thousand Tiny Cuts

  i

  Now was her chance.

  The booted footsteps outside Michael’s office faded as

  they turned the corner. If Celine made a dash for it, she could

  sneak down the corridor and make her way outside.

  The clock on the wall began to chime, tolling the midnight

  hour in dulcet tones.

  One. Two. Three.

  With a steeling breath, Celine removed her shoes. Unlatched

  the door. Twisted the knob.

  Seven. Eight.

  She glided down the hall, careful to walk on her stockinged

  toes. When the guard posted near the necessary looked in her

  direction, she ducked in an open doorway, her eyes peeled for

  the moment he turned back.

  A battle charge drumming through her veins, Celine flew

  down the shadowed steps, careful to pause at each landing,

  ensuring not a soul was within sight. The moment she reached

  the ground floor, she stole a glance at the portly sergeant man-

  ning the front desk. Watched while he took a sip of coffee from

  a stained mug. Listened to him cough and clear his throat

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  before he poured a splash of whiskey into his cup.

  With a small smile, Celine crept along the wall until she

  arrived at a bolted side door. Taking great care to unlatch the

  brass lock without so much as a sigh of metal, she slipped

  through the opening and into the night. Once more, she waited

  beneath an eave, on the lookout for prowling gazes. Triumph

  settling on her face, she took a step onto the darkened path,

  her ears filled with the sound of chirruping insects and her

  eyes locked on the elegant expanse of saw palmettos in front

  of Saint Louis Cathedral.

  “Marceline.”

  The voice at her back was low. Accented. Unthreatening.

  Nevertheless it frightened Celine to her core. It had been

  months since she’d heard her full name spoken aloud. Though

  she did not recognize the voice offhand, its owner pronounced

  the three syllables with unmistakable purpose. As if he knew

  how she took her tea, as well as the last occasion she’d prayed

  to anyone for anything.

  Celine froze midstep, her heart galloping through her chest

  like a spooked horse.

  “N’aie pas peur,” the voice reassured from behind her, its

  baritone rich and clear. “I am not here to harm you.”

  For a rash instant, Celine considered running. But something

  told her she would not get far. The fine hairs on her neck stood

  on end, as if she’d been sighted through a rifle’s lens, eyes surrounding her on all sides. Though her fingers trembled, Celine

  managed to unsheathe Bastien’s silver dagger before pivoting

  on a stockinged heel.

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  From a fall of nearby shadow emerged a slender gentleman wearing a felted top hat and a suit of darkest blue. The walking stick in his left hand was crowned by a solid gold lion, his

  pocket watch fashioned of gleaming Spanish bullion. When he

  removed his hat, Celine stifled a gasp.

  She recognized this man.

  It was the young man in the oddly colored painting above the

  fireplace in the suite at the Dumaine. The one that had haunted

  her from beyond the four-poster bed.

  He gazed at her, his expression calm and collected. Then a slow

  smile unfurled on his cultured face. It startled her, for it was like watching a statue come to life. One second, his expression looked still and smooth, as if honed by the hand of a master. The next

  second everything softened, making him appear almost human.

  Almost.

  Like Arjun and Odette and all the other members of the

  Court, this man was not entirely human. Celine would bet her

  life on it.

  She said nothing as he appraised her in silence. Despite the

  disbelief flaring through her, Celine knew at a glance who he

  was. Who he must be.

  Bastien’s uncle. Le Comte de Saint Germain.

  With nothing to do but return his unflinching study, Celine

  scoured his features for similarities, as if it would calm her.

  The count stared down at her with the same exacting preci-

  sion as his nephew, the line of his jaw no less cutting. His brow was as dark and expressive as that of Bastien, the tone of his

  skin several shades lighter.

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  Celine took in a sharp breath of warm night air. The count must have been no more than a boy himself when he assumed

  the task of raising his nephew. The painting in the suite at the

  Dumaine could have been completed yesterday, for Bastien’s

  uncle did not appear to be a day over twenty-five.

  Impossible.

  “I am Nicodemus Saint Germain,” he interrupted her

  thoughts. His accent was difficult to place, though his words

  were lyrical and precise, as if he’d been an elocutionist in a past life. When he shifted into the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, a current of fear chased across Celine’s skin.

  Even the way he moved took her off guard. Like he was

  limned in smoke. Or deliberately moving slower than usual, as

  one would with a cornered animal.

  On instinct, Celine lifted the silver blade in her hand, as if to ward him away.

  A breeze blew past her, shocking her still, riffling the loose

  tendrils of her hair and the hem of her wrinkled skirt. Before

  Celine could blink, a figure came into focus. One second, noth-

  ing was there, save a swirl of darkness. The next breath, a man

  stood in its place, fully formed. As if he’d always been there, a watchful specter in his own right.

  Jae. The member of the Court Bastien said “eliminated dead

  weight.”

  Whatever that meant.

  The graceful young man from the Far East loitered between

  Celine and the count, short blades in either hand. When he

  twirled one dagger across his fingers, Celine caught sight of

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  something she’d missed before: countless tiny scars on the backs of his hands, the markings raised and faintly white. Her

  gaze traveled upward to note the same scars on the side of his

  neck, reaching just above his starched collar. There did not ap-

  pear to be a design to the markings, for they’d been sliced at

  random, some of them crosshatched, every one of them painful

  to behold.

  “In ancient China,” Nicodemus Saint Germain began in a

  conversational tone
, “there was a time when capital punish-

  ment was inflicted by a means known as lingchi, or the Death of a Thousand Cuts.”

  Celine shrank backward a single step. Then stood straight,

  determined to hold her ground, despite the fact that every fiber

  in her body wanted her to flee.

  “Jaehyuk was caught some years ago on an errand in Hunan,”

  Nicodemus continued. “He barely escaped with his life. I am

  thankful every day he is by our side.”

  Jae stared into nothingness, unblinking and unbreathing, as if

  he had no desire to feign even a semblance of humanity.

  “I prize loyalty above most things,” the count said, “and Shin

  Jaehyuk possesses this quality in spades.”

  Inhaling to quell her nerves, Celine said, “Monsieur le Comte,

  I’m not certain what—”

  “Sébastien is not for you, Miss Rousseau,” Jae interjected, his

  voice no more than a whisper. “Have a care with your heart . . .

  and your life.”

  The first cut.

  Indignation took shape in Celine’s chest. She opened her

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  mouth to retort when a noise resonated from the darkness at her back. The thud of approaching footsteps. She fought the

  urge to shudder the instant a pair of willowy figures glided past her.

  The two young women with the unforgettable rings. In the

  starlight, their gems sparked like wildfire, their skin lustrous

  and dark, their silk skirts immaculate.

  Bastien’s uncle watched Celine as they passed. “Madeleine de

  Morny is the most gifted tactician I’ve encountered in my life,

  a rival of Napoleon himself. Her younger sister, Hortense, sings

  like a songbird and dances like the wind.” The count leaned on

  his walking stick, gripping the lion in his palm. “But above all, I prize their candor. Madeleine is honest to a fault, and Hortense

  incapable of deceit.”

  Celine gnawed at the inside of her cheek as the two women

  came to stand at the count’s right hand.

  Madeleine de Morny stared at Celine without batting an eye.

  “Bastien est trop dangereux pour la santé,” she warned. “Be

  smarter than this, mademoiselle.”

  A wicked smile unwound across Hortense’s face. “À moins

  que vous souhaitiez jouer à l’imbecile.”

  Cuts two and three.

  Another gust of wind blew from Jae’s back, fanning through

  his long black hair.

  Whistling from the shadows, Boone sauntered toward them,