satisfaction winding across his lips. Celine supposed him to be the fête’s honored guest, the Russian Grand Duke, Alexei Alexandrovich. Under normal circumstances, she might have been impressed by his imposing mien. But tonight she was a goddess.
And a goddess did not concern herself with the triflings of men.
All around Celine, couples floated in dazzling circles, whirling in the familiar triple time of a waltz. Their white garments lent them the appearance of pillowy clouds spinning through a golden firmament. The best of New Orleans society had powdered their wigs and faces, the scent sweetly suffocating alongside the towering bouquets of hothouse flowers, all chosen for their angelic hue. Even the servers bustling about with their trays of bubbling champagne had rouged their cheeks and lips, black beauty marks affixed beneath their right eyes.
Celine watched the Crescent City’s finest dance in their powdered costumes, feeling their eyes upon her. The whispers behind the ivory fans. The looks of male disdain, along with the occasional wink of sly approval.
None of it mattered. This was a different kind of freedom from the one Celine had longed for on the journey here. A different kind of power. The ability to see through a beautiful veneer and appreciate the decay beneath it.
Now that she’d had a taste of such power, she never wanted to go back to before.
Was the killer lurking among these dancing clouds? If he was, Celine had made certain he would notice her. She was counting on it.
Her gaze snagged on a figure across the way. A young man who’d stopped in his tracks, his gunmetal eyes fastened on hers. He stood above the crowd, his black hair shorn against his scalp like Julius Caesar. The gold filigree trimming his mask contrasted with the dark bronze of his skin. His ivory jacquard waistcoat shone in the warm candlelight, as did the intricate soutache around the gilt buttons of his silk frock coat. He took a step forward and stopped, his satin breeches clinging to the sinew of his body, his head angled with admiration.
Heaven forgive her, but Bastien was beautiful. Dangerously so.
At his back stood a handful of preening young ladies, their papillote curls perfect, their expressions covetous.
But he had eyes for one girl alone.
A low hum resounded in Celine’s ears. It heated through her veins, the blood coloring her cheeks. Bastien bowed slowly, one foot in front of the other, his right hand swooping downward in tribute to the period. When he stood once more, Celine could not help but smile.
Bastien returned her smile without hesitation, his eyes like glittering coins, an unspoken promise on his face. Then he melted into the crowd, unconcerned with those around him.
If Alexei Alexandrovich presided over this heavenly court, then Sébastien Saint Germain was the prince of its shadowy counterpart.
With this thought, the last of Celine’s fears dissipated. She knew Bastien would help her catch the killer tonight, in defiance of his uncle’s wishes. She was certain of it. Lucifer was hers the moment he returned her smile.
Was this love, then?
If it was, Celine wanted to bathe in it. To luxuriate in this feeling of knowing—without being told—that someone saw her, amid the beautiful decay. Saw her and stood by her side, against the very world itself.
The next instant, her shoulders tensed. Through a parting in the crowd, Celine caught sight of Pippa’s unmistakable profile. Again her petite friend wandered through the ballroom on the arm of Phoebus Devereux, amid the crème de la crème of New Orleans society.
Pippa met Celine’s gaze. Then turned away, her expression cold.
Though it stung, Celine was grateful. It was better for Pippa to be angry with her. Anger kept her far from the killer’s line of sight.
Odette spun past Celine on the dance floor, laughing as she careened in Boone’s arms, her skirted mantle swaying on the ingenious panniers. When they turned, Celine noticed the matching breeches she’d designed as a surprise, the gown of Odette’s costume split in its center, revealing her figure as she swirled to the music. Her ruby-encrusted brooch sparkled in the candlelight, pinned in the middle of a gentleman’s cravat. A mixture of the masculine and the feminine. A perfect representation of both Odette Valmont and Madame du Barry, the courtesan who helped rule a kingdom.
Again Celine smiled to herself. Even if Odette never said another word to her, Celine knew her friend was grateful.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” a familiar voice announced behind her right shoulder.
Celine twisted around to meet the amber eyes of a