To obey. Be a model of humility. Earn a measure of God’s forgiveness.
“If money does not entice you”—the girl leaned closer, and Celine caught a whiff of neroli oil and rosewater—“I can promise you an adventure . . . a trek through a den of lions.”
That. That was it.
It was as though the girl had found a window into the darkest corner of Celine’s heart.
“It would be my pleasure to design a dress for you, mademoiselle,” Celine said. As soon as the words left her mouth, her pulse was set apace.
“I’m thrilled.” Beaming, the girl withdrew an ecru card with gold calligraphy in its center. The script read
Jacques’
Beneath it was an address in the heart of the Vieux Carré, not too far from the convent.
“Come here this evening, around eight o’clock,” she continued. “Disregard the queue outside. When a beautiful man with a voice like sin and a ring through his right ear demands to know what you are doing, tell him to bring you to Odette, tout de suite.” She reached for Celine’s hand. Through the lace of her glove, her touch felt cool. Calming. The girl’s eyes widened for an instant, her grasp tentative at first. She canted her head, a half smile curving up her doll-like face. “It’s lovely to meet you, Celine,” she said warmly.
“It was lovely to meet you as well . . . Odette.”
With another simpering grin, the girl named Odette sashayed away, the train of her bustle gliding in her wake. The next instant, Anabel turned toward Celine. “I ken I’m the last to go on about making mistakes, Celine, but I’m not sure what came over ye when ye agreed to meet this Odette creature tonight. Are ye touched? Ye canna leave the convent after dinner. The Mother Superior expressly forbade it. She said the happenings in the Quarter after sunset—”
“Promote the kind of licentious behavior that will not be tolerated beneath her roof,” Celine finished in a weary voice. “I know. I was there.”
“There’s no need to be testy.” Anabel blew back a tight red curl from her face. “I’m only worried what’ll happen if you’re caught.”
“I thought you were tired of all the humdrum,” Pippa teased.
Celine smiled, grateful to her friend for disarming the tension. “Ready to meet a sturdy young gentleman.”
“In my mind, he doesn’t even have to be young,” Pippa continued.
“Or a gentleman,” Celine finished.
“Och, you’re terrible!” Color flooding her face, Anabel made the sign of the cross. “Enough to make me take to church.”
Celine feigned ignorance, a black brow arching into her forehead. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t be the wee hen that never laid away. Not with me, Mademoiselle Rousseau.” Her eyes shifted to Celine’s chest. “And certainly not with that bosom.”
“What?” Celine blinked.
“Don’t play the innocent,” Pippa translated with laughter.
“What does that have to do with my . . . bosom?”
Pippa bit her lip. “It was said in jest, dear. You must know you have a lovely figure.” She patted Celine’s hand like she would a child’s. The motion grated on Celine’s nerves. “Don’t take it to heart. Gifts were bestowed on you.”
Gifts?
They thought her figure was a gift? The ridiculousness of it almost caused Celine to burst into laughter herself. There’d been a time when she’d appreciated her body for its beauty and resilience. But that time had passed. What she wouldn’t give to be lithe and lean like Anabel. The “gifts” these girls chortled about now had brought Celine nothing but trouble.
And they’d left her far from innocent.
A flush rose in Celine’s cheeks. It flared across her skin, hot and fast, as though—even in jest—these two girls could see the truth she labored to conceal every day of her life. The worst of her past washed through her memory. Blood seeped across her vision, the smell of warm copper filling her nose, leaching the light from the air.
But this was absurd. How would Pippa and Anabel know what she had done? Why she’d fled her home five weeks ago? Celine struggled to calm her nerves.
They wouldn’t. No one would. As long as she didn’t breathe a word.
Your name is Marceline Béatrice Rousseau. That is all anyone need know about you.
“I would never play the innocent, ladies.” Celine winked and smiled brightly. “It just wouldn’t suit.”
MALVOLIO
Anabel betrayed Celine at dinner, barely an hour after they’d returned to the convent.
It took the Mother Superior the work of an instant to draw out the truth from the loose-lipped girl. As soon as Anabel told the gathered young women that Celine’s embroidered handkerchiefs had been purchased full price in one fell swoop, the hawk-eyed nun—with her perfectly pressed habit—had delved for details.
Alas, Anabel proved to be a terrible liar. For all the stories Celine had heard about Scots, she was profoundly disappointed to have met the only Highlander incapable of spinning a tale.
Now Celine was stuck reviewing the scenery in the Mother Superior’s office, her dinner of bland stew going cold on the kitchen table. She searched the space for a distraction. All the while, she tried to devise a believable lie for why she should be permitted to wander into the city past nightfall.
It was all so dramatic. So unnecessary.
Why was it that everyone Celine encountered insisted on telling her how to live her life?
Pippa sat in guilty silence nearby, wringing her hands like a character from a cautionary tale. Celine inhaled deeply, aware that Philippa Montrose could not be counted on to support anything resembling perfidy. Pippa was simply too good. It was a truth universally acknowledged by all those residing at the convent, even the nuns themselves:
Pippa Montrose was trustworthy and obedient. Nothing like the impetuous Celine Rousseau.
In fact, why had Pippa been summoned here at all? She wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing. Was her presence an effort to highlight Celine’s misdeeds? Or perhaps intimidate Pippa into betraying her as well?
Her gaze darkening at the thought, Celine scanned the room. On one side of the wall was a large wooden cross that had been donated by one of New Orleans’ oldest Spanish families, from a time before the French had taken ownership of the port city. Beyond the partially opened shutters, a slit of waning sunlight bathed the outer reaches of the Ursuline convent.