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 the gossip 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 looked exquisite.
He knew she was pretty—she wasn’t labelled Glamour Girl for nothing—but this was another level of pretty.
He recalled the evening Grandfather had suggested the notion of this relationship 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.
“Is that so?” He lowered his face into her hair, taking a deep inhale of the scent of roses. Then planted another kiss on the soft skin of her neck. “I should make up for being late, then.”
Bastien took her empty glass and reached the champagne flute over her shoulder. An offering.
“Jacques, what are you—” Celine cut herself short as she gripped his hand, pulling it closer to examine it, nearly spilling the drink. Running the pad of her finger over the scar on his thumb, she whisked around sharply. “You!” Her blue eyes brightened like lightning sparks. “Have you gone mad?”
In a snap, twisting his wrist so that she had his entire arm pinned behind his back, Celine pushed him towards the first door she found unlocked.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Bastien yelped as he was shoved face-first against a tiled wall.
This had not been the plan. Being up against a wall…he wasn’t opposed to that. But it was usually done by a girl eager to rip the clothes off of him, not one who looked like she wanted to rip out his eyes. Plus, the mask was digging into his skull.
Bastien tensed. “Why so hostile?”
“Why?” Celine gritted. “What the hell do you think you’re wearing?”
Even though his arm was turning numb, he still managed to summon a retort. “Where’s your sense of history, baby vamp? I’m Mark Antony.”
“Jacques was supposed to be…” she trailed off, and Bastien could only guess that realisation had sunk in. Celine shoved him again, harder this time. “I hope, for your sake, Bas, that this is a misunderstanding. Because if you sent—”
He was spared from hearing the rest of her threat when the lights flickered on and Ana?s sprung up on them, the reflective sequins on her dress blinding him temporarily. Though he could finally make out the green tiles of the second floor bathroom.
“What are you supposed to be?” Bastien asked, his words coming out incoherently from being smushed against the wall.
“Nothing,” Ana?s replied, leaning against the doorframe. “I am not here for the party.” She glanced at him, blinking a few times. “Who the hell are you?”
“Mark Antony,” Celine seethed in reply.
“And you are…” Ana?s’s attention veered to her. It took her a good minute and a brief once over to realise what was going on. Then she released an almost maniacal chuckle. “Merde, Bas. Jacques will definitely kill you tonight. And if he doesn’t, then Celine will.”
Bastien glanced over his shoulder at Celine, who was seething, fingers digging into his skin until she decided to release him. “So it was you who sent me this.”
“Relax.” Pushing himself off the wall, he rubbed a hand over his wrist, quite sure he would feel five crescent stamps from Celine’s nails. “It’s a harmless prank.”
His attention then landed on his sister again, aiming to give her a bitter look for being such a gossip, when she suddenly hiccuped.
Bastien squinted at her. “Are you drunk?”
“Nooo,” Ana?s replied flippantly, failing to pick at a piece of lint on her dress.
She was definitely swaying in front of them, no doubt tipsy on Grandfather’s liquor.
The soirées were the only time he left his office unattended.
Locked, albeit vulnerable to his grandchildren’s copied keys.
“If I was, I’d really think you were Jacques. ”
Pushing past them, she walked towards the sink and turned the faucet on. The soft rush of water muffled the music coming from the foyer.
Bastien faced Celine with a teasing smirk spread wide across his lips. “And still, you couldn’t tell I wasn’t him.”
“She doesn’t know what she is talking about.” Celine turned towards Ana?s, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Ana?s, you are drunk.”
“Whatever.” She brushed them off. “I am expected at the dance hall in a few, a car is waiting outside. Though I would have loved to stay and see how you two explain this to Jacques.”
Celine sulked. “Traitor.”
“Sorry, Cel.” She planted a little kiss on Celine’s cheek. “Gossip doesn’t take sides.”
She was definitely drunk. “You’re not going anywhere in this state,” Bastien cautioned.
“Pshttt.” Backing away from the door, Ana?s waved him off. “You have other troubles at hand, Bas. Fix thooose.”
“You—” He winced as she tripped on the carpet, noticing, at last, that she was running out barefoot. “SHOES!” Bastien shouted after her.
Stopping on the edge of the staircase, Ana?s looked down at her feet, giggled, then proceeded down the stairs regardless.
Bastien loosened an exasperated sigh. He didn’t have time for Ana?s’s shenanigans tonight.
He had the uncanny sense that Celine was burning holes in the back of his head, and he had better return to their conversation before the party ended and the housekeepers found him tied to the bathtub by his entrails.
Shuddering, he faced Celine promptly—reeling back when he caught her staring eerily at him, arms crossed. “By God! You can be scary.”
“Why did you switch my costume?” she demanded without preamble. The sound of chatter and music wafted inside the bathroom in faint notes, but Celine’s angry pitch drowned it all.
Composing himself, Bastien simply shrugged. “What’s wrong with it?”
Celine reached out her hands, her fingers curled into claws, but stopped a hairsbreadth away from his throat and threw her head back.
The throbbing vein on her forehead was prominent as ever.
“God give me patience,” she muttered. “What’s wrong, Bastien, is that we can’t be seen dressed like this! Everyone will get the wrong idea.”