The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(51)

Bastien wanted to laugh. Instead he grimaced. He could swear he’d seen Phoebus adjust his spectacles while speaking. Like a gazelle who’d limped onto the Serengeti at the exact moment the lions decided to feed. Ash and Art would not be kind to him for this transgression.

“Shut your sniveling mouth, you little rat,” Ash yelled over his shoulder.

“No one cares what you have to say,” Art echoed like the good little sycophant he’d been raised to be.

Bastien crossed his arms and leaned against a steel column. He took a moment to check his pulse, pressing two fingers of his left hand against the side of his throat. Though he desperately wanted to take these spoiled bastards to task (or at least imagine what it would feel like to do so), he held his tongue and allowed the scene to unfold.

Bastien hated this bullshit.

That raised the question: why was he here at all?

His lips pushed forward, his eyes panning across the silhouette of New Orleans.

Because Sébastien Saint Germain loved money. In his nearly nineteen years, he’d discovered there were only two things he loved more: his family and his city. Money made all manner of grievances disappear. It erased sins and paved pathways into palaces of power and influence. It made what had been impossible, possible.

It was the greatest lesson his dead parents had ever taught him. With money, you could buy anything and everything. Even a way to save your own life.

It was a shame his parents hadn’t learned that lesson in time to spare themselves.

Or émilie.

Bastien pressed away from the metal column, drawing closer to the edge of the unfinished structure. “So what do you think?”

Ash spun around, grabbing hold of a steel cable to maintain his balance. “I think it’s precisely the kind of project my father would love.”

“He’s been telling us for some time that Marigny is in need of a fine hotel,” Art added. “It’s in a perfect location, so close to the Quarter.”

“He knows that,” Ash spat at his younger brother. “It’s why he picked it, you fool.”

“Why my uncle picked it,” Bastien corrected, keeping his tone mild. Good-natured.

Decidedly unmurderous.

“I’ll definitely discuss it with him,” Ash said. “It’s the perfect project for me to whet my appetite.”

“And put that expensive Princeton education to good use,” Art teased.

“Trust me, I’ve put it to good use. Just ask the whores on the other side of Rampart.” Ash chortled like a drunken hyena.

Even the way he laughed made Bastien want to deck him. To stop and watch the blood drip from his nose.

To relish what happened next.

“The city planning committee might present a problem, however,” Phoebus interjected yet again. “They haven’t granted anyone permission to build a hotel this tall in . . . forever.”

Art shoved Phoebus in the arm, the slighter boy stumbling into a steel column. “Who gives a rat’s ass about them?”

“You and your brother seem to have a disturbing fixation with rodents,” Bastien replied. “And you’re not wrong, Phoebus. I was hoping to consult with you about that.” He shifted alongside the boy, careful to keep his posture light. Unthreatening. A feat in itself, as he stood nearly half a head taller than the youngest Devereux. “Your opinion on how to go about this would be much appreciated.”

Bastien didn’t need his opinion. He needed a member of the politically connected Devereux family in his pocket. Phoebus was as good a mark as any. He’d recently returned from a stint at Oxford, and rumor had it his mother had grand plans for him in the way of a political future.

Politics was the next great frontier.

Bastien patted Phoebus on the shoulder as if they were old chums. Shrewd business was about identifying an opponent’s fatal flaw . . . and exploiting it. “You’d be of great help to me in this matter. I’d appreciate it immensely.”

Phoebus swallowed, his brown eyes bright behind the rims of his spectacles, betraying how flattered he was to have garnered Bastien’s notice. “I’ll look into it.”

“Good man.” Bastien struck his shoulder again, this time a little too hard.

He needed Phoebus to stand up straighter. Speak with conviction. If he did, he would be a force to be reckoned with one day. Worth at least four of Art and eight of Ash.

Art tugged a leather-wrapped flask from inside his frock coat pocket. He took a long swig and passed it to his elder brother. “I don’t know if the Sun God is going to be any help to you on this, Bastien. He’s too busy scaring away all the wenches his mother keeps tossing his way.”

“Now she’s even trying to recruit from the dregs at the Ursuline convent.” Ash guffawed again.

Bastien gritted his teeth and checked his pulse a second time.

A wicked light flashed in Art’s eyes. “I heard there are a few choice morsels among the latest arrivals.”

Ash laughed even louder, the scent of stale liquor spoiling the balmy night air. “Maybe I should have a look.” He sneered at Phoebus. “Would you even know what to do with a honeypot, Devereux?”

Rage swirled in Bastien’s fists. A bloodlust longing to be slaked.

He needed to mind his temper. It had often been his undoing as a boy. It had cost Bastien the thing his uncle had desired most for him: an education at West Point and all that it entailed. Now Uncle Nico insisted he marry well to remedy the loss, a prospect Bastien despised. The tittering débutantes of New Orleans—as well as their meddling mothers—wearied him past the point of reason, a fact that amused his uncle a great deal.