She was stationed at the front of a classroom, gazing down at twelve smiling young faces, the eldest no more than ten. To her right stood Catherine, her hands folded before her, the bespectacled epitome of a genteel young woman.
Celine was expected to assist Catherine in teaching the young girls about proper comportment in society, in addition to instructing them on correct French pronunciation. S’il vous plaît, merci beaucoup, je vous en prie, pardonnez-moi, and the like.
She supposed this was all a carefully orchestrated attempt on the part of the Mother Superior to shame her. To remind Celine of her place in life and in the world.
“Ladies!” Catherine clapped. “Pay attention to Mademoiselle Rousseau. She’s here to teach you exactly what to do to impress, say . . . a handsome young gentleman sometime in the near future?” She sent a kind smile Celine’s way, but in its depths Celine detected a stab of resentment. Of course Catherine knew what had taken place last night. All the young women at the convent had been informed, the truth spreading like wildfire through underbrush.
Unsurprisingly. One of their ranks had perished in horrifically violent fashion.
Perhaps Celine should not fault Catherine for the condescension shaping her brow this morning. If Catherine had been linked to Anabel’s untimely death, Celine would surely be sending her a judgmental look as well.
In an attempt to channel the confidence Celine lacked in this moment, she offered a toothsome smile to the roomful of waiting innocents. “Of course it is lovely knowing what to say and do in society, but you should also pay attention simply for the sake of learning how to speak another language,” she said in a heedless tone. “We wouldn’t want to feel like everything we do is an attempt to catch a young man’s notice, now would we?” She laughed softly.
A handful of the young girls in the room giggled with Celine, though most of them squirmed in their seats, their faces pinched in confusion.
Fury shaped each of Catherine’s features before gathering above her brows. “Mademoiselle Rousseau, may I speak with you for a minute?” she ground out from between her teeth.
Celine looked to the wooden beams along the ceiling, counting down from ten. She’d known it was a mistake for her to be teaching anyone anything. Especially a classroom of children under the watchful gaze of a former English governess. Jokes about Puritans and the Tower of Terror abounded in Celine’s mind before she silenced them the following instant.
“Celine?” Catherine said even more softly. Even more heatedly. She eyed the exit sidelong.
Wincing all the while, Celine nodded. As she followed Catherine toward the door, a bell-like voice piped up from the back of the room. “Mademoiselle Rousseau?” asked a girl with cat eyes and a mop of unruly hair.
Grateful to have evaded the impending lecture, Celine swiveled around. “Yes?”
The girl fiddled with a corner of her slate. “Is it true you’re from Paris?”
“Yes, it is.”
Murmurs of admiration rippled through the space.
“Why ever did you leave?” asked another girl near the front of the classroom.
A stream of silent curses barreled from Celine’s throat. Briefly she considered repeating the foul word Bastien had used last night at their first encounter. Simply to see how it would feel to shock everyone present with nothing but a single syllable.
Celine squeezed her eyes shut. “Because I wanted an adventure.” Another bright smile took shape on her face. “What kind of adventure would you like to have?”
“I’d like to see the pyramids,” the first girl replied.
A girl with blond pigtails tapped a finger against her chin. “Maybe travel on a boat one day?”
“I want to try . . . squid!” still another called out from the right.
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.
* * *
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 collect 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 performance of her life.
When they rounded the final bend—their escort leaving 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 engrossed in conversation with the gardener, a hunched gentleman 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.”