“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 toes dangling above the cobblestones—matching him at eye level—she grabbed Sébastien by his silk cravat. Yanked tight, her expression determined. His eyes widened with surprise, a spark of fire burning in their depths. The indentation is his cheek appeared for less than an instant.
He was . . . amused?
Unmitigated ass.
She tightened her grip on his cravat. Felt the fine fabric wind through her fingers. Refused to avert her gaze, though he held her in the air like a puppet on a string.
“Celine!” Pippa’s voice was high-pitched. Celine didn’t need to guess how shocked her friend was. Pippa lurched closer, panic unfurling from her skin. “Forgive us for the interruption, sir.” Though Pippa addressed Sébastien, his gunmetal eyes never strayed from Celine’s.
“We need to leave,” Pippa urged her.
“Put me down, Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine demanded. “At once.”
To her surprise, Sébastien set her upon her feet. But he did not remove his palms from about her waist, just as Celine did not relinquish her grasp on his cravat. Even through her corset, she felt the touch of his thumb above her hip, the press of his long fingers into the small of her back. Her pulse thudded in her chest, its rhythm fast and fervent.
“She has teeth,” he said quietly. “But does she also have claws?”
“There is only one way to find out.” She meant it as a threat.
He took it as a challenge.
Sébastien’s smile was quick. Unstudied. Unusual in a boy who obviously prided himself on control. The edge in his features sharpened, leading Celine to suspect he wasn’t merely amused.
Was it possible he was intrigued?
Celine let go of his cravat, the back of her hand grazing an obsidian button as it skimmed over his waistcoat. Though it was far from the most improper thing she’d done tonight, the touch felt illicit. Stolen. Her cheeks warmed when something shifted in his gaze.
“Bastien.” His friend’s voice cut through their silent exchange. “We should go before someone summons the police.” He stepped forward purposefully, a palm moving to Sébastien’s shoulder, demanding his attention.
For a delicious instant, Bastien ignored it. Then he slid his hands from Celine’s waist, stepped back, and tipped his hat at her. With horror, she realized his touch had seared into her skin. That could be the only explanation for why the air around her waist felt so chilled. When he glided past her, the scent of bergamot and leather trailed in his wake.
A flurry of emotions raced through her body. Celine settled for indignation, grasping for it like a lifeline. When she turned to ensure she had the last word, she caught a glimmer of silver in her periphery. It took less than the blink of an eye to realize its source.
The man in the mud had freed a dagger from his boot, his scarred features feral in the moonlight.
Celine cried out in warning, yanking Pippa to one side. In the same instant, Bastien whirled, withdrawing a revolver from inside his frock coat in a seamless motion. He took aim— meaning to fire—but his friend lunged for the man with the dagger, his right hand wrapping around the man’s wrist.
Without explanation, the man slumped forward, as though he’d suddenly fallen asleep, the dagger clattering to the ground beside him.
It all happened so quickly. Celine blinked once. Twice. Pippa struggled for breath, her blond curls quaking above her brow.
“What did you do?” Celine whispered to the boy with the monocle. “Is he . . . dead?”
The two young men held a wordless conversation.
“He’s . . . asleep,” the boy with the monocle said carefully, as though he’d settled on a version of the truth. “He’ll be jolly good in an hour, though the lummox doesn’t deserve it.”
“But—”
“We’re finished here,” Bastien said, his tone cold. Forbidding.
Celine glared at him. “You are absolutely not—”
“My apologies, mademoiselle. And to you, miss.” He bowed curtly to Pippa before gliding away. “Arjun?” he called over his shoulder. “I believe I owe you a drink.”
“Far be it from me to refuse such a generous offer.” Arjun smiled mockingly as he reached for the fallen dagger, tossing it deep into the alleyway. Then he stood and wiped his hands once more. “Especially from such an esteemed gentleman.”