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.
“Being bored by them is far better than being enamored,” Uncle Nico would say. “Never fall in love with a mortal, for love is an affliction. It always ends in blood,” he’d warned countless times, in countless tongues.
Anger had also cost Bastien his sister, a young woman with a fiery temper and a ferocious heart. A lump gathered in his throat, as it always had for more than a decade. He swallowed it the next instant, disdaining any sign of weakness. Any chance for an opponent to best him.
Though Bastien fought it, his thoughts drifted unbidden to another young woman with a fierce soul. To her unflinching nerve and rapier wit. To the darkness that lingered in her gaze. To hair that glistened like a raven’s wing and eyes the color of envy.
Bastien wanted to slide his fingers into that hair. Loosen it from its bonds. Let it cascade around her shoulders in a waterfall of black ink. Pause to grip the silken strands before savoring the salt on her skin.
Love is an affliction.
Frustration heated through Bastien’s veins.
He had no time for such nonsense, despite what Odette had to say. Managing his uncle’s affairs consumed most of Bastien’s waking hours. Following General Lee’s surrender at Appomattox seven years ago, Nicodemus Saint Germain had begun buying land in port cities throughout the South with a plan to one day own the largest collection of luxury hotels in the country. Most of the year, Uncle Nico traveled between his holdings in New York and Charleston, leaving control of their New Orleans operation largely to Bastien. As such, there was always someone who needed something, be it a word in the right person’s ear or an intervening handful of coin. Countless decisions to be made at the drop of a hat.
Celine Rousseau was an unwelcome distraction. She brought with her nothing but trouble, as she’d proved several days ago during Michael’s interrogation at the convent, when she’d attempted to bait them both. A silly attempt that, by all rights, should have failed.
Alas, it did not. It was as if she held Bastien by a spell, even at a distance. As if he’d been told not to think of the color red. Now all he saw were its vibrant hues. In the sunrise and the sunset. In every trembling flower. In the splash of wine into a crystal glass.
It always ends in blood.
Bastien already had too much to lose. This beguiling girl—with a sense of humor to match his own and a story begging to be told—would not be yet another casualty. Not if he could help it.
“I’ll be sure to speak with my father about this tomorrow,” Ash said with a toothsome grin.
Bastien countered with an equally obnoxious smile. “Excellent. Then I suggest we return to terra firma and grab ourselves a plate of the best sole meunière in the city, along with a chilled bottle of Chateau d’Ygeum.”
Art howled into the sky while clomping drunkenly toward the suspended platform system positioned alongside the structure, Phoebus trailing in his footsteps.
Ash lingered behind for a second. “The only thing is . . .” He pulled Bastien closer by gripping his forearm, an action that sent the ball of latent anger from Bastien’s chest into his throat. “I know my father isn’t going to cotton to some of your . . . associates.”
A cool wash of surprise unfurled down Bastien’s spine. Either Ash was far more reckless than Bastien had first surmised, or he was a complete fool. Neither boded well for the bastard. Nevertheless, they’d reached a critical juncture in their conversation. A decision needed to be made. Bastien knew what Ash meant. He simply wanted to hear him say it.
So he raised a brow in question.
“Come off it, Bastien, you know of what I speak,” Ash continued.
Bastien widened his smile. It appeared his bloodlust might be slaked tonight after all. “I haven’t the faintest clue which of my associates troubles your father. You’ll have to be more specific.” His voice had gone quieter with each word, until the last was no more than a whisper.
“A man like Jay Ballon Albert can’t be seen doing business with Chinamen and ni—”
It took less than a second for Bastien to draw his revolver from beneath his frock coat. He leveled it before Ash could take another breath.
Slow to react, Ash remained stock-still, his mouth agape, his eyes blinking sluggishly. Behind them, Art stumbled to his brother’s aid, only to be knocked from his boots by something he neither saw nor heard. A ghost in the wind.
To his credit, Phoebus knew better than to interfere or so much as utter a whimper.
Indistinct shapes melted from the lines and shadows of the skeletal building, moving too quickly to track. They scuttled down steel columns soundlessly, blurring through the darkness until they sharpened into focus, forming a circle of cloaked figures around Bastien and Ash.