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  Moreover, Celine hated the idea of owing him anything.

  She could refuse. But that would be foolish and prideful. The benefit of having a legal mind present for the events to come should outweigh her concerns for what the far future might bring.

  Arjun dusted the brim of his bowler hat. “I believe the detective is waiting for us inside the Mother Superior’s office,” he said. “If you would care to take advantage of the boon being offered you, please lead the way. But if you’d rather be damned fools, I’ll bid you both good day.”

  Celine bristled further. At least she would not be guilty of selfishness or arrogance in this instance. “Pippa,” she said, turning toward her friend, “what do you think we should do?”

  Pippa glanced from Arjun to Celine and back again, her expression thoughtful. “Even though we have nothing to hide, I do think it would better to have a barrister with us, don’t you?”

  “I agree.” Celine nodded. “We thank you for your assistance in this matter, Monsieur Desai. Please convey our appreciation to . . . your employer.”

  For I certainly won’t, Celine finished in her head.

  Dark amusement glimmered in Arjun’s gaze. “Shall we?” he said to Pippa and Celine, indicating they should lead the way inside.

  Neither of them dared to step forward. Arjun’s thick brows tufted together as he turned toward Pippa. “Don’t worry yourself too much, Miss Montrose,” he said softly. “You have nothing to hide. To quote Launcelot, the truth will out.”

  Pippa nodded. Then she proceeded through the lemon grove, her posture rigid, her chin held high.

  Steeling herself, Celine inhaled deeply before following her friend, hoping against hope that Shakespeare—in this instance—would be proved utterly wrong.

  Her truth must remain in darkness. No matter the cost.

  THE PERFORMANCE OF HER LIFE

  In the light of day, Detective Michael Grimaldi did not seem quite as intimidating as he had the night before. Nor did he appear quite so professorial. He almost looked . . . handsome.

  Unfortunately this shift in countenance did little to ease the tension building in Celine’s body.

  She adjusted her seat on the creaky wooden chair positioned before the Mother Superior’s desk. Then she smoothed the overskirt on the drabbest dress she owned. The color of dirty dish-water, this particular gown had been relegated to the times Celine had fiddled with fabric dyes in the atelier. Her ears still burned from how Detective Grimaldi had coolly rebuked her for using feminine wiles to sway him to her side. Today her attire had been chosen to make the point that Celine cared not a whit whether the sneering, self-important young detective found her attractive.

  The most beautiful young woman he’s ever met, my foot. Celine seethed to herself.

  Then she heaved a great sigh.

  Her temper could not get the better of her today, as it nearly had last night.

  From the opposite side of the Mother Superior’s desk, Michael Grimaldi observed her in studious silence before considering Pippa, who was seated between Celine and Arjun. Celine’s palms turned clammy when Detective Grimaldi leveled an icy look at Arjun, who crossed an ankle over a knee before removing a small leather notebook and laying it on the desk alongside a graphite pencil.

  The immense wooden cross on the wall before Celine seemed to loom larger with each passing moment. Jesus Himself appeared to lock his tortured gaze on hers and say, “I suffered like this for your salvation?”

  Celine looked away.

  It was important she keep her wits about her. That she not lose sight of Arjun’s earlier directive. If she remained demure and silent, then perhaps Michael Grimaldi would leave them all alone.

  But if worse came to worst, Celine knew of a way to turn his attentions elsewhere.

  The location of a missing yellow hair ribbon, to be specific.

  Detective Grimaldi cleared his throat. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Miss Rousseau and Miss Montrose,” he intoned.

  “Of course,” Pippa murmured. “We wish to help in any way.”

  Celine canted her head. Cut her gaze. Refrained from sharing her thoughts, though she was certain her expression spoke volumes. To Pippa’s left, Arjun grinned, then produced a slender blade to begin sharpening the point of his graphite pencil.

  The snick, snick, snick of metal against wood was as comforting as it was infuriating.

  “Were you able to rest at all, Miss Rousseau?” Detective Grimaldi asked Celine directly.

  She inhaled through her nose. “It’s kind of you to ask after me, Detective Grimaldi. I slept as well as can be expected.”

  Placing his tweed fore-and-aft cap on the desk, the detective leaned back in his wooden chair. “Then I suppose you did not sleep well at all.”

  “I’m not certain how to respond to that, sir. Are you making an indirect inquiry as to whether I slept as a guilty person would? If so, you must know . . . it won’t work.”

  The snick of the knife against the pencil ceased midstroke.

  Michael Grimaldi arched a brow. “You share your thoughts quite candidly, Miss Rousseau.”

  Celine considered baring her teeth in a fierce smile. The cursed wretch was deliberately trying to provoke her. Again. She smoothed her skirt, locking her attention on a faint green stain along its hem. “I suppose you’d prefer if I kept my thoughts to myself.”

  “No. I appreciate your candor. I hope you continue sharing it with me.”

  In response, Celine said nothing.

  Utterly unruffled, Detective Grimaldi turned to Pippa. “A good night’s rest is something I value highly. As the first of five children, it was a luxury we could ill afford when I was a boy. How many siblings do you have, Miss Montrose?”

  Pippa startled at his question. “How do you know I have siblings?”

  “A simple deduction. The inner sleeve of your dress is worn through. The color is no longer fashionable, though it was made for a young woman not too long ago, suggesting it didn’t belong to your mother.” He peered at her intently. “Stands to reason you’re not an only child.”

  Outrage caught in Celine’s throat the instant Pippa’s face flushed crimson. Celine opened her mouth to rebuke the detective, but caught herself, looking to Arjun for guidance.

  Their attorney finished sharpening his pencil. He rested his monocle atop his right eye and cracked open his small, leather-bound notebook. Without a word, he started writing in it, the scratch of graphite to paper the whole of his contribution to their inquiry.

  Infuriating man, Celine thought.

  “The dress was given to me by my cousin,” Pippa replied, her voice clear. Guileless. “And I’m also the eldest in my family.”

  “Of how many?” Detective Grimaldi asked as if they were sipping afternoon tea at Claridge’s.

  “Three. I have a brother and a sister.”

  He considered her for a moment. “You must have been an excellent role model for them. Undoubtedly far better than I.”

  Pippa looked away. Swallowed. “I did my best, Detective Grimaldi.”

  “You don’t feel comfortable being candid in my presence, Miss Montrose?” A furrow marred his forehead.

  It was . . . unexpected of him to accuse Pippa of being dis-ingenuous.

  “I am being forthcoming,” Pippa said.

  “Would it help if I told you I don’t harbor any suspicions toward you, Miss Montrose?”

  Pippa took a careful breath. “It would help, most definitely.” She bit her lower lip. “But that must mean you don’t have suspicions about Celine either, since we were together the whole time.”

  Arjun glanced up from his notebook.

  The detective inclined his head, his colorless eyes unblinking. “Are you quite certain you were in Miss Rousseau’s presence for the entirety of the evening?”

  Celin
e’s heart thrashed about her chest like a caged bird.

  He’d trapped Pippa in a lie. So easily.

  Pippa paled. “I . . .” She glanced at Arjun, who continued scribbling in his notebook, offering her not a single word of advice. “There was a brief time in which I left her side. But it could not have been for more than fifteen minutes,” she finished in a hurry.

  “During that time”—Detective Grimaldi looked to Celine—“did you interact with anyone else, Miss Rousseau?”

  Celine didn’t even bother glancing toward Arjun for cues. It was clear Detective Grimaldi already knew the answers to the questions he was asking. He was trying to trip them. To muddy the waters. To what end, Celine could only hazard a guess.

  “I believe you know that answer already,” Celine said primly.

  Nevertheless he waited for her response.

  With a small sigh, she continued. “During that time, I shared a brief conversation with the owner of the establishment.”

  “Mr. Saint Germain.”

  Celine nodded.

  “And was he present throughout the entirety of your visit to Jacques’?”

  Awareness flared through Celine, hot and fast. Detective Grimaldi was after Bastien, not them. She should have realized it earlier, based on their mutual enmity from last night. Relief flooded through her like cool water on a parched day. Her mind whirled as it considered whether to disclose her observations about the yellow ribbon.

  But every word she spoke needed to be above reproach. And she lacked incontrovertible proof.

  “No,” Celine replied carefully, “he was not.”

  Arjun stopped writing, his pencil stilling above his notebook for an instant. Then he grinned to himself before resuming his scribblings. But that breath of time had revealed his hand. The truth of why the erstwhile attorney was here at all sharpened into sudden focus.

  He wasn’t here to help them. He’d come to protect Bastien. To make sure his employer was not implicated in anything untoward. These blackguards had inserted themselves into Pippa and Celine’s unfortunate situation to safeguard their own interests, proving they cared not a whit about anyone else. Even though Arjun had said as much to Celine, her anger rose in a sudden spike. The revelation about the yellow ribbon threatened to burst from her lips in a spate of uncontrolled fury, lack of proof be damned.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Rousseau?” Detective Grimaldi asked.

  Curse him for being so observant. Celine cleared her thoughts with a toss of her dark curls. “Apart from the fact that I’m being questioned by the police, I can think of nothing that might be wrong.”

  “I meant that you seemed piqued all of a sudden. As though something of note had captured your interest.”

  “I only came to a troubling realization. That’s all.”

  “May I inquire after it?”

  Pointedly, Celine slid her gaze to Arjun. He met her glare, then leaned back in his seat, the wood beneath him creaking at the shift in weight. The corners of his hazel eyes narrowed, his monocle glimmering as if in warning.

  “It is with respect to Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine said.

  Michael Grimaldi did not move a muscle, his stillness belying his interest.

  “Though I only saw it for a moment,” Celine began, “the image of Anabel in death will forever be seared onto my mind, and I wanted to be certain you’d caught every detail.”

  The detective nodded.

  Arjun tapped the end of his pencil against the black leather of his notebook, a serene smile upon his face, though he kept his attention locked on Celine.

  Wordlessly, she dared him to stop her.

  “Her pallid skin,” Celine continued. “Her eyes frozen open in terror.” Beside her, Pippa shuddered. “Her unbound hair across her face . . .” She watched to see if Arjun had any reaction. Save for the continued tapping of his pencil against his notebook, he was devoid of all emotion.

  “And”—Celine paused—“that horrible, jagged wound.”

  The detective waited.

  “A kind of wound that would have produced a great deal of blood, no doubt,” Celine said. “It would be all but impossible for anyone present last night—including Monsieur Saint Germain— to have committed such a heinous crime, then drain their victim of blood and remove all traces from their person in time.”

  Detective Grimaldi steepled his hands before him. He stared at Celine thoughtfully. She could not tell if he was impressed or irritated. “I came to a similar realization myself, Miss Rousseau,” he said. “But precautions can be taken. Stained clothes can be changed. Coats and gloves can be doffed just as easily as they are donned.” He bent over his joined hands. “To that end, did either you or Miss Montrose encounter anything you might deem suspicious?”

  Bastien had discarded his frock coat. Numerous members of La Cour des Lions had carried weapons on their persons. Knives, guns, ice picks, even rings that could double as instruments of torture and violence. Suddenly the small red stain on the collar of Odette’s shirt did not seem quite so innocuous.

  Odette, a murderess? Celine almost laughed to herself. Then her blood ran cold.

  Celine was a murderess.

  Anyone was capable of committing ghastly deeds. And everyone in the Court of the Lions appeared to possess otherworldly gifts. Some could taste the flavor of deceit. Could make chess pieces move about, bidden by the mind. Could foretell the future, with naught but a touch.

  Arjun himself had stilled a man into a stupor, simply by grabbing his wrist.

  Celine looked about, fear seeping into her soul. All these individuals were beyond the ordinary, their abilities extending far past parlor room tricks. But to what extent? Again she recalled what the two young women had revealed earlier in the square, about “the Court” likely being responsible for the decapitated girl along the docks.

  The Court. La Cour des Lions.

  Celine did not believe in coincidences.

  And only a fool would provoke creatures with untold appetites and unknown abilities.

  If Celine wished to keep herself safe—to keep Pippa safe—she needed to bend with the wind, no matter the bitter taste it would leave on her tongue. Suddenly she understood why the other officers of the New Orleans Metropolitan Police had granted Bastien such a wide berth.

  Cognez au nid de guêpe, et vous serez piqué.

  Strike a wasp’s nest, and you will be stung.

  Celine smoothed her apron overskirt. She met the detective’s penetrating stare, refusing to flinch. “I’m sorry to say I saw nothing of note, Detective Grimaldi.”

  Disappointment flashed across his face. He looked to Pippa.

  Surreptitiously, Celine reached under the table for Pippa’s hand. Squeezed it tightly.

  “I’m sorry, Detective Grimaldi,” Pippa said in a clear voice. “But I didn’t see anything either.”

  * * *

  “It’s a shame my clients couldn’t be of more help to you, Detective Grimaldi,” Arjun said as he held open the door of the Mother Superior’s office.

  To his credit, he did not look the least bit smug.

  Nevertheless, a hollow kind of rage spiraled through Celine’s stomach.

  “It is indeed a great shame,” Detective Grimaldi replied coolly. He moved back to let Pippa pass, then waited just beyond the oaken door.

  When Celine crossed the stone threshold into the cavernous corridor, the young detective shifted his tweed hat to his other hand to walk alongside her.

  He’d been waiting for Celine. Perhaps for another chance to take her off guard.

  Before Detective Grimaldi could continue probing any further, Celine decided to wrest control of the situation and catch him unawares first.

  The quickest solution would be to needle the detective as he’d needled her.

  “It appears you know Monsieur
Saint Germain well,” Celine said, expecting this to provoke him, based on the charged exchange between the two young men the evening prior.

  Michael Grimaldi surprised her. He did not seem perturbed in the slightest by her inquiry. “Yes. We were schoolmates as children. The best of friends.” He offered this with a knowing expression. As though he were interested to see how this news affected her.

  Celine frowned. “Friends? Then why are you—”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the one with the questions.”

  Celine bit down on the inside of her cheek while they walked. “My apologies for asking,” she said, though she did not feel sorry at all.

  The suggestion of a smile touched his lips. “It might be odd for me to say this, but you would have made quite a detective yourself, Miss Rousseau.”

  Celine snorted dismissively. While they followed Pippa and Arjun down the corridor toward the double doors leading outside, she recalled what Arjun had said earlier this afternoon. About being the wrong kind of person in the wrong kind of skin. “Even you must be aware that those of the fairer sex could never strive for such a lofty position, Detective Grimaldi.”

  “Alas, you are not wrong.” The detective paused in contemplation. “Did you know the New Orleans Metropolitan Police is one of the only police forces in our country to allow men of color to serve in its ranks?”

  “I did not.” Another spark of surprise warmed through Celine.

  “It’s a rather recent development. Most likely a twisted experiment of sorts.” He sighed to himself. “But as the grandchild of a slave, I suppose it is a thing for which I should be grateful.”

  A few steps ahead of them, Pippa and Arjun neared the massive double doors, Arjun reaching for a wooden handle to tug it open. He paused to glance Celine’s way, and the ribbon of widening light to his left caused his eyes to flash silver for an instant, as though he were a predator crouched in the shadows.

  Inhuman.

  Unnerved by the recurring thought, Celine returned her attention to Michael Grimaldi, taking a moment to peruse his features. “When we first met, I thought you were Italian. Are you not?”