The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  But it didn’t matter anymore.

  Proper society didn’t hold a place for Celine anyway. It was high time she removed herself from its confines.

  After she finished applying the final details of her costume, Celine placed Bastien’s letter into the pocket of her borrowed gown. She planned to reach inside every so often to pinch the piece of parchment between her fingers, imagining it was his neck.

  The idea alone steeled her spine. He might have avoided her earlier summons, but Sébastien Saint Germain would not be able to elude Celine tonight. Tonight she would have her answers. She would know the truth about the yellow ribbon. About his involvement in these murders. What exactly all the members of La Cour des Lions were.

  Finally she would know where they all stood.

  If they weren’t fighting with her, they were against her. And Celine intended to use every tool in her arsenal to protect those she cared about—and herself—from whatever may come.

  Even if Hell itself unleashed all its monsters on the Crescent City.

  * * *

  Rapturous screams rang along the hedge of ochre rosebushes at Celine’s back. A man streaked past the entrance to the garden maze, his garments covered in leaves, twigs placed strategically throughout his hair, champagne dribbling from his fluted glass. He laughed, glancing over his left shoulder while he ran. A young woman in diaphanous skirts dyed the color of palest jade almost rammed into Celine in her efforts to trail after the drunken gentleman. The girl raced into the boy’s arms, and they crashed into each other before dissolving in a fit of laughter.

  Celine inhaled slowly. It might have been a mistake for her to come here.

  The longer she wore this gown, the more she realized how ill it suited her. Its basque of emerald silk polonaise was hot, its layers of cream-colored underskirt heavy. Worse still, its smaller size had forced her to tightlace into her stays. And—as evinced by the other “costumes” guests had chosen for a soirée themed after Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—all her efforts had clearly been for naught.

  The members of New Orleans’ upper echelons had taken the party’s theme as nothing more than a light suggestion. Already Celine had caught sight of people dressed as forest nymphs or fairy sprites, replete with paste gems, translucent garments, and twigs affixed to their elegant frock coats. At least five satyrs were in attendance. Five young men from prominent families dressed as randy goats. One was already too many, in Celine’s opinion.

  Had they even seen or bothered to read the play?

  Celine had hoped to channel Hermia, a character named after the god of trade. As such, it felt fitting to don a dress the color of greed. Along her cheekbones and around her eyes, she’d stippled flakes of paper-thin gold leaf into the shape of coins, positioning them as if they were falling from the crown of ebony curls at the top of her head. Actual bills had been pinned to her coif, half of which she’d left down, thrown carelessly over one shoulder. It had been years since society had deemed it appropriate for Celine to wear her hair unbound in public.

  Hang society anyway. Well, hang it halfway at least.

  At Odette’s insistence, a final touch of powder made from crushed pearls had been dusted across Celine’s face and décolleté. “You simply must, my dear,” Odette had said, as if this made a sliver of sense.

  Every time Celine bent one way or leaned to reach for something, she could hear the seams of the emerald basque start to scream. She’d laced her stays as tightly as they would go, and still the rich green fabric across her bust was holding together on little but a prayer. By the end of the night, her breasts were likely to burst free from her corset, a sight that would draw a certain kind of ignominy. Though it would advance Celine’s removal from proper society, it might bring about this conclusion in an abrupt manner. One with which she was not yet entirely comfortable.

  But from the way the evening looked to be progressing, it might not be the most scandalous event of the night.

  The moment Celine and Odette had entered the glittering foyer of this magnificent home, champagne had been poured liberally, to any and all who wished to partake. Hours later, the glitziest pillars of New Orleans society were well into their cups. Already couples were disappearing into the hedgerow deep within the impressive labyrinth, seeking shadowy corners awash in fervent whispers.

  Celine fiddled with the low-cut edge of her emerald gown, trying in vain to tug it higher.

  “Stop fretting over it, mon amie. You’ll only draw more attention to the impressive swath of bare skin there,” Odette said from beside Celine, her long sheath dress falling from her shoulders in a cascade of lavender organza, her hair cocooned in a shimmering net atop her head. She’d styled herself in Regency garb, with a hint of Greco-Roman influence. A skein of whisper-thin tulle stained a deep Tyrian purple had been draped across her chest, its ends left to trail down her back. Around her waist was a golden girdle inspired by the character Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons.

  “I don’t mind a swath of bare skin,” Celine retorted. “I do mind my bare breasts spilling over the top of my dress at a party replete with satyrs.”

  Odette laughed, her ivory fan fluttering her loose brunette curls. “If that happens, you’ll have ten marriage proposals by the end of the evening.”

  “I have no intention of becoming the future Madame Goat.” Celine sniffed. “Besides that, I feel like a ham trussed up for holiday dinner.”

  Odette’s laughter rang into the starlit sky. “One glass of champagne, and you’re far more entertaining than the Bard himself.” The edges of her lovely face crinkled as she gazed upon Celine, her expression warm. “Before I forget, you look divine in that color. It’s a perfect match for your eyes.”

  Her words caused Celine to flinch. Her tormentor that night in the Quarter had used that word. Divine. Meaning “of the gods.” She certainly didn’t feel “of the gods” tonight.

  “I should have gone dressed as a tree,” Celine said in a flat tone. When her gaze ran the length of the hedgerow, she caught a glimpse of yet another satyr, his goat ears high on his curly head, a tail fashioned of wool and feathers pinned to the back of his gabardine trousers.

  Exasperation rippled through her chest. “Have any of these fools actually read the play?”

  Odette cackled with merriment, her long purple mantle swirling about her feet.

  A familiar figure caught Celine’s attention across the way. Her heart missed a beat when a pair of sapphire eyes skimmed dangerously close to where Celine stood, the smile below them sweet and serene.

  Pippa Montrose was in attendance at this soirée, dressed as Titania, the queen of the fairies, if Celine had to hazard a guess. She’d arrived on the arm of a placid young man with a slender frame and large round spectacles, likely Phoebus Devereux.

  Thankfully, it appeared Pippa had yet to spot Celine across the crowded expanse.

  Without a second thought, Celine turned in place, positioning her back to Pippa, all the while wishing she could shrink into the rosebushes. If Pippa saw her, a confrontation would likely ensue. Pippa had sent two messages to the hotel today alone, both inquiring after Celine’s welfare. In the latter part of the afternoon, Pippa had come to the Dumaine in person, hoping to check on her friend. Celine had begged off each attempt to make contact, spinning a web of white lies designed to keep Pippa as far away from her as possible, even if it meant damaging their relationship.

  Better that Pippa feel cast aside than remain in the murderer’s notice.

  “We should leave,” Celine muttered to Odette, just as another passel of jubilant partygoers hoisted a young man onto their shoulders and proceeded to cheer as if his horse had won the Derby.

  Odette drew closer, her features tufting with concern. “I thought you wanted to meet with Bastien. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong.” Celine struggled to appear nonchalant. “It
’s just been three hours since we arrived. If he had any intention of showing his face, he would be here by now.”

  Odette tossed a dismissive hand into the air, the jewels adorning her fingers flashing. Definitely not made of paste. “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, he’s always late to these kinds of things. The fiend enjoys making an entrance.”

  Despite Odette’s reassurances, doubt unfurled in Celine’s stomach. Madeleine and Hortense had arrived not long after Celine and Odette, dressed as ethereal fey, their dark shoulders gleaming with gold dust. Boone had trailed in their shadow a moment later, garbed in white, a literal halo about his head. A sight that had caused Odette’s body to shake with laughter.

  Celine was about to renew her objections when Odette waved her fingers in the air above her head, her smile bright.

  “Nigel!” Odette took hold of Celine’s hand to tug her along.

  Closer to where Pippa and Phoebus stood engaged in conversation with the crème de la crème of the Crescent City.

  “Odette,” Celine gasped, trying to extricate herself from Odette’s determined grip.

  The damp warmth of the night and the dull roar of the festivities succeeded in drowning out Celine’s protests. Nigel met them halfway, two masked figures sauntering behind him at an unhurried pace. His tall frame wove with ease around the countless bodies milling and spilling about. Like most of the other guests in attendance, he’d taken a rather blasé approach to his costume, resorting to winding a few willow branches around his arms, their leaves drooping, the overall effect lackluster, save for the laurel crown gracing his brow.

  Boone appeared out of nowhere, startling Celine as he sidled next to her, his loose white shirt billowing about his trim torso, the halo of gold across his forehead tilted askew.

  Grateful for the cover his closeness provided, Celine paused to peruse his attire. “And who are you supposed to be?”

  “Theseus,” Boone said without hesitation.

  “The founder hero of Athens?” Disbelief flared across Celine’s face. “Be serious. You’re dressed as an angel.”

  Boone shrugged. “Honestly I thought this was a fête for saints and sinners.”

  “And you thought to go dressed as a saint?”

  “Didn’t you know, darlin’?” he drawled. “All the best saints are sinners.”

  Despite everything, Celine laughed, the sound filling her lungs, causing her tightlaced stays to stretch farther. She pressed a hand to her sternum, exhaling slowly to catch her breath. With the hunger of a seasoned sinner, Boone ogled Celine’s chest, the irony not at all lost on her.

  Nigel grinned as Odette shoved Boone in the shoulder, a note of warning in her eyes. The next instant, she turned to Nigel and sighed a soul-deep sigh. “Just whom are you hoping to channel in that godforsaken costume? I expected better of you, Lord Fitzroy.”

  “Oberon, o’ course.” Nigel twisted the waxed ends of his ruddy mustache, his expression mischievous, his accent thick. “One and only king o’ the fairies.”

  “King of the overgrown trees, more like,” Odette teased as she tore away a lifeless leaf along his elbow.

  He peered down at her with exaggerated imperiousness. “Regardless, I lord over every’fing in my dominion. Kneel before me, Hippolyta.”

  “You lord over nothing, my silly, sweet boy.” Odette swiped a gloved fingertip beneath his chin, a ghost of a smile lingering on her face. “Least of all the queen of the Amazons.”

  Nigel bowed deeply, the leaves wrapped around his wrist trembling from his motions. He sent a cheeky nod to Celine, whose attention strayed toward the two masked figures loitering in his shadow. Perhaps loitering was the wrong word. For neither gentleman appeared to be the least bit concerned with the unfolding spectacle.

  One of them was obviously Arjun Desai. The mask of a donkey concealed the upper half of his burnished face. A felt tail had been attached to his backside. At least he’d paid the soirée’s theme the appropriate due, for he obviously meant to portray Nick Bottom, the poor fool transformed into a beast of burden by the notorious trickster, Robin Goodfellow.

  Arjun scanned his surroundings, his eyes falling on Pippa, his lips twitching. “Is that your friend on the arm of Phoebus Devereux?” he asked Celine.

  “I believe so,” she replied in noncommittal fashion. Hoping he would not press the matter further.

  “Fascinating.” Arjun’s grin widened as he cast a meaningful glance toward the tall, broad-shouldered young man to his left. A mask covered the entirety of his face, complete with a set of spiraled horns twisting away from his brow, the profile reminiscent of a bull. His body was swathed in a leather greatcoat, its large black collar turned up, further shrouding his features from view.

  His only identifier was the gold signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand, embossed with the seal of La Cour des Lions.

  Celine’s gaze lingered on the ring, and Bastien’s graceful fingers flexed at his sides, as if they could sense her unwavering study. It should have meant nothing for Celine to notice this particular crack in his façade. But—to her endless chagrin—it caused her stomach to tighten and her skin to tingle as if she’d stepped out into a bracing winter’s night.

  His awareness made her feel alive. Which meant it fell somewhere between nothing and everything. A bothersome development, to be sure. Almost as troubling as the inevitable question that followed.

  Was Bastien pleased to see her, or was he irritated?

  This was the first time they’d seen each other since admitting their mutual attraction. The night they’d agreed to be nothing more than mere acquaintances. Alas, the presence of a mere acquaintance would not cause a swarm of butterflies to take flight in Celine’s stomach, to cluster around her heart, their wings fluttering.

  Frustration warmed beneath her skin.

  Odette struck a dramatic pose, her right hip jutting forward as she gestured toward Bastien. “Pray tell, just who are you supposed to be?”

  “The Minotaur.” A rich voice emanated from behind the bull mask, amusement rounding its tone.

  “Is there a Minotaur in Shakespeare’s play?” Odette queried.

  Bastien shook his horned head once.

  “Well, bully for you,” Celine joked, wishing she could see his eyes. Wishing she could read his thoughts like the pages of a beloved book, pausing to savor every word. Her fingers moved into her pocket of their own volition, pinching his insolent note, stoking the anger in her blood, hoping the blaze would overcome the desire.

  The bull’s head tilted in Celine’s direction, the motion filled with scorn. Then Bastien glanced away, as if he were bored with the very idea of her.

  Though it was subtle, his dismissal enraged Celine beyond reason, the fire of fury swallowing everything in its path. She crumpled the note in her fist. He’d already disregarded her once today. After which Celine had gone to immense trouble to attend this godforsaken gathering, all with the intention of confronting him.

  And he thought to treat her with derision?

  Madness, to the very end. It was true a foolish part of Celine had wanted to see him and be seen in return. She deserved to feel wounded now. Nothing good ever came from succumbing to madness.

  No matter. To borrow his own words, Celine would grant Bastien no quarter. He’d trifled with her long enough. These weren’t the actions of an acquaintance. These were the actions of an enemy. She’d had her fill of enemies.

  If Bastien was the Minotaur, Celine would be Theseus, armed with the sword of Aegeus.

  Ready to slay the beast.

  As if Arjun could taste the discomfort collecting in the air, he laughed, pushing his donkey mask up his face, the silk ties swiping through his unruly waves. “Well, I’d wager this event to be the height of this season’s debauchery. Anyone care to name the terms?” His British accent sounded too refined for a party in which satyrs roamed the ga
rdens with insidious ease. Too cultured for a night in which drunken fools lost their inhibitions in a maze of fragrant rosebushes, forgetting all their thorns.

  As if to illustrate the point, a striking young woman with hair the color of smoldering embers poured a glass of bubbling champagne down the pale skin of her throat, letting it dribble between her collarbones and soak through the front of her bodice. It traced the shape of her breasts before she feigned outrage, as if she’d simply missed her mouth, her ensuing giggles high and false.

  Whatever attention the girl sought to garner, she succeeded. Every eye—male and female alike—was locked on her slender form, equal parts scandalized and tantalized. With a smug smile, she whirled into her circle of tittering friends, safe and cosseted.

  For now.

  Distracted by the exhibition, Pippa’s shocked gaze landed on Celine, the same realization stealing through them in the next breath. A flash of pain shimmered across Pippa’s features, her lips parting in surprise. The next instant, she leaned toward her escort, speaking with him in hushed tones.

  Celine knew it would take less than ten paces for Pippa to face her. Less than half that for the murderer to notice, were he present, as she suspected. And Celine simply could not allow that to happen.

  Panic took root in her stomach. Maddening laughter lilted into the air around them, mingling with incessant chatter. The scent of fresh herbs and the iron of overturned soil filled her nostrils as Celine looked about, seeking an escape.

  In a single, sinuous motion, Bastien removed his bull mask, his silver eyes like storm clouds, his expression guarded. As if he could sense her distress.

  They locked gazes for a blink of time.

  The next instant, Celine wheeled about without warning, rushing toward the entrance of the maze, her cream-colored hem snagging on thorns as she ran.