The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(47)

“I . . . think I understand what you mean,” Celine said. “Thank you for the information,” she said in a cold tone while Arjun bristled beyond the tines of wrought iron.

“Bastien destroys everything he touches,” Michael continued in a strident tone, “unless it’s something as soulless as money. With money, he is indeed a dark prince.”

“I appreciate the warning, but Monsieur Saint Germain and I are unlikely to spend time in each other’s company, as I have no interest in having anything to do with him.”

“I wish he shared the sentiment.”

Celine chose to ignore that comment. She glanced toward the gate, where Pippa gazed at her with an expression of undisguised curiosity. Arjun, meanwhile, shot daggers at Michael’s back, then tilted his head at Celine in a spuriously lighthearted fashion.

“I’d very much like to see you again, Celine,” Michael announced, as if he had something to prove.

Shocked to her core by this open admission, Celine nearly lost her footing. This fool, she wondered, believes I would afford him notice after he mocked me and harangued me about a murder for two days straight?

Celine thought quickly, wondering what he hoped to achieve by making such a spectacle. It couldn’t be as simple as annoying Bastien, could it? God save her from the pettiness of young men. Or perhaps . . .

“I’d like that as well, Michael,” Celine replied.

It would be smart to keep in Detective Grimaldi’s good graces. Not to mention that it would irritate her traitor of an attorney immensely. Celine caught herself on the verge of grinning. Arjun had witnessed her chumming with Bastien’s enemy. She’d bet anything the wily lawyer would be sure to add that particular detail to his collection of useless scribblings.

Bully for him, Celine thought with dark delight.

How she wished she could see Bastien’s face when Arjun informed him of today’s developments. It served them right.

The next time, they would know better than to use Celine Rousseau as a pawn.





A MURDERESS AT SUNDAY MASS




    Mon amie,

I’ve discovered the perfect silk for my ball gown at a shop that imports fabric directly from China. It glows like a pearl and feels like water against the skin. I’ve already purchased bolts and bolts of it. I can’t wait to show them to you when they arrive at Jacques’ later tonight.

Bastien plans to meet this morning with the monsignor.

Look for me after Mass.

I’ll be the one with the devil.

Bisous,

Odette



Celine read Odette’s letter three times. Even upon multiple readings, its contents failed to sound any less ridiculous.

Only a ruthless fiend like Bastien would attend Mass at the church near the Ursuline convent a mere week after one of its residents perished in his establishment. And only a fearless creature like Odette would insist on accompanying him simply so she could speak with her new modiste about a gown for the masquerade ball.

At the mere thought of Bastien, Celine harrumphed.

But Odette—as always—delighted her.

Would the warring dualities within Celine ever cease?

She sighed. As more time passed, it seemed increasingly unlikely.

Celine stood naked in the center of her cell, cold dread coursing through her at the thought of what today would bring. Her skin was damp, the air around her perfumed by the lavender castile soap she’d used in her recent bath. It was a joy afforded her on rare occasions, this chance to bathe in the large copper tub shared by all the young women residing in the convent. Most evenings, she was relegated to a bucket of cold water and a half ration of unscented soap.

Breathing deeply of the soothing lavender fragrance, Celine donned a clean pair of drawers and laced the ties of her chemise below her collarbone. Then she secured the front of her stays across her midriff and made a face before pulling the ties tightly behind her until her waist appeared outlandishly small in comparison to her bust and hips.

As always, it took a moment to regain her bearings after cinching herself into her corset.

Celine fastened the white ribbons of her linen camisole over the whalebone stays. She turned in place to study the three garments strewn across her narrow rope bed, trying to decide which of her shabby gowns was the least shabby.

She’d worn the blue dress to Mass last Sunday, which meant the striped one was her next best option.

With an exaggerated sigh, Celine reached for the salmon-colored gown. She’d be hot in it, but it was the least rumpled and still held a trace of its former luster.

Celine stepped into the cage of her crinolette and adjusted the bustle behind her. She knotted the strings of her best petticoat about her waist before jumping up and down to straighten the skirt over the narrow expanse of oval hoops.

Finally she tied the striped foundation skirt and its matching apron overskirt atop the linen petticoat before reaching for the coordinating bodice and beginning the arduous task of fastening all the tiny buttons up the front.

When Celine was finished, she gazed down at her dress, wishing the convent had a mirror of any kind somewhere close by. A way to determine whether she looked as foolish as she felt.

Celine supposed her gown appeared . . . serviceable. When she’d first made it more than a year ago, it was pretty and fashionable. Weeks in the sodden hold of a ship on a transatlantic crossing had altered the fabric irreparably.