The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

  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.”

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  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?”

  Celine’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 scrib-

  bling 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

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  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.”

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  “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

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  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 instru-

  ments 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 every-

  one 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

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  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 appe-

  tites 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.”

  j

  “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.

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  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 fur-

  ther, 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 ex-

  change 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.

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  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 out-

  side, 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 contem-

  plation. “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 ex-

  periment 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 mas-

  sive 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 at-

  tention to Michael Grimaldi, taking a moment to peruse his

  features. “When we first met, I thought you were Italian. Are

  you not?”

  “I am.” The detective placed his hat beneath his arm and

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  grasped hold of the other handle. “My father’s family hails from Sicily. But my mother’s family is of mixed blood, as are many

  longtime residents of New Orleans. Beyond the Garden Dis-

  trict, that is.” Detective Grimaldi moved aside to let Celine pass into the sunlight.

  “I see,” Celine said slowly. Having the choice to conceal the

  truth of her own blended heritage meant she’d been spared this

  kind of cruel judgment. “It shouldn’t be revolutionary to think

  one’s skin color should have no bearing on one’s place in society.”

  The detective held open the door while Celine emerged into

  the blinding brightness of the afternoon sun. “I agree,” he said.

  “You may not be aware of this, but New Orleans society—

  indeed, society throughout the South—bases much of its

  notions on the one-drop rule.” He followed in her footsteps. “If

  you possess a drop of African blood, you’re granted little in the way of consideration.”

  Celine pondered this, her vision straining to adjust to the

  harsh white light. She squinted up at him. “It’s the land of the

  free in idea only, then.”

  A smirk took shape on his face. “My father’s family were

  humble cobblers in Palermo. They often struggled to put two

  sticks together to start a fire. A chance for a better life brought them to the Crescent City fifty years ago.” He raised his right

  hand to shield his gaze from the sun. “What brought you to

  the shores of the New World, Miss Rousseau? The Mother

  Superior told me you arrived by ship less than a fortnight

  ago.”

  Celine gripped the worn fabric of her skirts. “The same thing

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  that brought your family here, Detective Grimaldi.” She grinned into the
light, her expression fierce. “Opportunity.”

  The detective shifted, placing Celine in shadow, sheltering

  her from the worst of the sun’s glare. “You’re very good,” he

  whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re very good at hiding how smart you are.”

  “And you’re very bad at trying to be charming.”

  His lips twitched. “You don’t find me charming?”

  “You’re still interrogating me, Detective Grimaldi. Would you find yourself charming in this instance?”

  He swiped a large hand through his wavy hair. “Point taken.

  And please,” he said, “call me Michael.”

  “I . . . don’t know that that’s appropriate.”

  “I find such beliefs tedious. It’s appropriate if we decide it

  can be.”

  “If only life were so simple. If only we all were smart enough

  to shun tedium as you do.”

  His colorless eyes—so light a shade of blue as to appear almost

  white—shone oddly for an instant. Almost as if he were amused.

  Nearby, Pippa coughed as if to clear her throat, and Celine

  pivoted toward her. Arjun and Pippa waited just outside the

  iron gate, their expressions incongruous. Pippa looked alert

  and studious, her eyes wide, but not in a disapproving way. In

  contrast, Arjun appeared unconcerned with the happenings

  around him, save for the sharp light still glinting in his gaze.

  If Celine had to guess, the young lawyer looked . . . cross.

  An idea took shape in her mind. A simple way to impress

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  upon Arjun—and his employer—that she would do as she pleased, despite their attempts to interfere.

  Celine offered her right hand to Michael. “Have a good day,

  Detective Grimaldi. Please see that you do not return here any-

  time soon.” She sent him a teasing smile.

  He offered her an awkward, almost forced grin, then took her

  hand to press his lips to it. They were warm and soft. Despite

  intending to assert the advantage, Celine felt her cheeks start

  to redden.

  “Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked without warning.

  “Not at all.”

  His fingers tightened around hers. “You’re lying.”

  “What?” Celine blinked in dismay. Was she that bad at it?

  “It’s of little consequence to me if you are. You see, the

  heart”—Michael lifted her wrist, where Celine’s pulse pounded

  in her veins—“doesn’t lie.”