Pippa Montrose was in attendance at this soirée, dressed as Titania, the queen of the fairies, if Celine had to hazard a guess. She’d arrived on the arm of a placid young man with a slender frame and large round spectacles, likely Phoebus Devereux.
Thankfully, it appeared Pippa had yet to spot Celine across the crowded expanse.
Without a second thought, Celine turned in place, positioning her back to Pippa, all the while wishing she could shrink into the rosebushes. If Pippa saw her, a confrontation would likely ensue. Pippa had sent two messages to the hotel today alone, both inquiring after Celine’s welfare. In the latter part of the afternoon, Pippa had come to the Dumaine in person, hoping to check on her friend. Celine had begged off each attempt to make contact, spinning a web of white lies designed to keep Pippa as far away from her as possible, even if it meant damaging their relationship.
Better that Pippa feel cast aside than remain in the murderer’s notice.
“We should leave,” Celine muttered to Odette, just as another passel of jubilant partygoers hoisted a young man onto their shoulders and proceeded to cheer as if his horse had won the Derby.
Odette drew closer, her features tufting with concern. “I thought you wanted to meet with Bastien. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” Celine struggled to appear nonchalant. “It’s just been three hours since we arrived. If he had any intention of showing his face, he would be here by now.”
Odette tossed a dismissive hand into the air, the jewels adorning her fingers flashing. Definitely not made of paste. “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, he’s always late to these kinds of things. The fiend enjoys making an entrance.”
Despite Odette’s reassurances, doubt unfurled in Celine’s stomach. Madeleine and Hortense had arrived not long after Celine and Odette, dressed as ethereal fey, their dark shoulders gleaming with gold dust. Boone had trailed in their shadow a moment later, garbed in white, a literal halo about his head. A sight that had caused Odette’s body to shake with laughter.
Celine was about to renew her objections when Odette waved her fingers in the air above her head, her smile bright.
“Nigel!” Odette took hold of Celine’s hand to tug her along.
Closer to where Pippa and Phoebus stood engaged in conversation with the crème de la crème of the Crescent City.
“Odette,” Celine gasped, trying to extricate herself from Odette’s determined grip.
The damp warmth of the night and the dull roar of the festivities succeeded in drowning out Celine’s protests. Nigel met them halfway, two masked figures sauntering behind him at an unhurried pace. His tall frame wove with ease around the countless bodies milling and spilling about. Like most of the other guests in attendance, he’d taken a rather blasé approach to his costume, resorting to winding a few willow branches around his arms, their leaves drooping, the overall effect lackluster, save for the laurel crown gracing his brow.
Boone appeared out of nowhere, startling Celine as he sidled next to her, his loose white shirt billowing about his trim torso, the halo of gold across his forehead tilted askew.
Grateful for the cover his closeness provided, Celine paused to peruse his attire. “And who are you supposed to be?”
“Theseus,” Boone said without hesitation.
“The founder hero of Athens?” Disbelief flared across Celine’s face. “Be serious. You’re dressed as an angel.”
Boone shrugged. “Honestly I thought this was a fête for saints and sinners.”
“And you thought to go dressed as a saint?”
“Didn’t you know, darlin’?” he drawled. “All the best saints are sinners.”
Despite everything, Celine laughed, the sound filling her lungs, causing her tightlaced stays to stretch farther. She pressed a hand to her sternum, exhaling slowly to catch her breath. With the hunger of a seasoned sinner, Boone ogled Celine’s chest, the irony not at all lost on her.
Nigel grinned as Odette shoved Boone in the shoulder, a note of warning in her eyes. The next instant, she turned to Nigel and sighed a soul-deep sigh. “Just whom are you hoping to channel in that godforsaken costume? I expected better of you, Lord Fitzroy.”
“Oberon, o’ course.” Nigel twisted the waxed ends of his ruddy mustache, his expression mischievous, his accent thick. “One and only king o’ the fairies.”
“King of the overgrown trees, more like,” Odette teased as she tore away a lifeless leaf along his elbow.
He peered down at her with exaggerated imperiousness. “Regardless, I lord over every’fing in my dominion. Kneel before me, Hippolyta.”
“You lord over nothing, my silly, sweet boy.” Odette swiped a gloved fingertip beneath his chin, a ghost of a smile lingering on her face. “Least of all the queen of the Amazons.”
Nigel bowed deeply, the leaves wrapped around his wrist trembling from his motions. He sent a cheeky nod to Celine, whose attention strayed toward the two masked figures loitering in his shadow. Perhaps loitering was the wrong word. For neither gentleman appeared to be the least bit concerned with the unfolding spectacle.
One of them was obviously Arjun Desai. The mask of a donkey concealed the upper half of his burnished face. A felt tail had been attached to his backside. At least he’d paid the soirée’s theme the appropriate due, for he obviously meant to portray Nick Bottom, the poor fool transformed into a beast of burden by the notorious trickster, Robin Goodfellow.
Arjun scanned his surroundings, his eyes falling on Pippa, his lips twitching. “Is that your friend on the arm of Phoebus Devereux?” he asked Celine.
“I believe so,” she replied in noncommittal fashion. Hoping he would not press the matter further.
“Fascinating.” Arjun’s grin widened as he cast a meaningful glance toward the tall, broad-shouldered young man to his left. A mask covered the entirety of his face, complete with a set of spiraled horns twisting away from his brow, the profile reminiscent of a bull. His body was swathed in a leather greatcoat, its large black collar turned up, further shrouding his features from view.
His only identifier was the gold signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand, embossed with the seal of La Cour des Lions.
Celine’s gaze lingered on the ring, and Bastien’s graceful fingers flexed at his sides, as if they could sense her unwavering study. It should have meant nothing for Celine to notice this particular crack in his façade. But—to her endless chagrin—it caused her stomach to tighten and her skin to tingle as if she’d stepped out into a bracing winter’s night.
His awareness made her feel alive. Which meant it fell somewhere between nothing and everything. A bothersome development, to be sure. Almost as troubling as the inevitable question that followed.