by Renee Ahdieh
Sounds of mirth mingled with their exaggerated disgust.
Girlish laughter lilted into the plaster ceiling. Catherine eyed
Celine suspiciously, but returned to her judgmental corner
without a word.
Once more Celine was spared on the steps of the gallows.
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j
Less than an hour later, a knock resounded at the door.
Catherine answered as if she’d been waiting for it all along,
her blue-grey skirts a soft swish against the polished stone
floor. The young woman waiting on the other side inclined her
head of mousy brown hair regretfully. “Miss Rousseau?” she
said to Celine. “Apologies for disturbing your class, but there is a gentleman waiting for you and Miss Montrose in the lemon
grove leading to the vestibule.”
Celine steeled her nerves while following the bonneted girl
outside. On a bench near a row of carefully tended tomato
vines sat Pippa in a lavender day dress, her gaze hollow, dark
shadows looming beneath her eyes. Like Celine, it was obvious
she had not slept well. When Pippa saw they had come to col-
lect her, she offered them the smallest of smiles. The sight of
it soothed Celine, though it troubled her that Pippa had been
placed—once more—in a precarious situation.
If only Pippa hadn’t volunteered to accompany Celine last
night.
If only Celine hadn’t been so insistent.
If only the Mother Superior hadn’t sent Anabel to spy on
them.
If only.
Celine’s heartbeat thundered in her chest as she prepared to
face the young police detective in earnest. To give the perfor-
mance of her life.
When they rounded the final bend—their escort leaving
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them to their fates—Celine was shocked to discover it was not Detective Michael Grimaldi waiting beneath the canopy of
citrus-scented leaves.
It was Arjun.
He stood in the shade of a lemon tree, a navy bowler hat in
hand, his monocle perched atop his right eye. He appeared en-
grossed in conversation with the gardener, a hunched gentle-
man whose tanned and wrinkled skin had aged him beyond
his years, giving him the appearance of a wizard, replete with a
long, wispy beard. The gardener offered Arjun a cutting of some
sort, its vibrant green stem and tiny fronds wrapped in a length
of dampened linen. Bending from the waist, Arjun reached to
touch the top of the gardener’s foot, as if in gratitude. Then he took the cutting before turning to Celine and Pippa and offering them the most disingenuous of smiles.
Not to be outdone, Celine responded in kind. “Forgive me,”
she began, “but I’m somewhat confused. Might I inquire as
to—”
“It’s coriander,” Arjun interrupted. “An herb often used in
East Indian cuisine. I missed its scent, and William generously
offered me a cutting for my garden.”
Celine blinked twice. “That was kind of him.”
“And not at all the question you meant to ask.” Arjun grinned.
“Bastien requested that I come here today. I advise him on
legal matters, and he did not want you or Miss Montrose to be
questioned by the police without someone advocating on your
behalf.”
Understanding settled on Celine. In addition to being Bastien’s
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lackey—delivering blows to poor fools in rancid alleyways—
Arjun was also the lawyer mentioned in passing last night. Bitter amusement warmed through Celine’s body. She was not surprised to know Bastien kept among his closest acquaintances an
attorney, undoubtedly at all hours of day and night.
“Then . . . you’re a barrister?” Pippa asked, a breeze playing
with the ends of the blond curls framing her heart-shaped face.
“Of a sort,” Arjun replied without missing a beat. “I know the
law inside and out, even if I’m not permitted to practice it.”
A quizzical expression passed across Pippa’s features. “I don’t
understand.”
“More’s the pity.” Another punishing grin took shape on his
face. “My skin is not the right color, Miss Montrose, nor is my
parentage. Surely you of all people understand that.”
“Excuse me?” She blinked, consternation clouding her gaze.
“Based on your accent, I’d wager you’re from Yorkshire. A
proper English girl, through and through.”
Color flooded Pippa’s cheeks. “Yes, I’m from Yorkshire.”
“Then you’re no doubt well aware that a scrapper from East
India would never be permitted to work as a barrister in any
circle of significance.” Tucking his bowler hat beneath his arm,
Arjun stored the coriander cutting inside the breast pocket of
his grey frock coat. “That’s by design, in case you didn’t know.”
He laughed to himself.
“Not all of us believe in such notions,” Pippa said softly.
“That may be true,” he said, “but all of you definitely benefit
from it.”
Pippa paled as she struggled to respond.
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Knowing full well this conversation was not going in her friend’s favor, Celine interjected with a small curtsy. “Thank
you very much for going to such trouble on our behalf, mon-
sieur . . .” She waited for Arjun to offer his surname.
“Desai.” He looked away from Pippa and cleared his throat.
“But please feel free to call me Arjun, as I do think we’re past
those kinds of formalities.” His hazel eyes twinkled.
“I appreciate you coming here today to advocate on our be-
half, but I’m afraid we lack the means to pay you.” Celine fought the urge to squirm under his steady gaze. “And I would not
want to take advantage of your valuable time.”
He snorted. “It appears we both dislike being indebted to
others. And though my time is indeed valuable, you needn’t
concern yourself with payment. Bastien will handle all the
expenses.”
The sheer arrogance. Of both men. Celine’s gaze narrowed.
Pippa glanced at her sidelong, wearing a look of supreme
unease.
“And why would he do that?” Celine pressed.
Arjun tilted his head from side to side, considering. “I
couldn’t speculate as to his reasons. A wise young woman
once told me we are only privy to our own thoughts.” A half
grin curled up his face as he reminded Celine of her words
from last night.
Celine could feel her lips starting to pout. She kept quiet, let-
ting her eyes answer for her.
“Brava, Miss Rousseau,” Arjun commented. “I’d advise you
to maintain that indignation throughout the course of today’s
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inquiry.” He took a step closer to Pippa, narrowing the gap between them in on
e fell swoop. “Keep silent unless you are
absolutely certain the next words you speak are beyond re-
proach. Make the quiet your friend. Bask in it.”
It was Celine’s turn to snort. “Simple enough. You’re merely
asking us to behave as the ladies we’ve been raised to be.”
“I’d wager that to be an easier task for some than for others.”
Celine bit her tongue, refusing to let him incite her.
Pippa frowned. “There’s no need for you to make such slights,
sir,” she said. “It’s unbecoming of you.”
“The truth is often unbecoming. But that does not make it
unwarranted.”
“In your opinion.” Pippa raised her elfin chin, prepared to do
battle.
Celine did not want Pippa to fall prey to Arjun’s provoca-
tions, so she decided it was best to change the subject. “You
still haven’t answered my earlier question, Monsieur Desai.
Why would Monsieur Saint Germain take on the expense of
providing us with legal representation?”
“I told you last night, Miss Rousseau,” he replied. “Bastien is
merely doing what he does best. Don’t see it as anything else.
He would have done as much for anyone in need of assistance,
as he’s done for countless other young ladies in the city.”
“How magnanimous of him,” Celine countered in a cool tone.
A smile ghosted across Arjun’s lips. “Trust that he is most
concerned with putting a swift end to anything that might neg-
atively affect his family’s businesses.”
Well. Celine sniffed, her indignation mounting. It bothered
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her immensely that Bastien had taken it upon himself to make decisions for them, without even consulting them first. Not
to mention that if her suspicions were correct—if Bastien did
indeed have something to do with Anabel’s untimely death, as
the yellow ribbon in his pocket suggested—he was in essence
pouring drinks for them from a poisoned well.
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 detec-
tive 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
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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 your-
self too much, Miss Montrose,” he said softly. “You have noth-
ing 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 in-
stance—would be proved utterly wrong.
Her truth must remain in darkness. No matter the cost.
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The Performance of Her Life
i
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 over-
skirt 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,
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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 vol-
umes. 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.
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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 mak-
ing 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
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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 de-
tective, 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
