The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(8)

The girl let her lace-gloved fingers graze over a handkerchief’s scalloped edging. “This is superb work.”

“Thank you.” Celine inclined her head.

“Reminds me of something I saw the last time I was in Paris.”

It was impossible to miss the excitement on Pippa’s face. “Celine studied under one of the premier couturières there.”

Celine pressed her lips together, cursing her pride. She never should have shared that particular detail with Pippa.

“Which one?” The girl raised her eyebrows at Celine.

“Worth’s,” Celine lied.

“Along Rue de la Paix?”

Celine swallowed. Then nodded. Already she could feel the urge to run from her skin take hold, and she had not even disclosed anything of significance. Nothing that would tie her to the events of that fateful night in the atelier.

“Is that so?” the girl said. Her dainty features set with conviction. “I’ll take them all.” She waved a hand over the handkerchiefs, as though she were casting a spell.

“All?” Anabel sputtered, the ends of her yellow ribbon fluttering in the heavy breeze. “Well, far be it from me to dissuade ye . . . Time and tide waits for no woman, and all that.”

While Anabel collected the handkerchiefs to tally the total, Celine gazed at the girl standing before them, perplexed by the sudden turn of events. Something about her unnerved Celine. Like a memory she should recall. A word lost midsentence. A thought unraveling midair. The young woman allowed Celine’s perusal, her grin growing wider with each passing second.

“If you studied with a couturière, are you able to design gowns?” the girl asked.

Again, Celine nodded. “Mais oui, bien s?r.”

“Merveilleux!” She leaned closer, her eyes glinting like warm chalcedony. “I’ve been struggling with my current modiste, and I’m in desperate need of a costume for the masquerade ball on Mardi Gras next month. The Russian Grand Duke is to be the special guest this year, and I will need something memorable to mark the occasion. Something bright white and reminiscent of the French court before the revolution, I believe.” She wrinkled her nose, as though she were about to share a delicious secret. “Really—despite all the ridiculousness with the pig chasing and the perfume—I do think it was one of the finest times for women’s fashion in recent history, panniers and all.” The girl drummed her gloved fingers along the edge of the wooden table, her head tilted in consideration. “I suppose you would need to measure me in order to begin the process?”

Another pert retort barreled from Celine’s lips. “Yes, mademoiselle. That would be wise.”

The center of the girl’s eyes sparkled as though she could hear Celine’s thoughts. “You’re absolutely delightful. Like Bastien in a dress.” She laughed to herself. “That snide fiend.”

Lines of confusion gathered across Celine’s forehead. Was the young woman insulting her or complimenting her?

“En tout cas . . .” the girl continued, her free hand waving through the air as if to disperse smoke. “Would it be possible for you to meet me later this evening?”

Celine thought quickly. The day after they’d arrived in port, the Mother Superior had cautioned them about venturing alone into the city at night, especially during carnival season. She’d spoken as though they were all foolish little lambs, and the Vieux Carré nothing but a hunting ground for wolves. Not to mention the fact that a violent death had occurred recently along the nearby pier.

Given all these facts, it was unlikely the Mother Superior would permit Celine to go.

With this realization came a surprising rush of disappointment. Though Celine did not feel comfortable in the presence of this rambling, oddly attired girl, she nevertheless felt . . . intrigued. Even a tad bit reckless.

When the girl sensed Celine’s reluctance, her lips puckered with displeasure. “Of course I will pay you handsomely.”

Celine didn’t doubt it. The ivory cameo alone was worth a fortune. But it was not about the money. It was about the rightness. She owed herself this second chance. And angering the Mother Superior seemed unwise.

“I’m sorry, mademoiselle.” Celine shook her head. “I just don’t think it would be possible. The Mother Superior would not permit it.”

“I see.” A long sigh passed the girl’s lips. “Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

“Pardon?” Celine’s eyes went wide. “Are you quoting . . . Shakespeare?”

And Hamlet, at that.

“The one and only.” The girl grinned. “But, alas, I must be on my way. Is there no chance you might change your mind? You have but to name your price.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Celine. Hours ago, from a place of insolence, she’d suggested it might be better to earn money beneath the light of the moon. Here was an offer to do so. One without limit.

In that moment—listening to this strange girl quote Shakespeare and tantalize her with possibility—Celine realized she wanted to go. Badly. It was the first time in recent memory she’d felt this particular spark of anticipation ignite within her. She wanted to create something and be a part of the world instead of merely observing it. Already she’d begun envisioning ways to fashion the wide-hooped, baroque-style panniers. To construct a manteau with dripping pagoda sleeves. Her hesitation now was a last effort to hold firm to her convictions.