Roses. Secret admirers. Masquerades.
“It almost sounds like Shakespeare,” Celine mused.
On the bed rested a deep blue box, wrapped in pink ribbons and filled with rose petals. Celine scattered them away, basking in their lovely perfume as she rummaged for a note to see who had sent it. Her fingers grazed the edge of the paper. She pulled it out.
Cleopatra wanted Mark Antony to think of her every time he came upon a rose.
I already think of you every time I see or smell any kind of flower.
But for the sake of the masquerade, let me find you by following the scent of roses tonight.
-J
Celine’s heart skipped a beat. She brushed off the rest of the petals and lifted a flapper dress designed like a sparkling kalasiris. The bright turquoise and lapis jewels glistened like water when she measured the dress to her body and gave a little twirl. Mark Antony and Cleopatra were no Paris and Helen, but she preferred them better. And her short hair would fit the costume perfectly.
“Monsieur Ménard sure knows how to surprise a lady,” Francine said, still twirling with her rose.
Celine smiled at her. “He sure does.” She would tell him tonight—about the competition. She had bid her time long enough, now Jacques deserved to know. “Oh, by the way, please hide my dress for me when I leave. And tell my mother it’s on its merry way back to the shop.”
Francine patted her shoulder. “As you wish, Mademoiselle.”
Chapter 16
Antony and Cleopatra
The Ménard mansion was bursting with chatter and music long before evening had drawn a dark curtain over the sky. Faces flitted in the sea of night, illuminated only by the yellow glow of fairy lights that cascaded down the balustrades of the upper floors and encircled every orange tree and rose bush lining the driveway.
Bastien watched from the veranda as rumbling motorcars reeled in more guests. He did not bother to greet them. There was only one person he was eager to meet tonight, and until she made an appearance, the rest were a glittering blur.
Taking out his lighter, he smoothed his thumb over it, pulling back the silver lid until the spark flared up into a small flame. Then he flicked the lid over, snuffing it out. A cigarette would have made the wait more bearable, but he resisted. If he wanted his plan to work, his clothes couldn’t be smelling like smoke.
For a little while, there was only the sound of heels clicking and feet shuffling up the front steps, entering the dim foyer. Bastien recognised half of the faces fleeting past him, even beneath the masks, mostly because they showed up every year. Monsieur Ménard’s annual soirée was famous among the Parisian upper class for its fabulous entertainment, vintage wine, and the bounteous donations that were announced before the night was over. But the invited party usually rolled in for thegossip and the pleasure of wearing a fun costume. Most moguls didn’t even know what they were donating to.
Bastien scrutinised them from behind the comfort of his own mask. No one had recognised him so far, and he was pleased. That meant she wouldn’t recognise him either.
As if to remind him of his purpose tonight, a pleasant smell of roses wafted past him with the last group that entered the mansion.
Celine.
Allowing himself a smile, Bastien strode inside. The hall was overflowing with guests dancing and waiters flanking both sides—some waiting by the banquet table near the balcony doors, while the rest worked their rounds, balancing silver trays with champagne. Bastien pried a sparkling flute from the crystal pyramid and followed the music further inside. The chandeliers had been arranged to cast a crepuscular glow upon the hall and allow the spotlight to fall on the jazz singer situated in the middle of the foyer and the small orchestra to her right. He focused on finding Celine. Knowing her, she would either be enjoying a few minutes alone, or with Jacques, glued to her side like a leech.
All the better if it was the latter.
Bastien found her leaning against the staircase railing on the second floor, tucked into a shadowy corner, away from everyone and everything that occupied the foyer. But his brother was nowhere in sight. An empty glass rested limply in the palm of her hand, while her other supported her cheek. She looked bored. And bewitching, Bastien realised with a second thought. In her Cleopatra costume, eyes lined with kohl and a diadem of silver ringlets glimmering in her hair, Celine lookedexquisite.
He knew she was pretty—she wasn’t labelledGlamour Girlfor nothing—but this was another level of pretty. He recalled the evening Grandfather had suggested the notion of thisrelationship to Jacques. Bastien had felt a twinge of envy in the pit of his stomach. It could have been him trying to seduce Celine. It could have been him taking her on dates and parading her around cafés and dance halls. It could have been him kissing those pretty lips of hers.
Then again, if it had been him, the relationship wouldn’t have lasted a year.
It wouldn’t have even made it past the one month mark.
Fixing his mask, Bastien brushed off the thought and hurried up the stairs. Then gently, he stepped behind her. “Why are you hiding up here,ma jolie?”
It wasn’t difficult to mimic Jacques’s voice or the lilt it took on certain words, just as it hadn’t been difficult to copy his handwriting. Although he knew Jacques wasn’t bold enough to press a series of kisses from her neck down her shoulder blades like Bastien was currently doing. So when Celine tried to face him, he held tight to his embrace.
“Waiting for you,” she mumbled, leaning into him.
Bastien had to give her credit; she was a good actress. He almost believed she felt this comfortable around Jacques all the time.
