The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(44)

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?”

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 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.”