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.”
Color flooded Celine’s cheeks. “To which rules do you refer?”
“The only ones that matter. Mine.” His last word was the point of a knife in her back.
Celine refused to be intimidated, though her knees shook beneath her skirts.
A new emotion crossed the count’s face. One she could not recognize. As Nicodemus studied her, a line formed across the marble of his forehead. The next instant, it smoothed, vanishing from sight. “I admire your fearlessness, Celine. More than anything I could learn about your past, I can appreciate why my nephew is so taken with you. Not many young women would dare to hold their own in the company of so many who could kill her without a second thought.” He stepped forward again, the end of his walking stick striking the pavers beside his feet with a decisive thwack. “Who would kill you at my command, without a moment’s hesitation.”
The trembling took hold of Celine. She bit down on nothing to prevent it from reaching her teeth. There was nothing for her to say in response. Bastien’s uncle had just stated in no uncertain terms that Celine continued to breathe at his leisure. A cheeky retort would serve no purpose here. The only thing she could do was stand firm. Refuse to quail or beg, though her jaw clenched tighter with each passing second, her muscles tensing in preparation to fight or to flee.
After all, Celine Rousseau was not a mewling calf marked for slaughter. She could hold her own, if need be. The boy she’d killed for daring to treat her like a conquered thing was testament to that fact. Her last breath on this earth would not be tinged in regret, of that Celine was certain.
The count glowered into the night as if he could read her thoughts, his posture immovable. A mountain beneath the moon. “I, too, have heard the whispers of how you’re not afraid to spill blood. But you must know that I, too, have no qualms about destroying something in my path.”
“Why do you persist in threatening me, monsieur?” Celine gripped her skirts, the handle of Bastien’s dagger cool in her palm. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
Another flash of that same unreadable emotion. If Celine didn’t know better, she