to cross the room without being noticed, like a shadow slipping through a cloud of smoke.
Pippa spun around with an unusual lack of grace, only to lose her footing. She would have fallen to the floor if Arjun hadn’t been there to steady her, his arms encircling her shoulders.
“I’ve got you, pet,” he said with a mischievous half smile.
A flash of horror rippled across Pippa’s face. The next instant, she shoved him away with a startling amount of force. Arjun landed on his backside, his waistcoat askew and his monocle tangling about his neck.
Celine tried to control her reaction, but it could not be helped. She pressed her knuckles to her lips. Soon, Odette was steadying herself against Celine, cackling alongside her. Unsurprisingly, Pippa did not join in their amusement. She clasped both palms over her mouth. Flustered, she bent to help Arjun to his feet, reaching for his hands.
Only to be roundly rebuffed.
“I’m so sorry!” she said, color rising up her neck. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so . . .”
“Helpful?” he offered.
“Warm,” she finished, her cheeks reddening.
Arjun glanced up at her quizzically, then grinned, though he still refused to take her proffered hand. Instead he looked to his left, whistling through his teeth to catch the attention of the nearby chess champion. The next instant, the gangly fellow stepped forward to yank Arjun to his feet with an uncanny amount of strength, his ruddy mustache curling along its waxed edges.
“’Ad enough, me good man?” he said in a gruff Cockney accent. When he straightened, he towered over everyone in his vicinity, his limbs long and thin, causing him to resemble a beanpole. “Is every bleedin’ maharajah as piss poor at holding his liquor as you is?”
Arjun rolled his eyes. “Such poppycock. Not every man from India is a maharajah, Nigel.” He paused for effect, securing his golden cuff links. “And not every Englishman is a gentleman.”
“Blighter!”
“Loathsome imperialist.”
“Clumsy twat!”
“Overgrown twig.”
Nigel’s waxed mustache twitched. Then he threw back his head and guffawed. The sound was so filled with delight that Celine began to smile.
“¿Qué está pasando, Odette?” a rich voice cut through the mêlée, the sound resonating from behind where they stood.
“¡Hostia!” Odette startled. Her small fist darted out, thudding against a solid form. “Stop trying to scare me, you horse’s ass. Te dije lo que sucedería la próxima vez . . .” She launched into a tirade Celine could not follow, the Spanish words flying from her lips with ease.
Arjun and Nigel exchanged a glance. Then promptly made their way toward the roulette table in the back of the room.
Odette continued ranting to the newcomer at Celine’s back. But Celine refused to turn around. She had no need to confirm the obvious. Her pulse ratcheted in her throat when the heat of him drew closer. The feeling of being both drawn in and pushed back—a magnet made of opposing poles—gripped her stomach. Just like the night she’d first arrived in New Orleans, when he’d cleared the streets without uttering a word, Bastien’s presence was a tangible thing. It made something in the air shift, like a sigh of wind.
The creature inside Celine writhed beneath her skin, stirring to life.
No. Celine Rousseau was not a weathervane. She would not be moved by the Ghost’s presence as everyone else was. He was not special, just like all the privileged boys she’d encountered in her past. Another spoiled and entitled approximation of a man. She took a deep breath, determined to remain unaffected.
Celine felt Bastien’s eyes settle on the back of her neck. The fine hairs there stood on end, sending a warm buzz down her spine. He was close enough that she could smell the bergamot in his cologne. The hints of citrus and spice.
This boy was dangerous. Far too dangerous. Like fuel to her fire.
She stood straight. Bade the stirring creature silent.
Odette continued chastising Bastien in a mixture of Spanish and French. Unruffled by her tirade, Bastien shifted past Celine and Pippa, his strides unhurried, his movements liquid. Since their encounter an hour ago, he’d discarded his frock coat and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing a tailored waistcoat of charcoal silk and a set of curious black markings on his inner left forearm. Disdaining the fashion of the day, he wore his dark hair shorn close to his head, resembling a bust Celine had once seen of Julius Caesar. Strapped around his shoulders was a burnished leather holster, a revolver glinting beneath his right