The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  Pippa reached for Celine as a massive snake—its scales covered in dark brown spots bordered by rings of black—slithered across the carpeted floor. Fear and exhilaration wound through Celine’s body. She began easing to one side as the snake drew closer, but Pippa held her in place, her fingers tightly coiled around Celine’s wrist.

  “They smell fear,” Pippa murmured.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read it somewhere.”

  “That’s rubbish.” Odette doffed her wine-stained gloves. “Technically they can’t smell anything. Only taste things with their tongues.”

  Celine sent a murderous glare in Odette’s direction as the snake passed them, vanishing under a pool of indigo silk beneath an arched window. Even after the serpent disappeared, Pippa did not stop wringing the blood from the tips of Celine’s fingers.

  “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, Toussaint won’t hurt anyone,” Odette reassured them, stuffing her bare hands in her pockets as she spoke. “One time he wrapped himself around Arjun, but it was only frightening for a minute.” She paused in remembrance. “And that crumpet-eating criminal deserved it.”

  “What—what did he do?” Pippa asked.

  “Apparently massacred one too many crumpets,” the boy in question teased from behind Pippa, his British accent slurring ever so slightly, clearly tainted by drink.

  Celine turned toward Arjun in shock, noting his reddened knuckles and disheveled appearance. Not-so-gentle reminders that—regardless of how pleasantly he comported himself—this boy from the East Indies was not what he seemed. After all, he’d managed to cross the room without being noticed, like a shadow slipping through a cloud of smoke.

  Pippa spun around with an unusual lack of grace, only to lose her footing. She would have fallen to the floor if Arjun hadn’t been there to steady her, his arms encircling her shoulders.

  “I’ve got you, pet,” he said with a mischievous half smile.

  A flash of horror rippled across Pippa’s face. The next instant, she shoved him away with a startling amount of force. Arjun landed on his backside, his waistcoat askew and his monocle tangling about his neck.

  Celine tried to control her reaction, but it could not be helped. She pressed her knuckles to her lips. Soon, Odette was steadying herself against Celine, cackling alongside her. Unsurprisingly, Pippa did not join in their amusement. She clasped both palms over her mouth. Flustered, she bent to help Arjun to his feet, reaching for his hands.

  Only to be roundly rebuffed.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said, color rising up her neck. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so . . .”

  “Helpful?” he offered.

  “Warm,” she finished, her cheeks reddening.

  Arjun glanced up at her quizzically, then grinned, though he still refused to take her proffered hand. Instead he looked to his left, whistling through his teeth to catch the attention of the nearby chess champion. The next instant, the gangly fellow stepped forward to yank Arjun to his feet with an uncanny amount of strength, his ruddy mustache curling along its waxed edges.

  “’Ad enough, me good man?” he said in a gruff Cockney accent. When he straightened, he towered over everyone in his vicinity, his limbs long and thin, causing him to resemble a beanpole. “Is every bleedin’ maharajah as piss poor at holding his liquor as you is?”

  Arjun rolled his eyes. “Such poppycock. Not every man from India is a maharajah, Nigel.” He paused for effect, securing his golden cuff links. “And not every Englishman is a gentleman.”

  “Blighter!”

  “Loathsome imperialist.”

  “Clumsy twat!”

  “Overgrown twig.”

  Nigel’s waxed mustache twitched. Then he threw back his head and guffawed. The sound was so filled with delight that Celine began to smile.

  “¿Qué está pasando, Odette?” a rich voice cut through the mêlée, the sound resonating from behind where they stood.

  “¡Hostia!” Odette startled. Her small fist darted out, thudding against a solid form. “Stop trying to scare me, you horse’s ass. Te dije lo que sucedería la próxima vez . . .” She launched into a tirade Celine could not follow, the Spanish words flying from her lips with ease.

  Arjun and Nigel exchanged a glance. Then promptly made their way toward the roulette table in the back of the room.

  Odette continued ranting to the newcomer at Celine’s back. But Celine refused to turn around. She had no need to confirm the obvious. Her pulse ratcheted in her throat when the heat of him drew closer. The feeling of being both drawn in and pushed back—a magnet made of opposing poles—gripped her stomach. Just like the night she’d first arrived in New Orleans, when he’d cleared the streets without uttering a word, Bastien’s presence was a tangible thing. It made something in the air shift, like a sigh of wind.

  The creature inside Celine writhed beneath her skin, stirring to life.

  No. Celine Rousseau was not a weathervane. She would not be moved by the Ghost’s presence as everyone else was. He was not special, just like all the privileged boys she’d encountered in her past. Another spoiled and entitled approximation of a man. She took a deep breath, determined to remain unaffected.

  Celine felt Bastien’s eyes settle on the back of her neck. The fine hairs there stood on end, sending a warm buzz down her spine. He was close enough that she could smell the bergamot in his cologne. The hints of citrus and spice.

  This boy was dangerous. Far too dangerous. Like fuel to her fire.

  She stood straight. Bade the stirring creature silent.

  Odette continued chastising Bastien in a mixture of Spanish and French. Unruffled by her tirade, Bastien shifted past Celine and Pippa, his strides unhurried, his movements liquid. Since their encounter an hour ago, he’d discarded his frock coat and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing a tailored waistcoat of charcoal silk and a set of curious black markings on his inner left forearm. Disdaining the fashion of the day, he wore his dark hair shorn close to his head, resembling a bust Celine had once seen of Julius Caesar. Strapped around his shoulders was a burnished leather holster, a revolver glinting beneath his right arm. When he met Celine’s gaze, he pressed his lips together, a hint of irritation pushing them forward, squaring his jaw. Annoyance riddled his handsome face. Not a trace of surprise nor a drop of pleasure at finding her here.

  It emboldened Celine. Urged her to dismiss him as summarily as he’d dismissed her.

  “Are you finished?” he said quietly to Odette, though his eyes were trained on Celine.

  “For now,” Odette sniffed. “Just don’t do it again. You know how much I despise being taken off guard. No doubt that’s the reason you enjoy doing it, you malquisto.”

  Though her tone had lightened to one of jest, Bastien did not smile. “Responde mi pregunta. ¿Por qué está ella aquí?”

  “No.” Odette crossed her arms. “I’m not answering your question. C’est impoli. These ladies are my guests, and I do not owe you an explanation for why they are here.”

  The edges of Bastien’s eyes tightened, his expression darkening. Under normal circumstances, Celine suspected this icy glower engendered fear in others. Moved them to obey, without question.

  She met him eye for eye, glare for glare, her heart thudding behind her ribs. Celine waited for him to ask them to leave. After all, this building belonged to his family. And no matter what anyone might say otherwise, it was clear Bastien ruled La Cour des Lions, from its coffered ceiling to the snake slithering across its plush carpets.

  Lucifer in his den of lions.

  Instead, Bastien remained silent. The bronze skin around his eyes and forehead softened, the set of his shoulders unwinding. Before Celine could take a breath, charm oozed from him with the kind of natural grace reserved for nobility.

  It was an unnerving sight to behold.

  Bastie
n bowed to Pippa. “Welcome to Jacques’, mademoiselle. I am Sébastien Saint Germain. C’est un plaisir de faire votre connaissance.” The consummate chameleon, he reached for her hand, bending to place a kiss on it.

  Though Pippa’s cheeks pinked at his touch, she cleared her throat. Extricated her fingers. “We’ve met already, sir.”

  Celine smothered a grin.

  “Quel charlatan!” Odette snorted as she sipped her wine. “They know who you are.”

  Bastien did not appear the least bit perturbed by her mockery. “But I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

  “Then permettez-moi.” A devious light glimmered in Odette’s eyes. “The stunning young lady to your right, with the raven hair and the eyes like Egyptian emeralds, is Celine—” She stopped short. Laughed. “I just realized I don’t know your proper name, mon amie.”

  Celine put out her hand, channeling indifference. “My name is Celine Rousseau.”

  Bastien took it. She sensed a hint of hesitation the moment his long fingers wrapped around hers. The slightest twinge, like he’d made an error in judgment and realized it far too late. A current of fire spread into her arm, moving slowly, as though the creature in her blood wished to savor the experience. Before Bastien could bend to kiss her hand, Celine tugged her palm from his grasp.

  Something unreadable passed across his features, there and gone before Celine could take in a breath. Then his smile turned savage in its amusement. An unspoken challenge.

  It emboldened Celine further. If he was going to play a game, she would simply play it better. She looked at Pippa and tilted her head, allowing a knowing twinkle to shine in her eye. Just the sort of look she’d seen countless young women of Parisian society share among themselves, as if they alone were privy to a delicious secret. “This is my dear friend, Miss Philippa Montrose.”

  Bastien bowed again to Pippa. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Montrose.”

  Pippa nodded, her unease obvious. Though Odette tried to appear indifferent to the unfolding scene, her attention flitted between Celine and Bastien as if she were witnessing a thread start to unravel. When she caught Celine staring at her, she diverted her gaze, focusing on Pippa’s wine-stained skirt.

  “Merde!” Odette swore. “I’m an absolute wretch. I completely forgot about your gown. Come with me.” She began walking with purpose toward the staircase.

  Pippa shook her head. “Don’t trouble yourself. It’s not—”

  “Nonsense.” Odette pivoted in place. “I’m certain Kassamir will have some—what was it?” Her fingertips snapped together, the sound crackling through the air. “Tonic water to remove the stain, as Celine suggested.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I insist.” Odette took Pippa by the hand. “If you don’t allow me to fix it, then at the very least you must permit me to replace your gown. The fabric is such a lovely . . . voile, isn’t it?” Her features brightened, an idea already taking shape in her mind. “We could go together tomorrow to see my modiste. She doesn’t have Celine’s eye or training, but she’s quite adept at—”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Valmont. This gown isn’t worth it. It’s very old. It . . . was passed down to me from a cousin.” Pippa winced at this admission, and something knifed behind Celine’s heart. Clearly it pained Pippa to disclose this detail, and Celine did not have the slightest inkling why.

  It bothered her to realize how little she knew about her only friend.

  Only an hour ago, Pippa had remarked that they weren’t truly friends. Not yet. It had chafed to hear it then, but Celine could not deny its truth now. Real friends freely shared their thoughts and feelings, their secrets, their fears. In Paris—before that terrible night—Celine had had two such friends, Monique and Josephine. She wondered if they thought of her now. If they worried about her. Questioned where she’d gone.

  If they knew she was now a murderess.

  After Pippa’s pained admission, Odette kept silent for a time. When next she spoke, her words were gentle. “Please let me help with this, ma choupette.” She took Pippa’s hand again, this time with less insistence. “And do call me Odette. I much prefer when my friends call me that.”

  In that moment, Celine decided that—one day—she would like to be friends with Odette Valmont, too. Pippa waited a moment. Then nodded once with a grateful smile. The two young women made their way toward the first-floor restaurant, on a quest to find Kassamir.

  Leaving Celine in a den of lions . . . standing beside Lucifer.

  DES QUESTIONS, DES QUESTIONS

  The moment their friends vanished downstairs, Celine and Bastien shared a glance. A charge hummed through the air, swirling around them like the beginning of a storm.

  Their smiles faded the next instant.

  A thick silence descended like a cloak about their shoulders. A part of Celine relished it. It felt honest. Absent pretense. In this moment, she could be who she was. It did not matter if she failed to adhere to the social mores of her day. Bastien would not judge her, for he was not a gentleman, just as Celine was not a lady.

  His posture relaxed further, almost as if he had come to the same conclusion. He spread his feet and settled into an informal stance. Celine found she enjoyed seeing him in this comfortable light. It made him appear more like a living, breathing person, rather than a subject of salacious gossip. He was, after all, nothing but a young man.

  Albeit a devilishly attractive one.

  Bastien pushed his lips forward again in obvious calculation. It drew attention to his mouth in a way that made Celine avert her gaze. She swallowed, dismissing a flurry of wanton thoughts. Half of her felt angered by this proof of her attraction. The other half appreciated the stark reminder that Bastien brought the worst version of Celine to the surface. The one cloaked in vice and sin.

  Another minute passed in silence. The longer they went without speaking, the heavier the charge in the air grew, until it took on a life of its own, a hooded specter looming above their heads.

  Celine refused to be the one who spoke first. Under pain of death. He could wait until the sun rose high in the sky tomorrow morning, for all she cared.

  “You arrived to New Orleans recently.” Bastien offered this as a statement of fact, rather than a question.

  “A little more than a week ago.” Celine paused, wondering if he recalled seeing her that first evening near Jackson Square. “You speak Spanish.”

  He nodded. “Because of my father.”

  “Your father was Spanish?”

  “No.”

  Celine waited for him to clarify, then sighed to herself when he didn’t. Not because she was troubled by his evasiveness, but rather because she understood his wish to thread a needle with every word he spoke.

  Yet another similarity.

  Vexed by this realization, Celine eased back on her left heel, the toes of her right foot tapping against the thick carpet.

  A smile ghosted across Bastien’s lips. “I’m irritating you.”

  “You’re enjoying it.”

  “I am.” His mouth shifted to one side, again pressed into that maddening pucker.

  Silence settled between them once more. Then Bastien took a step closer to Celine, no doubt to see how she would respond. If she moved back, she’d reveal her unease, thereby granting him the upper hand. If she shifted forward, she’d reveal her attraction . . . which also granted the fiend the upper hand.

  Celine did not give ground. She was a mountain. A hundred-year-old oak. A tower refusing to bend. “I can stand here forever in irritated silence. It is no bother to me.” She crossed her arms tightly, her forearms winding beneath her breasts, pushing against the boning in her corset. “You can perish wondering what I’m thinking, for I’ll never tell.”

  “Likewise.” The angles in Bastien’s features hollowed further. His eyes dippe
d downward instinctively before he caught them, his jawline flexing, sharpening.

  He glanced away.

  At first Celine did not understand his odd behavior. She let her gaze drift lower, only to drop her arms as though they’d burst into flame. “If you think I used my wiles to catch your notice like a girl trying to fill her dance card at a ball, then—”

  “Whatever I think has nothing to do with you,” Bastien interjected. “My behavior is not your responsibility.”

  His response unseated her. Shocked her into silence. She’d never heard such words fall from any man’s lips. Celine’s father had always scolded her for wearing anything that accentuated her figure. Alas, the latest fashions sought to do just that: give life to every line, sway to every curve. Even a lady’s unmentionables were designed to grant her the appearance of an hourglass. Nevertheless, Professor Guillaume Rousseau had encouraged his daughter to wear modesty pieces about her throat and dress in layers, even when the Parisian summers were at their worst.

  Bastien took a deep breath, as if he were biding his time. “I made you uncomfortable. I . . . apologize.”

  “You might be the first man who didn’t blame me for it,” Celine confessed, masking her shock by arching a brow.

  He nodded, his expression grim. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, the gleaming leather of his shoulder holster stretching, catching the light. “To answer the question you didn’t ask, my father was of Taíno heritage. I spent several years of my life in San Juan. Spanish is the language of my childhood.”

  This accounted for the trace of something different in his accent. Celine didn’t know what Taíno meant, but she remembered reading about a city named San Juan in a former Spanish colony somewhere in the Caribbean. She found herself wanting to know more. To learn why it was that his uncle had raised him from childhood.

  Because Celine wanted to know, she asked nothing.

  It was safer that way, for them both.

  “Are you enjoying your time in New Orleans?” It was the first question Bastien had posed to Celine that sounded contrived, as though it were meant for polite company. It grated her to hear it, for theirs had never been polite company. She preferred it that way.