The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

  ahead of myself.” Odette leaned conspiratorially toward Pippa,

  who stood to one side, her fingers threading and unthreading

  through each other. “Don’t believe all the nasty rumors. Bas-

  tien’s uncle is a gem. After Bastien’s parents died, he took him

  in as a boy and cared for him like his own.”

  Celine cleared her throat, bewildered by the onslaught of

  information. “This is the first I’ve heard of the count, and I

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  was only . . . introduced to his nephew this evening.”

  Odette tilted her head. “The count is not in the city at present, but I suspect Bastien should arrive at any moment.” She began

  scanning the plush carpet, her gaze weaving around the chair

  legs. “In any case, you should be on the lookout for Toussaint.”

  “What?” Celine refrained from shifting backward. “We

  should be looking for something . . . on the floor?” After wit-

  nessing chess pieces offer their own surrender, Celine did not

  want to be caught unawares by naughty parlor tables or stools

  with errant senses of humor.

  “Don’t be alarmed. It’s really nothing at all.” Odette gestured

  once more with her hands, a reaction Celine had come to

  associate with agitation. “Toussaint . . . is Bastien’s Burmese python.” She rushed through her next words. “Really he’s completely harmless. The poor angel adores his rest and wouldn’t

  hurt a mouse.” She grimaced and bit her lip. “Zut alors. I meant

  figuratively, of course.” Odette brightened. “Just wait. Before

  you know it, you’ll all be the best of friends.”

  It took a moment for her explanation to register, disjointed

  as it was.

  Bastien’s Burmese python.

  Bastien’s giant snake.

  Though the serpent in question had yet to make an ap-

  pearance, Pippa stifled a small shriek and jumped backward,

  scrambling for a chair or something upon which to stand.

  Celine remained rooted to one spot, a familiar rush coursing

  through her veins.

  Odette cast them a rueful glance. “Occasionally, Toussaint

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  does like to wrap himself around anything warm, but please know you have nothing to fear. I only mentioned him because—if you don’t know to look for him—he can be a bit . . .

  disconcerting.”

  “A snake?” Pippa squeaked, looking for all the world as if she

  wanted to melt into the paneled wall at her back. “What kind of

  person has a pet snake?”

  “Lucifer,” Celine said in a flat voice. “Lucifer would have a pet snake.”

  A trill of laughter burst from Odette’s lips as she reached for

  her glass of wine. “Ah, you simply must tell me what happened

  when you were introduced this evening. How delicious!”

  Celine sucked in her cheeks to marshal her retort.

  Pippa’s blue eyes darted across the floor while she gnawed on

  her lower lip, her fingers toying with the golden cross around

  her neck. “We encountered Mr. Saint Germain on our way

  here. He wasn’t”—she hesitated—“as gracious as he should

  have been.”

  “I’m unsurprised to hear that,” Odette said. “Bastien is like a

  character from a childhood nursery rhyme. When he’s good,

  he’s very, very good. When he’s bad, well . . . I’m sure you can

  finish the rest.”

  Celine certainly could. But she refused to waste more time

  contemplating that wretched boy and his ridiculous pet snake.

  It would take effort, but Celine intended to put a swift end to . . .

  whatever worrisome interest this beautiful boy had managed to

  wake in her.

  In truth, she didn’t understand it at all. They’d barely spent

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  less than a moment in each other’s presence, and a handsome face was not enough to distract her from his many misdeeds.

  Before the night was through, Celine intended to have a firm

  rein on her emotions.

  Nothing good ever came from letting them run amok.

  Her gaze settled on a painting in a gilt frame across the room.

  She let her sight distort until its edges glowed molten gold. Ce-

  line hated how much her notice of a boy like Bastien brought

  to light how broken she was. In one short evening, he’d become

  a proverbial thorn in Celine’s side. A reminder that something

  inside her was not right.

  Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it wasn’t a fascination with him

  at all. Perhaps it was the allure of the creature that lurked within her. Not too long ago, that creature had granted her immense

  power over a tormenter and freedom over her life.

  But it had also made her a murderess.

  Celine’s expression hardened. She would put an end to all of

  it. Immediately.

  It would have worked. Later, Celine would swear she’d been

  on the cusp of victory, intent on shoving anything related to

  Sébastien Saint Germain deep into a dark abyss. To make him

  disappear forever.

  All would have gone to plan.

  If not for the high-pitched scream that suddenly tore through

  the room.

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  The Ghost

  i

  Pippa’s bloodcurdling shriek echoed through the chamber,

  rebounding off the paneled walls, setting the golden tassels

  atremble. It rent the space in two, like a crack had split across the plush carpeting, Hell yawning in fiery fathoms below.

  Truly it was an impressive achievement, that scream.

  The moment it left Pippa’s lips, every member of La Cour des

  Lions leapt into action, their bodies tensed and alert. Odette

  scrambled to Pippa’s side, the glass of red wine in her hand

  tipping, its contents splashing on Pippa’s skirts. Before Celine

  could blink, a stylish man from the Far East moved swiftly to-

  ward them, brandishing a mother-of-pearl dagger. He halted

  at her shoulder, twirling his blade from one hand to the other.

  Boone sauntered into view while flipping an ice pick in the air.

  The two women with the dangerous rings posed like panthers

  about to spring, their fingers forming claws, as though their

  opulent jewels were really weapons instead of adornments. The

  victor of the recent chess match simply laid a pistol on the table before him, his bearded features cool and collected.

  Celine gripped her friend’s elbow, yanking her back, angling

  her body in front of Pippa’s, like a shield. “What happened?”

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  she demanded of her friend in a hushed voice. “Are you all right?”

  Guilt pulled at the corners of Pippa’s mouth. “I . . . thought

  something brushed across my foot,” she said in a breathless

  tone, her expression one of bewilderment. “I must have been

  mistaken.” She spoke louder, pitching her voice through the

  room. “I deeply regret having frightened every
one. There is

  nothing amiss. Please accept my humblest apology.”

  Those poised to attack did not stand down. Many of them

  continued staring at Pippa, their features wary, their eyes con-

  tinuing to flicker in a disconcerting way. Again Celine was mo-

  mentarily struck by her earlier thought:

  Inhuman.

  But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? It was one thing to believe

  in magic and illusion. Another entirely to believe in creatures

  of childish fancy.

  Pippa took in a great gulp of air, her face flushed. “I’m truly

  sorry,” she said again, even louder, while trying in vain to pre-

  vent the spilled wine from soaking through her skirts.

  “Don’t apologize any more,” Celine muttered. “A pox on that

  damned snake and its fool of a master.”

  Then—as if Pippa’s scream had sent a message through the

  paneled walls—one of the two doors in the back of the cham-

  ber opened, a rush of cool air racing over the exposed skin at

  Celine’s chest and throat. At first, nothing emerged from the

  entrance, but then those nearby shifted slightly, as though to

  allow someone—or something—passage.

  “Ah, there he is.” Odette beamed.

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  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 be-

  neath 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

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  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 steady-

  ing herself against Celine, cackling alongside her. Unsurpris-

  ingly, 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 fel-

  low stepped forward to yank Arjun to his feet with an uncanny

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  amount of strength, his ruddy mustache curling along its waxed edges.

  “ ’Ad enough, me good man?” he said in a gruff Cockney ac-

  cent. 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

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  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 stom-

  ach. 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 u
naffected.

  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 Span-

  ish and French. Unruffled by her tirade, Bastien shifted past

  Celine and Pippa, his strides unhurried, his movements liq-

  uid. 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

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  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 hol-

  ster, 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 plea-

  sure at finding her here.

  It emboldened Celine. Urged her to dismiss him as summar-

  ily 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 ques-

  tion. 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 darken-

  ing. Under normal circumstances, Celine suspected this icy

  glower engendered fear in others. Moved them to obey, with-

  out 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