Her eyes flew open. This world of dark magic might intrigue Celine, but she knew better than to take a bite of its fruit.
“A daring choice,” the count commented, noting the way her black skirts rustled around them in time with the music. “I appreciate young women who turn up their noses at society.”
“All evidence to the contrary.” Fear would not dictate her actions tonight.
“Sébastien must treasure your sharp wit.”
“As they say, monsieur,” she replied. “One man’s treasure . . .”
Another smile rippled across his face, his teeth blindingly white. “Touché, ma chérie. Touché.”
They danced in silence for a spell.
“Have you had a chance to consider my offer?” he asked.
“I have,” she replied in equally noncommittal fashion.
Something glinted in Nicodemus’ golden eyes. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Rousseau, have you ever heard of a game called shatranj?”
Taken aback by the odd question, Celine missed a step. “I’m afraid I have not, Monsieur le Comte.”
“It’s a Persian game of strategy, not so dissimilar to chess. Legend has it that it was among the favorites of the famed storyteller Shahrzad.”
It troubled Celine to realize he’d stolen the upper hand with such a seemingly innocuous question. “I’ve played chess before, but I am not proficient. My father always let me win.”
“Shatranj is one of the precursors to chess. I’d be pleased to teach you how to play.” His grin was sharp. “You may rest assured I will never let you win.”
“Merci, Monsieur le Comte. I accept your generous offer . . . and hope to prove you wrong in all respects.”
Nicodemus laughed, the sound savoring strangely of fatherly approval. “If you’ve taken time to consider my offer”—he spun them in place—“what request do you have of me?”
Such arrogance. Such presumption. Celine pretended to hesitate before answering. “After much consideration . . . I think it would be best for me to leave New Orleans.” She did not have to be proficient at chess or shatranj to know that gifted players anticipated their opponent’s moves and planned accordingly.
The count’s grip tightened on her hand. “You would leave the city without a glance back?”
“It’s possible I could be persuaded,” she demurred. “There was a moment last week in which I wished I could forget everything and simply disappear.”
The count considered her for half a turn around the ballroom. “If you mean that in earnest, I could help you.”
“I’m certain you would be more than happy to help me dis-appear, monsieur,” she joked.
His expression took on a thoughtful bent. “I meant I could help you forget.”
“You could help me . . . forget?”
Nicodemus nodded once. “It is the work of a moment. You would feel nothing, nor would it cause any lasting damage.” He spoke as if he were inviting her to a picnic on the lawn of his country estate.
It unnerved Celine beyond words. “And how would you explain this sudden bout of amnesia?”
“I do not keep secrets from my nephew. Sébastien would know it was your choice. As such, he would come to respect it.”
The strains of music died down, the bodies spinning around the ballroom slowing to a halt. Her mind in turmoil, Celine laughed with false abandon, joining in the applause as the song came to an end.
Bastien’s uncle was a man with the power to steal memories.
The thought alone frightened Celine more than anything he’d said thus far. It forced her to change tack, for if she lied about leaving New Orleans, what would stop him from robbing her mind with a snap of his fingers? Moreover, if she were to “disappear” afterward, not a soul would question her absence, given her decision to quit the city. She would be alone and adrift once more.
No. It would be safer to negotiate a way to remain in New Orleans.
Celine took Nicodemus’ proffered arm and strolled with him toward the fringes of the ballroom, taking time to construct a new plan. “Monsieur le Comte, I must apologize. When I said I thought the best thing for me to do was leave the city, I meant it, for it is the most rational approach.” She paused. “However, as you’ve already pointed out, my emotions are a weakness. I found that I’ve come to love New Orleans, and I do not wish to leave.” She shuddered as if a wave of fear had passed between her shoulder blades. “But I have no desire to relinquish my memories, nor do I wish to engage in battle with you. So I have an offer . . . if you’ll allow me to stay.”
The count folded his gloved hands before him, his expression unreadable. “You would not demand Sébastien choose between us?”
“Bastien has already lost most of his family,” Celine said. “I would not wish for him to lose you.” She bit at her lower lip. “So I will reject him, as you have asked.”
Nicodemus said nothing for a time. “And what request do you have of me in exchange for rejecting my nephew?”
“I have three.” Celine hoped her greed would convince him of her sincerity. “I would like a finished pied-à-terre in the Quarter. As well as a dress shop nearby for me to earn a living.”
“And the third request?”
Celine focused on his amber eyes, fighting to convey a sense of earnestness. “I want to tell Bastien myself, without any of your spies or henchmen nearby.”
“Why would you think I would agree to such a sentimental request?”
“Because despite everything, you like me, Monsieur le Comte,” Celine replied without flinching. “And you love your nephew. Bastien is your weakness. I’d wager it must pain you to cause him grief.”
Another unreadable emotion crossed his face, the silence stretching thin for several breaths. “When did you wish to tell Sébastien?”
Here was the most important question he’d asked yet. Celine maintained a flat affect while answering. “I suppose it depends on how soon you wish to see this matter at an end.”
“Tonight, then?”
It was just as she’d hoped. “If you wish, Monsieur le Comte.”
Nicodemus sent her a wry look. “Love is, indeed, a weakness.” He leaned toward her right ear. “And I do like you, Marceline Rousseau. Most especially when you do what I want.” The brush of his threat curdled her spine, sending spiders scurrying across her skin.
Celine smiled to mask her fear. “I understand.”