He let his gaze shift toward Pippa, whom he sent a slow smile. Then he bowed before stepping back, clearing the narrow path with a flourish.
And Celine was met—face-to-face—with le Fantôme. Pippa’s nails dug into Celine’s skin, eliciting a shudder of fear. Another jolt of heated awareness.
Le Fantôme glided closer, his movements soundless. He stood before Celine, his features absent any discernible emotion, the set of his shoulders easy. Strong. Though he wasn’t much taller than the boy with the monocle, his presence took up infinitely more space. She could well understand why their driver had yielded to him without thought. Celine stopped her eyes from widening, her lips from falling open. Were she to look upon this boy in the daylight, she would be forced to admit an unassailable truth:
The Ghost was the most striking young man she’d ever seen.
The skin above his cravat was bronzed, the muscles in his neck corded. Along his square jawline was the suggestion of stubble, its shadow accentuating the elegant symmetry of his features. It brought to light an aristocratic nose, which contrasted with his thick lashes and dark brow. Spanish maybe? North African perhaps? Regardless, he was an arresting mixture of the Old World alongside the New. A pirate bedecked in Savile Row.
He was . . . truly beautiful. Like a prince from a dark fairy tale.
Celine stood there a moment, words failing her. When she realized he’d rendered her speechless—stolen the very breath from her tongue—outrage coiled in her throat.
A glimpse of amusement flickered beside his lips. A slight indentation in his right cheek. The gesture reeked of arrogance. This boy knew full well what he looked like. Knew how to wield its power like a master of arms.
Celine narrowed her gaze at him.
When he spoke, his eyes flashed, granting his chiseled features a look of menace. “How may I help you this evening, mademoiselle?” he said in a low voice.
Since this fiend clearly enjoyed the sight of her flustered, Celine decided to ignore him, and instead turned toward the minion standing behind him, who propped one foot against the brick wall while inhaling from his cheroot.
“Does it make you proud to beat a helpless man, monsieur?” she asked him in a cold tone.
“Not in the slightest,” the other boy said in a British accent, around an exhalation of pale blue smoke. “But it does keep me limber for the boxing ring.”
“You dare to jest about such behavior?” Celine demanded. “You ought to be ashamed.”
The boy with the cheroot laughed. “The lovely young lady might speak differently if she knew what this bastard had done.”
“He is helpless. You and your”—Celine stabbed a finger in the Ghost’s direction, still refusing to acknowledge him—“friend have all the power.” When she finished speaking, the man in the muck squinted up at her from behind swollen eyelids. Then he slumped back down, his chest heaving from relief.
“What if we were defending a woman’s honor?” The boy put out his cheroot, grinding it beneath his heel.
The unexpected question took Celine off guard for an instant. “There is no honor in beating a helpless man.”
“A woman wise beyond her years,” the Ghost said softly, a strange accent threading through his speech. When he spoke, a wave of ice passed between Celine’s shoulder blades, sending a shiver down her spine. “But don’t presume to know everything, mademoiselle,” he continued.
Celine slid her gaze to his, her heart a low thud in her chest. She lifted her chin. “I know enough, monsieur.”
“Then know this: the truth is not always what you see.” He paused. “Now step aside.” His steely eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Please.”
Behind him, his friend laughed. “As I live and breathe,” he murmured. “Sébastien Saint Germain . . . acting the part of a gentleman instead of a blighter.”
In response, a muscle ticked in the Ghost’s jaw. The slightest hint of displeasure. He glanced toward his friend, warning him without words. The boy with the monocle grinned in response, which struck Celine as odd, given their circumstances. When one clearly outranked the other.
No matter. The Ghost had a name.
“You do not command me, Sébastien,” Celine said, her tone precise. “I defy you to try.”
Sébastien took in a careful breath. “I accept your challenge, mademoiselle.” With a wicked half smile, he took hold of her by the waist and moved her to one side, lifting her off her feet as though she were lighter than air.
Celine reacted on impulse—the desire to immobilize him as he had her. Her booted