The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

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  “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 rec-

  ognized her. Gone were the dainty, demure garments from ear-

  lier 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 mo-

  ment later, her eyes enormous.

  “I find it incredibly freeing.” Odette moved forward, rest-

  ing 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.”

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  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, study-

  ing 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 flaw-

  less, though 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

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  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 every-

  thing 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 hear-

  kened 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.

  Discomfited by the notion, Celine decided to shift tack. “Is

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  there a place we could begin taking your measurements?” she asked Odette.

  Odette rested her arms akimbo and cocked her head to one

  side. “I’m fine taking measurements here, as long as you don’t

  mind.” It was almost as if she had issued a challenge.

  Such a thing simply wasn’t done. But then again, Odette ap-

  peared to enjoy bucking convention. Why should this occa-

  sion prove any different? Her features the portrait of apathy,

  Celine reached inside the pocket of her petticoat and extracted

  a length of measuring ribbon.

  She refused to be outmatched or intimidated.

  Even if Odette did wear trousers.

  While Celine worked to measure Odette’s torso, she peered

  through a parting in the crowd, catching a glimpse of an on-

  going chess match. Neither of the players moved for the span

  of several breaths, their eyes riveted on the black-and-white

  board. Then the white king fell without ever being touched. The

  next instant, the entire chess set rearranged itself on its own—

  the pieces whisking across the checkered surface in a whirl—as

  the victor reached over to shake his opponent’s hand, a smile

  curving up his face.

  “Wh-what?” Pippa stammered. “What happened?”

  Celine stared, her expression one of disbelief. “More impor-

  tantly, how?”

  “You needn’t look so surprised,” Odette said with a grin.

  “They’re simply illusions performed by those with the skill.”

  Pippa glanced at Odette, a brow arched in question. “You

  mean . . . magic?”

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  “Of a sort.” Odette nodded. “This is a place in which students of the occult”—she searched for the word, her hands turning

  through the air—“gather.”

  “Like a gambling hell for magicians?” Doubt crossed Celine’s

  face as she resumed measuring Odette’s arms and shoulders.

&
nbsp; “I wouldn’t call us magicians,” Odette replied. “We prefer to

  be called illusionists or mentalists.”

  Pippa nodded. “I saw a performance by a mentalist once, just

  outside of London. He turned water into ink and transformed

  a bouquet of lilies into a bevy of doves.” She paused. “Do your

  members also give performances like that?”

  “Some of us do.” Odette raised a shoulder, eliciting a word-

  less rebuke from Celine. “But most of us simply choose to meet

  here in safety to hone our craft.” She paused. “It’s a blessing

  we’ve been provided with such a space. There was a time before

  when things were not quite so . . .” A shadow darkened Odette’s

  countenance as her voice faded into nothingness. Then she

  grinned brightly.

  Celine took in a careful breath while she worked, her doubts

  growing. Something about the girl’s explanation troubled her.

  It felt familiar. The kind of explanation Celine had been wont to give as of late—a skeleton of the truth. “What kind of mentalist

  are you?” she asked, her tone nonchalant.

  “One who divines the future,” Odette said matter-of-factly.

  “The ancients called it stargazing, but the mystics in the Quar-

  ter refer to us as soothsayers.”

  Pippa’s rosebud lips fell open. “Then you already know

  everything that will happen? Everything I will do or say?” She

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  glanced about with obvious discomfort. “Even what I might be thinking or feeling?”

  Odette’s shook her head. “I know what may happen, depend-

  ing on the choices you make.”

  “Just by”—Pippa swallowed—“looking at me?”

  “No. Physical contact is necessary for me to divine things

  with any measure of clarity.”

  During this exchange, Celine had kept silent for fear she

  would speak out of turn. She paused to take note of the final

  measurements, but disbelief flared hot in her veins when she

  recalled how Boone had claimed to taste the flavor of her lies.

  Such things are not possible, her mind screamed, demanding attention. Her heart, however, knew better.

  Celine could not deny she’d been in the presence of some-

  thing otherworldly tonight, here at Jacques’. Moreover, she

  recalled her first encounter with Odette this afternoon. How

  Odette’s gaze had widened infinitesimally when Celine had

  taken her hand.

  The soothsayer had seen something, even in that briefest of

  interactions.

  Captivated by the prospect of such knowledge—of such

  power—Celine discarded the measuring ribbon, her pencil

  dropping from her lips. She knew it was a risk, but she simply

  had to know if Odette had uncovered any of her secrets. “What

  did you see?”

  Pippa turned toward her, confused by the question.

  Odette met Celine’s gaze, her expression knowing. “What do

  you mean?” Her voice sounded deceptively innocent.

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  “This afternoon,” Celine continued without batting an eye,

  “when you took my hand, what did you see?”

  Odette’s smile turned fierce. “I only caught flashes of possi-

  bility. The lace obstructed my view.” She held up a gloved hand.

  “Annoying, but necessary. It’s easy to lose sight of what’s real

  when you’re lost in the stars.”

  Celine stood taller. Then held out her hand, her gaze steady,

  determined to learn whether or not Odette possessed any

  damaging information. “Please tell me what you see. I’d like to

  know.”

  As she had earlier today, Odette canted her head in contem-

  plation. “Are you quite certain, mon amie? Knowing what might

  happen is not the same as preventing it from happening.”

  Celine nodded. “I’m certain.”

  Odette removed the kidskin glove on her right hand. Without

  hesitation, she wrapped her cool fingers around Celine’s palm

  and closed her eyes. Her smile softened.

  “La dompteuse des bêtes,” she murmured after a moment.

  Her eyes flashed open, laughter tingeing her tone. “Je le savais!”

  she congratulated herself.

  “The tamer of beasts?” Celine translated, her expression one

  of puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”

  Odette did not answer. Her lips began to purse as if she’d

  consumed something sour. She swallowed carefully, her eyes

  squeezing shut once more. Whatever she saw now caused her

  unmistakable consternation.

  Pippa gnawed at her lower lip. Unease trickled down Celine’s

  spine like a bead of slowly dripping sweat. She gripped Odette’s

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  hand tightly, noticing how much warmer her skin felt with each passing second. “What?” she whispered. “What is it?”

  All at once Odette pulled away, yanking her palm from

  Celine’s grasp. Her brown eyes flickered open, their darkened

  centers large, shimmering, out of focus. “I couldn’t . . .” She trailed off, momentarily disoriented. Then she straightened like

  a soldier and shot Celine a dazzling smile. “I’m sorry, mon amie, but portions of your future were too murky for me to divine.”

  Celine did not believe her. “What does that mean?”

  Odette shrugged. “It means the course of your life has yet

  to be plotted.” Her laughter resembled bubbles of champagne,

  light, frivolous, full of air. “But don’t fret. We can try again soon, I promise.”

  Celine swallowed her retort. Odette’s brand of magic was

  not as impressive or as helpful as she’d hoped it would be. It

  was also possible the girl was deliberately concealing what

  she’d seen. Neither option sat well with Celine, but it would be

  impolite to pursue the matter further in public.

  As though nothing had transpired, Odette shifted her atten-

  tion to Pippa, her ungloved hand held out before her. “Would

  you care to try?”

  Pippa took a step back. “Please don’t be offended, but I’d

  rather my future remain a surprise.”

  Another round of airy laughter burst from Odette’s lips.

  “Smart girl!”

  “But,” Pippa said, her features knitting with confusion, “I am curious about how it works. Is it a skill with which you are born, or one you must cultivate?”

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  Odette tilted her head from side to side, wordlessly balancing her thoughts like weights on a scale. Before she responded, she

  donned her glove once more. “Many of the women in my fam-

  ily were gifted with the second sight. This place has given me a

  chance to cultivate this gift without judgment or expectation.

  For those like me, it’s the only safe haven we’ve ever had.” Her

  grin turned sad before she brightened the very next instant.

  “Truly, this is a place unlike any other.”

  “Kassamir called it La Cour des Lions,” Celine said.

  “The . . . Heart of a Lion?” Pippa attempted to trans
late.

  “The Court of the Lions,” Celine corrected in a kind voice.

  Pippa’s gaze widened in understanding, undoubtedly arriving

  at the same conclusion Celine herself had come to not long ago.

  That, yet again, Celine was responsible for dragging her friend

  deeper through a field of razor-sharp diamonds.

  Perhaps it was simply her fate to be a portent of doom.

  Odette rolled her eyes. “That’s not Kassamir’s doing. That’s

  Bastien’s. Honestly, that boy could sell a snowball to a penguin.”

  She snickered. “You would never suspect how dramatic he truly

  is.” Her features turned rueful. “Ah, but if he heard me say that, he would stare at me with those dagger eyes of his until I apologized. Really, men are such infants.”

  Distracted by her worries, it took a moment for Celine to reg-

  ister Odette’s words. Her blood turned cold. “Bastien? Are you

  referring to Sébastien Saint Germain?”

  Odette’s eyes went wide. “Yes, that’s him. Un vrai démon,

  n’est ce-pas?” She sniffed. “At least he’s a welcome sight for the eyes. Have you ever seen a more handsome devil?”

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  “No,” Celine admitted. “Unfortunately, neither has he.”

  “Parfait! Simplement parfait!” Odette clapped her hands,

  her laughter lilting into the coffered ceiling. Then she resumed

  chattering without pausing for breath.

  Somewhere high above the clouds—or deep below in a fiery

  pit—an otherworldly creature must be having a grand time at

  Celine’s expense. Her shoulders fell forward, her lips thinning

  into a line as the words continued flowing from Odette’s lips

  like wine at a Bacchanalia.

  “Bastien’s uncle owns this entire building, as well as several

  properties in the Vieux Carré,” Odette said. “Of course you’ve

  heard of Le Comte de Saint Germain. Rich as Croesus and

  charming as sin. Bastien is his sole heir, a fact that hasn’t gone unnoticed by the débutantes of our fair city, despite the . . . concern many in society have with regard to his parentage.” Her

  laughter became mischievous, a sly flutter of sound. “I’d wa-

  ger money solves most problems, non?” She winked. “Though

  I myself speak only three languages, the Count has mastered

  nine and can quote entire swaths of scripture on a whim. He’s also an immense fan of the—” She stopped short when she

  noticed the glazed look on Celine’s face. “Ah, but I’m getting