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