The Beautiful Read online

  This was beyond unfair.

  Celine’s soul cried out in protest, her memories of the flavorless stew she’d consumed earlier taunting her tongue. What would happen to Celine if she ordered a meal right now and could not pay for it? Would she be forced to wash dishes all night? Perhaps put in a stockade and pelted with rotten vegetables, like in the time of Shakespeare?

  Would it be worth it?

  Resolve coursed through her. At some point, Celine would partake in a meal at this restaurant. She might even entice Pippa to join her. Maybe.

  Pippa’s stomach grumbled, and a smile toyed at the edges of Celine’s lips.

  Just then, the imposing figure positioned near the kitchen’s swinging door turned his attention toward them. He cut his eyes, appraising them from afar. This man had to be the individual with the sinful voice and the ring through his right ear that Odette had mentioned at their first meeting earlier today.

  Before Celine could move in his direction, the man shifted from his post, striding toward the front of the restaurant, where Celine and Pippa stood. He moved with purpose, though his attention remained sharp, watching for signs of missteps among his staff, ready to rebuke at any turn. As he wove through the space, he pointed behind him, and another liveried gentleman stepped seamlessly into position beside the swinging kitchen door.

  Celine admired his poise. The respect he commanded. Less than ten years ago, men with his skin color were held as slaves in the southern part of America, forced to work in endless fields beneath a blazing hot sun. Celine knew they still were not seen as equals, much less granted prestigious positions in elegant restaurants, directing white men in perfectly pressed jackets.

  The sight of this man of color helming an establishment like Jacques’ emboldened Celine in a way she could not quite understand.

  He stopped before them, standing directly in front of Celine. Her eyes widened as he towered over her, his gaze a tinge un-welcoming. “May I help you, mademoiselle?” he asked in a lightly accented tone. “If you wish to reserve a table tonight, it is best for you to join the queue out front.” His voice reminded her of an approaching storm. A distant rumble, a swirl of clouds.

  Though Celine should have felt unsettled by his cold de-meanor, she found herself unaffected. Calm.

  “Hello,” she began, her tone unwavering. “My name is Celine.”

  He cast her an arched glance. And said nothing more.

  “I was told to disregard the queue,” Celine continued, “and ask to be taken to Odette.”

  His gaze softened. “My apologies.” A fond light entered his eyes. “You should have begun with that, mademoiselle.” He snapped his fingers in the air, and all around them bodies moved in concert, clearing a path.

  “Je m’appelle Kassamir.” He introduced himself while adjusting his golden cuff links, their shining surfaces embossed with the same symbol of a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a lion. “I am in charge of this restaurant. As friends of Mademoiselle Valmont, you are most welcome at Jacques’, and please know that all those in my employ are here to attend to your needs.” He began leading them toward the curving staircase near the back.

  “C’est un plaisir de vous recontrer, Kassamir,” Celine replied with a smile.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . . Kassamir,” Pippa echoed, her voice resembling the squeak of a mouse.

  A grin flickered across Kassamir’s face. “Please call me simply Kassamir, mademoiselle. My surname is of little consequence, as it is not one I care to use.”

  Celine wanted to ask what Kassamir meant by saying that, but stopped herself after an inadvertent glance over one shoulder. The sight of Pippa bravely marching forward despite her earlier concerns sent a flurry of guilt across Celine’s skin. Once again, she’d placed Pippa in an uncomfortable situation. And a friend in truth would check on her companion more often.

  The trio ascended the curving staircase, trepidation rippling through Celine, starting from her toes, rising up her spine. She nearly stumbled as the steps grew narrower the closer they climbed toward the top.

  Anticipation spiked around her heart when the fear reached her throat. It was a strange sensation, this mixture of emotions. For as long as Celine could remember, she’d relished this particular thrill. The boys who lived on her street had called her “une petite sotte” when she’d balanced along her balcony’s ledge on a single foot. “You little fool,” they’d cried from far below, safe and smug in their superiority. “Veux-tu mourir, Marceline Rousseau?”

  They could not have been more wrong. Celine hadn’t wanted to die then, just as she had no desire to die now. In fact, it was the complete opposite. She simply wanted to revel in the excitement that always accompanied danger.

  That chance to feel truly alive.

  But those little tyrants in their worn woolen caps weren’t completely wrong when they called her a fool. Even then, she’d known it was the height of foolishness to court danger so openly. To crave it like a slice of warm chocolate cake. Were the Mother Superior present now, Celine knew she would urge them away from this place with all haste. Signs of peril lurked everywhere, even in the sinister coil of the wrought- iron railing.

  The second floor came into view, and Celine glimpsed a multitude of gas lamps turned down low, rendering the room beyond in muted tones. The air around them condensed. Turned cooler, as if they’d passed from day to night in the span of a single staircase.

  They neared the top, Kassamir continuing to move at a leisurely pace. Here, the banisters were fashioned of gleaming brass, faceted on all sides with a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.

  As if the symbol had intentionally followed Celine all day long.

  Or perhaps led her to this place, without words.

  Something began coiling through her stomach. An unseen force. It spread through her limbs like a slow shudder. Beside her, Pippa gripped Celine’s arm, undoubtedly experiencing the same unsettling sensation. That feeling of hovering above the threshold between light and dark.

  Kassamir turned toward them, his sharp gaze appearing as though it could bore holes into her soul. “Bienvenue à La Cour des Lions.”

  Welcome to the Court of the Lions.

  TOUSSAINT

  The first thing Celine noticed was the sound.

  Or rather the absence of it.

  The moment her feet sank into the plush carpet at the top of the stairs, the noise from below dropped to a hush. As if it were being muffled, like a heavy blanket had been drawn over the entire second floor, warding away the possibility of eavesdroppers.

  But that was impossible. How could anyone manage such a thing?

  Celine let her vision slowly adjust to the darkness.

  Dim lighting glowed around a large rectangular chamber replete with gleaming wooden tables. Surrounding the tables stood shadowy figures adorned in silks and sparkling gemstones, cut crystal glasses flashing with each of their movements. A faint breeze tempered the air, fending off the rising heat from below. The floors and paneled walls were stained a dark mahogany, polished to resemble the surface of a black mirror. Silk drapes of a costly indigo hue, trimmed with golden tassels, framed every arched window. A long chaise sat empty in the chamber’s center, like a throne meant for an empress or a goddess of old.

  That same sense of a blurred reality—of a sight gone hazy along its edges—enveloped the space. Punctuating the din was the occasional clatter of ivory dice across felted baize, the flutter of glossy cards being shuffled and sorted, the occasional muted cheer.

  “It’s . . . a gambling hell,” Pippa said, her tone a mixture of unease and anticipation.

  Celine tilted her head.

  It was. And it wasn’t.

  She couldn’t ignore the feeling that she was peering at a beautiful mask. Some kind of artful illusion. That if she shook her head just so, her vision would cle
ar, leaving behind nothing but truth. Was this place the “court” the two young women had mentioned in Jackson Square that afternoon? Could its bejeweled patrons be responsible for such a sordid crime?

  At first glance, it did not appear so.

  But first impressions were known to be deceiving.

  Whenever Celine had heard talk of gambling hells, they’d been portrayed as dens of iniquity. Powerful men sloshed with drink, wasting away fortunes on the single roll of a dice. Powdered lightskirts plying their scented wares. Bared skin and spilled liquor, lush velvet and cool ivory. Wealth at the height of its debauchery.

  The scene before Celine could not appear more civilized. Everywhere she looked, dazzling women and elegant men of all skin colors congregated as seeming equals.

  As if this was not an unusual sight at all.

  Just then, a cry of triumph rose into the darkness to their right, just beyond a game of faro. The sound drew Celine toward an oval table of lustrous burl wood, the sights around it unspooling like bolts of fabric, captivating her with possibility.

  Roulette. She’d heard of this game before, but never had occasion to play it.

  “Celine?” From behind her, Pippa took hold of her hand beseechingly.

  Celine halted in her tracks and eyed her friend over her shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Pippa asked quietly.

  The question emboldened Celine. Granted her a sense of purpose. Perhaps it was the golden glow of the gas lamps. Or the heady scent of spices mixed with smoldering cigars. Whatever it was, she did not want to hide among the wavering shadows.

  She wanted to soar.

  “I’m playing roulette,” Celine replied, her voice filled with conviction.

  Shock fluttered across Pippa’s features. “What?”

  Celine was tired of doing nothing but watching. Tired of wearing her own mask and being a mere observer to life. “You wanted to know who I really am.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m a girl who’d rather experience life than watch it pass by from my window.”

  Pippa exhaled slowly. Then nodded as she released Celine’s hand.

  Like a moth to a flickering flame, Celine glided toward the amber light surrounding the roulette table. She hovered along the edges, her skin tingling with awareness.

  A croupier swiped away a stack of tortoiseshell chips, presenting them to the recent winner. He waited for the players to place their new bets, then held a small ivory ball aloft before spinning a wheel of numbers in one direction and dropping the ball in the other. The tic, tic, tic of the roulette wheel grew louder and faster, until each sound blended into the next.

  “Rouge seize!” the croupier called out when the ivory ball landed in a red square labeled “16.”

  Across the table, a trio of companions—two women with dark skin and a man with a burnished complexion—grumbled in French to each other before reaching to place another bet. The rings gilding both women’s fingers were immense, jagged pieces of raw stone set in pure gold.

  Celine searched for a set of discarded dice. A way to join the game, despite her lack of fortune. Her gaze caught on the faces of the trio, and a strange realization gripped her stomach. They were all extraordinarily attractive. Their skin seemed to glimmer beneath the warmth of the newfangled electrical lantern hanging overhead, the centers of their eyes filled with lambent light. When they moved, the air around them shifted like smoke.

  Celine blinked as if something had floated across her vision, her lashes fluttering to clear her sight, her lips parting ever so slightly.

  “Lovely,” a male voice murmured from her left, his thick drawl catching her attention.

  “Pardon?” Celine replied, turning his way.

  “You could be my good luck charm, my beauty.” The young man’s elbow brushed her arm as he leaned in closer, his clean-shaven features sly. He, too, was inexplicably handsome, his face like that of an angel, his expression decidedly at odds with the cherubic curls atop his brow. Again Celine was struck by how clear his eyes were. How the blue ringing their dark centers seemed inordinately intense.

  Inhuman.

  The thought startled Celine. She banished it with a toss of her head, restoring her senses so that she wouldn’t appear to be a simpleton. “I’d rather be my own good luck charm, sir.” Squaring her shoulders, she met his appreciative stare.

  He rolled a set of dice between his fingers, his angelic curls falling across his forehead. “I’d wager you’ve never played roulette.”

  “You’d be wagering incorrectly, then,” Celine lied. She held out her hand for the dice. “I might be the best roulette player you’ve ever met.”

  He laughed. “I can taste your deceit, my lovely little liar,” he whispered.

  “What?” Celine dropped her hand, stepping back, disoriented by his words.

  “It’s sweet on my tongue.”

  Again Celine took a small step back, almost colliding with Pippa.

  “Boone,” a feminine voice warned from the shadows. “Don’t be a beast. You’ve been warned already.”

  The young man put both hands in the air in a gesture of surrender and pulled away the following instant, but not before offering Celine a wink.

  “Fantastique!” the same feminine voice exclaimed from behind Pippa and Celine, as if nothing of import had occurred. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.” The slender silhouette lurking in a fall of shadow shifted into the light.

  Celine’s mouth dropped open.

  “Of course I hoped you would,” Odette continued, her teeth flashing in a smile as she lifted her glass of red wine in salute. “But I didn’t place a bet on the outcome.”

  If the girl had not spoken first, Celine never would have recognized her. Gone were the dainty, demure garments from earlier in the day. The only familiar embellishment was the ivory cameo with its halo of bloodred rubies.

  Odette was dressed as a gentleman. Her trousers were made of supple buckskin, and her shirt—with its ballooned sleeves—was stark white, covered by an elaborate waistcoat of pale green jacquard. The chain of a large gold pocket watch hung across the front of Odette’s vest. But the pièce de résistance had to be her intricately tied silk cravat, pinned in its center by the ivory cameo. Her brown hair had been slicked back from her face and gathered at the nape of her neck in a simple knot.

  A slow smile unfurled across Odette’s face at their stunned silence. She swirled her wine knowingly.

  “Why, you’re wearing . . . trousers!” Pippa remarked a moment later, her eyes enormous.

  “I find it incredibly freeing.” Odette moved forward, resting one of her gloved hands in her pocket. “Some days I adore wearing corsets and bustles and layers of silk. But sometimes, it pays to wear pants.”

  Though Celine was still rendered speechless by the sight, a sense of delight wound through her. The grin lingering on the edges of her lips threatened to bloom.

  How . . . wonderful.

  Celine cleared her throat. “Of course we came,” she began as though nothing were amiss. “I said I would, and I don’t enjoy going back on my word.” Celine shifted beside Odette, studying the lovely girl’s outfit with a practiced eye. “Forgive me, but there’s a stain beside your cravat.” She nodded at Odette’s shirt, where the tiniest drop of red wine—or perhaps rouge—had seeped onto the otherwise pristine cloth.

  Odette glanced downward, tugging at her collar with a gloved finger. “Merde,” she cursed under her breath. “And I thought I had been so careful.”

  “Both rouge and red wine are easy to remove with a bit of white wine or tonic water,” Celine offered. “Otherwise you look impeccable.”

  “Truly?” Odette wrinkled her nose, no doubt pleased to hear the compliment.

  Celine nodded. “A jacquard waistcoat is an excellent choice for someone with your coloring, and the tailoring looks flawless, thoug
h I would have selected a French seam to finish the edges instead of a standard backstitch.”

  “Are French seams better?” Odette asked as she set her wine on a nearby table.

  “Of course.” Celine didn’t blink. “They’re French.”

  Odette laughed. “You’re simply delightful, mon amie.”

  Celine almost smiled alongside Odette, but something stopped her. Bade her to keep her distance, at least for the time being. In the past, being too trusting of others had not done her any favors. “I’ve never seen a knot like that.” She nodded toward Odette’s cravat.

  “It’s a mail coach knot from the earlier part of this century.” Odette’s eyes gleamed pale gold. “I do think that men of the Regency era had the best sense of fashion, don’t you?”

  Celine thought a moment. “A part of me is inclined to agree.” She paused. “Though I’ll admit I’ve never fancied the top hat. Men have no need of the added height; they lord over everything enough as it is.”

  Odette hummed in agreement. “What kind of hat would you pair with this ensemble?” she asked. “An Eton cap? A bowler?”

  “Frankly, I’d prefer no hat at all, but I know it’s simply not done. If you were out during the day, I would recommend a straw hat with a thick band. The weather here becomes it.”

  “So then, a Panama hat?” Odette tapped an index finger against her chin.

  Celine frowned. “No. Something . . . else.”

  Something that did not remind her of Sébastien Saint Germain.

  Celine swallowed, wondering why her thoughts had hearkened to that particular style in that particular instant. It had never struck her as memorable before. When Celine glanced at Pippa, she noticed her friend studying her, Pippa’s blond head angled to one side. As though she’d heard the lie buried deep in Celine’s musings.