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.
THE GHOST
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 toward 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?” 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 everyone. 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 continuing to flicker in a disconcerting way. Again Celine was momentarily 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 prevent 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 chamber 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.
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 beneath 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 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 steadying herself against Celine, cackling alongside her. Unsurprisingly, 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 fellow stepped forward to yank Arjun to his feet with an uncanny amount of strength, his ruddy mustache curling along its waxed edges.
“’Ad enough, me good man?” he said in a gruff Cockney accent. 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.”