The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(93)

“Sébastien is not for you, Miss Rousseau,” Jae interjected, his voice no more than a whisper. “Have a care with your heart . . . and your life.”

The first cut.

Indignation took shape in Celine’s chest. She opened her mouth to retort when a noise resonated from the darkness at her back. The thud of approaching footsteps. She fought the urge to shudder the instant a pair of willowy figures glided past her.

The two young women with the unforgettable rings. In the starlight, their gems sparked like wildfire, their skin lustrous and dark, their silk skirts immaculate.

Bastien’s uncle watched Celine as they passed. “Madeleine de Morny is the most gifted tactician I’ve encountered in my life, a rival of Napoleon himself. Her younger sister, Hortense, sings like a songbird and dances like the wind.” The count leaned on his walking stick, gripping the lion in his palm. “But above all, I prize their candor. Madeleine is honest to a fault, and Hortense incapable of deceit.”

Celine gnawed at the inside of her cheek as the two women came to stand at the count’s right hand.

Madeleine de Morny stared at Celine without batting an eye. “Bastien est trop dangereux pour la santé,” she warned. “Be smarter than this, mademoiselle.”

A wicked smile unwound across Hortense’s face. “à moins que vous souhaitiez jouer à l’imbecile.”

Cuts two and three.

Another gust of wind blew from Jae’s back, fanning through his long black hair.

Whistling from the shadows, Boone sauntered toward them, his hands in his pockets, his cherubic curls splayed across his forehead. “Ah, darlin’ ,” he began when he met Celine’s gaze. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

“Let me guess,” Celine said. “You’re here to tell me to stay away from Bastien.”

A rueful expression crossed his face. “I would avoid it if I could. I like you, Celine Rousseau. You vex Bastien greatly. Bet you cut your teeth on it.” He grinned, then his features soured all at once. “But we just lost Nigel. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“An excellent point, Monsieur Ravenel. The loss of one among us is indeed an agonizing blow,” the count agreed in a soft tone. “As always, I appreciate your support and your wisdom.” Again he returned his attention to Celine.

The fourth cut.

Despite her rising irritation, Celine felt herself start to curl inward, the fear threatening to overcome all else. The next instant, she forced herself to rally. To channel the goddess Selene, who lorded over the night sky and all its countless stars. “Monsieur le Comte, I’ve heard much about you over the past few weeks. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” Though Celine tried her best not to sound cheeky, she knew she’d failed the moment Boone snorted and Hortense cackled.

“Comme une reine des ténèbres.” Hortense repeated her words from that evening at Jacques’, amusement coiling across her features. Celine almost laughed at the absurdity. If she was a queen of anything at all, she was Marie Antoinette, on her way to meet the guillotine.

To his credit, the count merely smiled, his amber eyes gleaming. “And a pleasure to make yours, ma chérie.”

In an ideal world, Celine should be striving to charm Bastien’s uncle. But that chance had vanished like smoke in the wind. After all, only a fool would try to charm a man whose first inclination was to threaten her.

Nicodemus Saint Germain had, without a doubt, succeeded in frightening Celine with this show of bravado. But she had no intention of cowering in his shadow. “I do not wish to be disrespectful, Monsieur le Comte, but you claim to prize candor, so I submit that there’s no need to belabor your point.” She glanced pointedly at his gathering retinue. “It’s clear you don’t find me a suitable companion for your nephew. But in fairness, you know very little about me.”

“On the contrary, I know a great deal about you, Marceline Béatrice Rousseau.”

Again her full name echoed in her ears, the sound carrying high above the soughing treetops. And again her heart raced behind her ribs in response.

Soft laughter fell from the count’s lips, as if he could sense her mounting fear. “Until recently, you resided with your scholarly father on the third floor of a small flat in Montmartre.” He took another step forward. Celine could not help it when she eased backward in tandem. Her body made the choice before she could reason with it.

Nicodemus continued, “And worked under the tutelage of the famed Camille de Beauharnais.” He paused with meaning. “In the uppermost floor of her atelier . . . beneath a lace of shimmering chandeliers.”

The thudding of Celine’s heart clawed into her throat.

He knows. Her worries invaded her mind. He knows.

The two words raced through her brain in time with her pulse. She fought to maintain her composure, her fingers gripping the silver dagger, her nails digging into her palms to the point of pain. “It’s clear you’ve learned much about my past, monsieur. You obviously have great resources at your disposal. But these details do not necessarily inform my present.”

Nicodemus’ smile was punishing. “I’ve heard you also enjoy being reckless. Venturing to places you’ve been forbidden. Lying through your teeth and flouting the rules.”