The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(37)

“As Celine already said, neither she nor Miss Montrose was privy to Miss Stewart’s actual thoughts and could, therefore, only speculate about the latter’s reasons for following them,” Bastien continued in a measured tone. “Any further questioning on your part insinuates that the lady is withholding the truth.”

The detective nodded once. “Which is simply a kinder way to say the lady might be a liar.”

A muscle jumped in Bastien’s jaw. “You still haven’t learned your lesson.”

“And you still fancy yourself a knight in shining armor. Some kind of dark prince.” He sneered. “Do you plan to call me out again? Shall it be pistols at dawn or sabers in the square?”

“That depends.” Bastien paused. “Are you going to beg your cousin to save you again?”

A glimmer of rage passed across Detective Grimaldi’s features. “Very well. I’ll dispense with the formalities.” He spoke to all those present, the tenor in his voice reverberating off the paneled walls. “Everyone here is a possible suspect in a murder. All of you might be lying to me.” His lips coiled into a smirk. “In fact, I expect it. Know that I will not relent until I uncover the truth. The Court of the Lions does not hold more authority than the New Orleans Metropolitan Police, despite the lore surrounding it. As an officer of the law, I am duty-bound to pursue any course of action to determine how this poor young woman came to be found murdered, drained of all her blood.”

At this revelation, a block of ice settled around Celine’s heart, the cold burning into her throat. “Someone . . . drained Anabel of her blood?”

Swiveling toward her, the detective nodded. “And used it to write that mathematical symbol beside her body.”

“Actually . . . I don’t think it has anything to do with mathematics,” Celine said, awareness giving her voice life. “It makes far more sense that it would be a letter or a character.” A different kind of power threaded through her. A kind unlike any she had ever known. “Perhaps even one from an ancient text.”

Detective Grimaldi’s brows arched before he managed to wipe his face clean of all emotion. “Interesting. And how did you come about this hypothesis?”

“My father is a professor of linguistics. He had a chart on the wall of his office, showing the evolution of the English language.” Exhilaration flared through Celine. This was the detail that had troubled her for the last hour. This was the thing that had remained just beyond her reach.

“Do you know what the symbol stands for?” the detective pressed.

“It looks similar to the letters L or C in Latin or Greek, but it isn’t written correctly. It’s as if it’s been turned askew or written by the hand of a drunkard.”

“I see.” He pronounced these two words slowly. Contemplatively.

Celine cut her gaze at the young detective. “It’s within your purview to suspect everyone here, but you can’t possibly think I would tell you these things if I had anything to do with Anabel’s death. It would be tantamount to confessing that I am the murderer.”

Sergeant Brady stared at Celine as if she’d sprouted wings and a horn. “Well, I’ll be damned. Has the girl gone and confessed?”

Michael Grimaldi peered over his shoulder, his expression wry. “In the future, I would take the time to listen fully before coming to conclusions, Sergeant Brady.” He focused once more on Celine. “I will say, however, that I’m intrigued by the notion. Would you mind—”

Bastien cut him off before he could finish. “If you wish to continue this line of questioning, I insist you arrange a time to meet at your headquarters tomorrow, so that Miss Rousseau is afforded the chance to secure her own representation.”

Though Bastien obviously wished to aid Celine, it grated her to appear helpless in anyone’s eyes. “While I appreciate your efforts, Monsieur Saint Germain, I do not need you to defend me.”

Like the other members of La Cour des Lions, Arjun had stayed silent during this exchange, but he stood now, laughing quietly. “He’s not defending you, poppet. He’s doing what he does best: negotiating.”

At that precise moment, a breathless Odette appeared at the top of the stairs. She gripped the railing with a gasp, then swiped her disheveled hair from her brow, leaving a smudge of red dirt across her forehead.

Celine was not prepared for what followed in Odette’s shadow. At her booted heels—breathing heavily from exertion—stood the Mother Superior of the Ursuline convent.

Celine’s erstwhile savior . . . as well as her possible executioner.





HIVER, 1872





AVENUE DES URSULINES


NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA



Tonight was both a failure and a success.

I freely admit the girl’s death was unfortunate. As I said before, I do not relish the taking of a life. But ultimately I cannot dwell in remorse. In the grand scheme of things, she is no more than a cog in a clock.

And my enemies have lived on borrowed time long enough.

With her death, I’ve left my intended message. But still I failed to achieve the whole of my purpose. The greatest enemy of my kind walks free, his reputation intact. Without a hint of suspicion trailing in his wake. This knowledge enrages me. The thieving wretch does not deserve to slither about unscathed—to occupy positions of power and influence—after all the things his family has done to mine.