The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

  “What . . . is that deliciousness?” she asked Celine.

  Celine leaned closer to the table, peering around the hustle

  and bustle of the busy restaurant.

  The food smelled familiar—the same scents of butter and

  wine, the same perfume of marjoram, thyme, and rosemary—

  that Celine had grown up enjoying in Paris. But something else

  filtered through the air. Spices she could not readily identify.

  They plagued her. Tantalized her. Intoxicated her.

  The newly uncovered plates of Limoges porcelain held fillets

  of sole resting atop beds of fragrant rice, finished with a sauce similar to a beurre blanc, but with a twist of roasted tomatoes

  and a hint of sweet herbs. To the right of the flaky fish sat a

  tureen of pommes de terre soufflées. The delectably puffed po-

  tatoes were served alongside an intricate pyramid of roasted

  asparagus smothered in truffle port sauce, then garnished with

  slender shavings of cured meat.

  At the table nearest to them, an elegant woman dripping with

  pearls drank from her glass of red wine before nibbling on a pil-

  lowy gougères, the salty scent of Gruyère cheese mingling with

  the rich fragrance of the Burgundy.

  In that moment, Celine wanted nothing more than to slip

  into this woman’s expensive shoes, just for a breath of time.

  To sink her teeth into something decadent, heedless of all else

  around her.

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  “Oh!” Pippa said, startled by a sudden tongue of fire leaping from another table. A white-gloved maître d’hôtel swished the

  burning contents of a small pan, a blue blaze dancing around

  its edges. The concoction appeared to be a strange kind of

  creamy fruit covered in mounds of brown sugar, then doused

  with bourbon before being set aflame. A delectable perfume of

  warm caramel curled into the air, countless pairs of eyes drift-

  ing toward it.

  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 veg-

  etables, 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 indi-

  vidual 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

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  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

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  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 adjust-

  ing 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 shoul-

  der. 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.

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  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?”

&nbs
p; 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 mul-

  titude of gas lamps turned down low, rendering the room be-

  yond 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 lei-

  surely pace. Here, the banisters were fashioned of gleaming

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  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.

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  Toussaint

  i

  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 gem-

  stones, cut crystal glasses flashing with each of their move-

  ments. 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.

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  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 beau-

  tiful mask. Some kind of artful illusion. That if she shook her

  head just so, her vision would clear, leaving behind nothing but

  truth. Was this place the “court” the two young women had

  mentioned in Jackson Square that afternoon? Could its bejew-

  eled 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. Pow-

  dered 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

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  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 pur-

  pose. 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.

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  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.

  T
he 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-

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  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 cen-

  ters 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.” Squar-

  ing 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, dis-

  oriented 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 sur-

  render and pulled away the following instant, but not before

  offering Celine a wink.