The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(43)

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.