The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

  days later—could not be the only individual in New Orleans

  with a penchant for that style. But a deeper, more visceral

  part of Celine warned her not to put too much stock in

  coincidences.

  “Please, Fantôme,” the man cowering in the muck begged.

  “Pardonnez-moi.” His voice trembled while he pleaded for for-

  giveness. He stretched a hand toward the figure in the Panama

  hat. The one he’d called the Ghost. An apt moniker for a crea-

  ture so comfortable in the shadows.

  “Apologies are nothing without amends, Lévêque,” the Ghost

  said in a richly rasping tone, his broad back to Celine, making it hard to discern any of his features. Even in the subtlest of motions, he carried himself as many young men of pedigree did

  in Paris: without a care in the world. As though the very air he

  breathed were laced with diamond dust.

  The thought alone enraged Celine.

  Continuing, he said, “You were warned what would happen

  the next time you behaved with such disrespect.” He nodded at

  the man smoking the cheroot, who rolled back his shirtsleeves

  to begin anew.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” the cowering man said, his voice growing louder with each plea. He moved his forearm across his face to

  ward away the coming blows. “What do you want? Do you want

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  me to apologize to her? I’ll beg on my knees for Mademoiselle Valmont’s forgiveness. I’ll—”

  “Alas, Lévêque. You have nothing I—or Mademoiselle Val-

  mont—want.” Leaning his right shoulder against the brick wall,

  he nodded again toward his compatriot with the cheroot.

  Like a crack of thunder, a fist slammed into the trembling

  man’s face. As the beating continued, the Ghost pressed his fin-

  gers to the side of his throat as though he were checking his

  own pulse, then flicked away a speck of imaginary lint from his

  shoulder.

  The sound of breaking bones splintered through the night,

  causing Celine to flinch.

  This was cruel. Unnecessary. Appalling.

  She moved to put a halt to the thrashing, but Pippa held fast

  to her arm. “Don’t interfere,” she said. “Please. Violent men are unpredictable.”

  Her words stopped Celine cold.

  Of course they were. She knew well what violent men were

  capable of doing. Her mind flashed to a late winter evening in

  the atelier. A wealthy young man offering to bring her hot tea

  and a warm blanket while she worked. The feeling of a clammy

  palm against her neck. How it shocked her in its uninvited

  wantonness. How a touch quickly turned painful. Nails digging

  into her arm. Fingers tearing through her hair. A roughened

  palm around her ankle.

  No.

  No.

  No.

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  Then the smashing of a candelabra against his skull.

  The silence that followed. The blood that flowed.

  Celine stood frozen by this sudden wash of memory. In that

  moment, she’d become a murderess. The next, a fugitive. Now

  she lived in a convent across the Atlantic, each night sharing

  the word of God with other young women.

  The irony.

  Pippa gripped Celine’s forearm. “Celine?”

  Celine shook herself from her thoughts as the man with the

  cheroot moved to exit the alleyway, wiping his bloodied knuck-

  les with a silk handkerchief. Pippa inhaled sharply when Celine

  stepped into his path without thought, blocking him from pro-

  ceeding farther, meeting his hooded eyes with her own cool

  gaze. He quirked a brow at her.

  Even without the aid of a gas lamp, Celine could see his obvi-

  ous youth and the fine stitching on his expensive waistcoat of

  English damask. A slender gold chain hung around his neck,

  a monocle dangling from its center. His copper skin was un-

  marred—indeed almost too perfect—his hair a mass of dark

  waves. If Celine had to guess, his family likely hailed from the

  East Indies. His hazel eyes were filled with interest and not a

  small amount of admiration. It was almost as though he’d come

  across her on an evening stroll through a garden.

  This was—by all rights—the look of a gentleman.

  The boy’s eyes wandered over Celine, up and down. He let

  his gaze shift toward Pippa, whom he sent a slow smile. Then

  he bowed before stepping back, clearing the narrow path with

  a flourish.

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  And Celine was met—face-to-face—with le Fantôme. Pippa’s nails dug into Celine’s skin, eliciting a shudder of fear. Another jolt of heated awareness.

  Le Fantôme glided closer, his movements soundless. He stood

  before Celine, his features absent any discernible emotion, the

  set of his shoulders easy. Strong. Though he wasn’t much taller

  than the boy with the monocle, his presence took up infinitely

  more space. She could well understand why their driver had

  yielded to him without thought. Celine stopped her eyes from

  widening, her lips from falling open. Were she to look upon this

  boy in the daylight, she would be forced to admit an unassail-

  able truth:

  The Ghost was the most striking young man she’d ever seen.

  The skin above his cravat was bronzed, the muscles in his neck

  corded. Along his square jawline was the suggestion of stubble,

  its shadow accentuating the elegant symmetry of his features. It

  brought to light an aristocratic nose, which contrasted with his

  thick lashes and dark brow. Spanish maybe? North African per-

  haps? Regardless, he was an arresting mixture of the Old World

  alongside the New. A pirate bedecked in Savile Row.

  He was . . . truly beautiful. Like a prince from a dark fairy tale.

  Celine stood there a moment, words failing her. When she

  realized he’d rendered her speechless—stolen the very breath

  from her tongue—outrage coiled in her throat.

  A glimpse of amusement flickered beside his lips. A slight in-

  dentation in his right cheek. The gesture reeked of arrogance.

  This boy knew full well what he looked like. Knew how to wield

  its power like a master of arms.

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  Celine narrowed her gaze at him.

  When he spoke, his eyes flashed, granting his chiseled features

  a look of menace. “How may I help you this evening, mademoi-

  selle?” he said in a low voice.

  Since this fiend clearly enjoyed the sight of her flustered,

  Celine decided to ignore him, and instead turned toward the

  minion standing behind him, who propped one foot against the

  brick wall while inhaling from his cheroot.

  “Does it make you proud to beat a helpless man, monsieur?”

  she asked him in a cold tone.

  “Not in the slightest,” the other boy said in a British accent,

  around an exhalation of pale blue smoke. “But it does keep me


  limber for the boxing ring.”

  “You dare to jest about such behavior?” Celine demanded.

  “You ought to be ashamed.”

  The boy with the cheroot laughed. “The lovely young lady

  might speak differently if she knew what this bastard had

  done.”

  “He is helpless. You and your”—Celine stabbed a finger in the

  Ghost’s direction, still refusing to acknowledge him—“friend

  have all the power.” When she finished speaking, the man in the

  muck squinted up at her from behind swollen eyelids. Then he

  slumped back down, his chest heaving from relief.

  “What if we were defending a woman’s honor?” The boy put

  out his cheroot, grinding it beneath his heel.

  The unexpected question took Celine off guard for an instant.

  “There is no honor in beating a helpless man.”

  “A woman wise beyond her years,” the Ghost said softly, a

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  strange accent threading through his speech. When he spoke, a wave of ice passed between Celine’s shoulder blades, sending a

  shiver down her spine. “But don’t presume to know everything,

  mademoiselle,” he continued.

  Celine slid her gaze to his, her heart a low thud in her chest.

  She lifted her chin. “I know enough, monsieur.”

  “Then know this: the truth is not always what you see.” He

  paused. “Now step aside.” His steely eyes narrowed almost im-

  perceptibly. “Please.”

  Behind him, his friend laughed. “As I live and breathe,” he

  murmured. “Sébastien Saint Germain . . . acting the part of a

  gentleman instead of a blighter.”

  In response, a muscle ticked in the Ghost’s jaw. The slightest

  hint of displeasure. He glanced toward his friend, warning him

  without words. The boy with the monocle grinned in response,

  which struck Celine as odd, given their circumstances. When

  one clearly outranked the other.

  No matter. The Ghost had a name.

  “You do not command me, Sébastien,” Celine said, her tone precise. “I defy you to try.”

  Sébastien took in a careful breath. “I accept your challenge,

  mademoiselle.” With a wicked half smile, he took hold of her by

  the waist and moved her to one side, lifting her off her feet as

  though she were lighter than air.

  Celine reacted on impulse—the desire to immobilize him as

  he had her. Her booted toes dangling above the cobblestones—

  matching him at eye level—she grabbed Sébastien by his silk

  cravat. Yanked tight, her expression determined. His eyes

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  widened with surprise, a spark of fire burning in their depths.

  The indentation is his cheek appeared for less than an instant.

  He was . . . amused?

  Unmitigated ass.

  She tightened her grip on his cravat. Felt the fine fabric wind

  through her fingers. Refused to avert her gaze, though he held

  her in the air like a puppet on a string.

  “Celine!” Pippa’s voice was high-pitched. Celine didn’t need

  to guess how shocked her friend was. Pippa lurched closer,

  panic unfurling from her skin. “Forgive us for the interruption,

  sir.” Though Pippa addressed Sébastien, his gunmetal eyes

  never strayed from Celine’s.

  “We need to leave,” Pippa urged her.

  “Put me down, Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine demanded.

  “At once.”

  To her surprise, Sébastien set her upon her feet. But he did

  not remove his palms from about her waist, just as Celine did

  not relinquish her grasp on his cravat. Even through her corset,

  she felt the touch of his thumb above her hip, the press of his

  long fingers into the small of her back. Her pulse thudded in

  her chest, its rhythm fast and fervent.

  “She has teeth,” he said quietly. “But does she also have claws?”

  “There is only one way to find out.” She meant it as a threat.

  He took it as a challenge.

  Sébastien’s smile was quick. Unstudied. Unusual in a boy who

  obviously prided himself on control. The edge in his features

  sharpened, leading Celine to suspect he wasn’t merely amused.

  Was it possible he was intrigued?

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  Celine let go of his cravat, the back of her hand grazing an obsidian button as it skimmed over his waistcoat. Though it

  was far from the most improper thing she’d done tonight, the

  touch felt illicit. Stolen. Her cheeks warmed when something

  shifted in his gaze.

  “Bastien.” His friend’s voice cut through their silent ex-

  change. “We should go before someone summons the police.”

  He stepped forward purposefully, a palm moving to Sébastien’s

  shoulder, demanding his attention.

  For a delicious instant, Bastien ignored it. Then he slid his

  hands from Celine’s waist, stepped back, and tipped his hat

  at her. With horror, she realized his touch had seared into her

  skin. That could be the only explanation for why the air around

  her waist felt so chilled. When he glided past her, the scent of

  bergamot and leather trailed in his wake.

  A flurry of emotions raced through her body. Celine settled

  for indignation, grasping for it like a lifeline. When she turned to ensure she had the last word, she caught a glimmer of silver

  in her periphery. It took less than the blink of an eye to realize its source.

  The man in the mud had freed a dagger from his boot, his

  scarred features feral in the moonlight.

  Celine cried out in warning, yanking Pippa to one side. In

  the same instant, Bastien whirled, withdrawing a revolver

  from inside his frock coat in a seamless motion. He took aim—

  meaning to fire—but his friend lunged for the man with the

  dagger, his right hand wrapping around the man’s wrist.

  Without explanation, the man slumped forward, as though

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  he’d suddenly fallen asleep, the dagger clattering to the ground beside him.

  It all happened so quickly. Celine blinked once. Twice.

  Pippa struggled for breath, her blond curls quaking above her

  brow.

  “What did you do?” Celine whispered to the boy with the

  monocle. “Is he . . . dead?”

  The two young men held a wordless conversation.

  “He’s . . . asleep,” the boy with the monocle said carefully, as

  though he’d settled on a version of the truth. “He’ll be jolly good in an hour, though the lummox doesn’t deserve it.”

  “But—”

  “We’re finished here,” Bastien said, his tone cold. Forbidding.

  Celine glared at him. “You are absolutely not—”

  “My apologies, mademoiselle. And to you, miss.” He bowed

  curtly to Pippa before gliding away. “Arjun?” he called over his

  shoulder. “I believe I owe you a drink.”

  “Far be it from me to refuse such a generous offer.” Arjun

  smiled mockingly as he r
eached for the fallen dagger, tossing

  it deep into the alleyway. Then he stood and wiped his hands

  once more. “Especially from such an esteemed gentleman.”

  Celine bit down on nothing as they began walking away,

  struggling to maintain her composure, her fists clenched.

  This cursed boy had stolen much from her in these moments.

  The words from her lips, the breath from her tongue. Now he

  thought to dismiss her like a child?

  “You are no gentleman, Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine said

  loudly.

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  He stopped short. Pivoted on a polished heel. “Is that what you think, Celine?”

  Celine stood taller, her knuckles turning white. “Yes. I do.”

  Bastien leaned closer. A flicker of firelight caught on his gold

  watch chain. On the roaring lion etched into his signet ring. “I

  don’t give a fuck.”

  Pippa gasped, both hands covering her mouth, her eyes wider

  than tea saucers.

  Then Bastien continued on his way, Arjun laughing softly at

  his heels. Almost pityingly.

  The word shook Celine. She’d never heard it said aloud. The

  sheltered life she’d lived in Paris had spared her from being

  trespassed by this kind of talk. Her father often commented

  that feminine ears were too delicate for such things. But Celine

  didn’t feel as though her delicate ears had been assaulted by the single syllable. Bastien may have uttered a foul word, but he’d

  spoken to her as he would a man. As an equal. Blood rushed

  through her body, adrenaline fueling its path. Horror settled in

  the base of her throat, a knot slowly tightening.

  She knew this feeling. Recognized it. She’d felt it when her

  attacker had stilled on the floor of the atelier, crimson flow-

  ing from the wound in his skull, her hand clasped around the

  candelabra.

  Celine felt . . . powerful. A part of something bigger than herself.

  And still she did not feel a hint of remorse for anything she’d

  done.

  It was terrifying to know such a dark creature writhed be-

  neath Celine’s skin. This was not the behavior of a pious young

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  woman, nor were these the emotions of a girl who should—by all rights—be seeking forgiveness. Salvation from a God she did

  not quite know or understand.

  Celine blinked to clear her thoughts. Just as Pippa tugged on