“What do you mean?” Her gaze shifted briefly to the other woman and I, too, looked at Marianne. My next words were addressed to the ailing Englishwoman. “What part are you playing in this? Have you convinced my cousin you can help her? For what price?”
She shrank deeper into her chair. It was Consuelo who spoke. “Leave Marianne alone, Emma. She has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Then who is she?” I shot back.
Consuelo smiled. “My soon-to-be sister-in-law.”
My heart ricocheted inside me. “Whom are you marrying?”
“That’s none of your business, for I know you’ll only run home to tell Mama. Suffice it to say I am in love and I am going to be married, and no one, not even you, can stop me.”
“Oh, Consuelo . . . surely you haven’t . . . please say he hasn’t . . .”
She raised her chin. “Defiled me?”
Those words coming out of her mouth shocked me nearly as much as the thought of such a thing happening to my beautiful, sheltered cousin. I nodded, my blood freezing in my veins as I awaited her answer.
“No.”
The breath and nearly all the energy I possessed rushed out of me. My limbs felt weak, yet I didn’t seek the support of the sofa. No, I remained standing, gazing down at my cousin’s defiant face. My instinct was to grab her by the scruff of the neck and drag her home, to end this unsettling chapter in the lives of everyone concerned.
And yet . . .
What if she really
had
found love with an honorable man? What if happiness awaited her, and all she need do was leave this island—and yes, everything she had known until now—and live a simple, honest life with a straightforward, unpretentious man, a life wherein they answered to no one but each other.
Did I or anyone have the right to deny her this? Did being born a Vanderbilt
have
to mean her destiny was predetermined?
Didn’t that contradict everything I believed in?
Still, I needed to be sure she fully comprehended what was at stake: everything she’d leave behind, as well as the struggles she’d likely face.
“This man . . . it’s not Winty, is it?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emma! Winty? Really. As if I would ever give him a second chance.”
“Then won’t you please tell me who this man is?”
She combed her fingers through Muffy’s wispy fur. “No, Emma. Not yet, anyway. You won’t approve—no one will—but once we’re married you’ll see he is the right man for me.”
At that moment a little brass mantel clock chimed the half hour. I’d been here more than the agreed-upon twenty minutes. Where was Derrick? I couldn’t help a quick glance out the front windows—would I see him lurking among the trees? Perhaps he was watching the cottage but allowing me the time I needed to talk to my cousin.
I was beginning to doubt my ability to persuade her to do
anything,
much less return home.
With a cough, Marianne struggled to her feet and spoke for the first time since we’d entered the cottage. “Where are my manners? Shall I make tea?”
Consuelo quickly stood, bending to allow Muffy to leap with a gentle thud to the floor. “No, you sit, Marianne. I’ll make the tea.” Placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder, she coaxed her back into the chair. I followed Consuelo into the kitchen, hoping appropriate words would magically pop into my head.
As I stepped through the doorway I stopped short, caught by the sight of what sat in the middle of the battered oaken table.
A bowl of bright pink flowers with golden centers . . . Rugosa roses.
Consuelo had been talking to me, her words gone unheard by my ears. Now she fell silent, holding the tea kettle in midair between the stove and the water pump.
“Emma? What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
I pointed a shaking finger. “Where . . . where did you get those?”
“Oh, those are nothing special . . . yet so much more special than anything Mama has cultivated in her gardens or the hothouse. Don’t you think they’re lovely?”
“Damn it, Consuelo!” My swearing seized her attention and she flinched. “Where did those come from?”
“The cliffs.” She looked at me askance, as if I’d suddenly grown horns. “From Forty Steps. Why?”
I drew up with a gasp.
Of course.
Forty Steps, the wooden staircase that spanned the cliff face a bit north of Marble House . . . the very place where servants often gathered to sing songs, trade gossip, and enjoy their occasional time off. All anyone would have to do was lean over the railing and those flowers would be within reach.
I’d been right. Good heavens—the flower was the key, always present, a seemingly innocent, yet insidious connection between the victims, connecting everything and everyone. Rugosa roses . . . in the pavilion, in Lady Amelia’s jewelry box . . . and at Forty Steps, where the servants went. Where Katie sometimes went.
Where the murderer had gone as well.
Understanding flooded me, turning my knees to water. I gripped the back of a kitchen chair as a whistled song drifted from somewhere beyond the open windows.
“Who is that?” I demanded. But I knew.
I knew.
“Consuelo, quickly! We must—”
“Oh, he’s home early again,” she interrupted before setting the kettle back on the stove and breezing past me into the parlor.
Chapter 18
W
ith a sense of horror I watched my cousin throw herself into a pair of outstretched arms . . . arms covered in rough-woven cotton.
“No work again this afternoon,” I heard a male voice say through the blood roaring in my ears.
“Yes, but in a way I’m glad,” my cousin replied. “You won’t work for Mama much longer anyway.”
Oh, God . . . this can’t be happening.
“Consuelo,” I shouted, yet the sound of it seemed muffled and far away, as if I watched from some great distance as another Emma Cross attempted to stave off disaster. “Get away from him. He’s dangerous. Don’t you see? It’s him. The man who murdered Madame Devereaux.”
Jamie Reilly’s arms fell slowly from around Consuelo and she turned to face me. Not the slightest alarm marred her calm expression. “Emma, don’t be silly. Jamie had nothing to do with that. When I saw my opportunity to escape Mama’s plans for me, he came to my aid.”
“No, Consuelo. Oh, please, no. You must see. He’s used you.” Dizziness washed over me, making the room spin slowly and my thoughts swirl inside my head. I struggled to make sense of them, to push them past my lips. “You’re not safe . . . none of us are safe.”
A coughing fit behind me reminded me of Marianne’s presence. What had Consuelo called her? I struggled to remember. Soon-to-be sister-in-law. Wobbly, I cast a glance over my shoulder at her. “You’re his sister.”
The woman gave a half nod. I turned back to the man standing far too close to my cousin. “You . . . you’re not Irish at all. If she is your sister, then you’ve been faking an Irish accent all along. Who are you?
What
are you?”
He’d already removed his cap. Now he tossed it onto one of the side tables and made a mocking little bow. “James Reid, at your service, miss.”
The brogue was gone, replaced by a provincial but quite English inflection—like his sister’s.
“He needed to pretend,” Consuelo said defensively, “in order to find work.”
“In order to trick Katie into helping him,” I amended. “First Katie and then me. Consuelo, he came to call on her just the other night. They—”
“Oh, stop it, Emma. Don’t make up lies to persuade me to go home. You’re wasting your breath.”
“It’s no lie, Consuelo.” I shifted my gaze to James Reid. “Tell her.”
“Tell her what?” He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged.
“Tell her you’ve been using her,” I said. “That you’ve been courting Katie and dallying with Lady Amelia. And that you murdered her, too,” I whispered. “On Second Beach.”
“Emma! How can you say such a thing?” But even as Consuelo spoke, Marianne cried out, then fell to coughing so violently the other three of us instinctively surrounded her chair. Consuelo knelt before her. I hovered to one side. James gripped one arm of the chair and bent down low to speak words I couldn’t hear. Then Consuelo ordered, “Get her some water.”
James Reid straightened and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Consuelo, quickly,” I said, “let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Gently she took the handkerchief from Marianne’s trembling hand and dabbed specks of blood away from the corners of the woman’s mouth.
“Consuelo, he’s a murderer!” I said in an urgent whisper.
“No, Emma . . .”
“Yes!” Marianne rasped. “Go.”
Consuelo went still. “What?”
“Go.” Marianne’s chest heaved, and with a mighty cough she seemed to clear some of the congestion away, enough to speak more than one word at a time. “I don’t know if what this woman says is true, but—oh, Consuelo, forgive me! I thought perhaps he’d changed. That perhaps you’d helped him alter his ways. But trouble follows him—no, no, that isn’t true.” She broke off and twisted round to dart a glance into the kitchen, then turned back. “He makes trouble. He
is
trouble.”
“Shut up, Marianne.” James appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of water. Slowly he crossed the room, looked down at his sister, and raised the glass to his own lips to drink.
“Jamie!” Consuelo snapped to her feet. “Don’t be cruel. I don’t know what Marianne means, but you mustn’t be unkind.” Her hands went to her hips. “Now, what is this about Lady Amelia and Emma’s maid?”
I stepped between them and gripped Consuelo’s hands. “I found petals of rugosa roses in the pavilion the day after Madame Devereaux was murdered.”
“So—”
“Listen to me! The day Lady Amelia died, I discovered a sprig of the very same flower tucked away in her jewelry box— her
jewelry box,
Consuelo. You know that means something significant. And now, today, here is the same flower in a bowl in this very cottage.”
Consuelo was shaking her head, but more and more slowly, and I could see my words—and Marianne’s—were having their effect on her.
“When he called on Katie,” I continued, “he upset her terribly. She wouldn’t even talk about it afterward.”
“Money,” Marianne said, the word sounding like a moan.
“Katie has no money,” I retorted, incredulous.
“No, not Katie’s money,” the woman replied. “Yours. He wanted her to try to get some from you.”
“Get some from me how?”
“Any way she could,” Marianne said. “Either by stealing it from wherever you kept it in your house or by persuading you to extend her . . . a loan, he called it. But in my heart I knew he’d no intention of ever paying it back.”
Consuelo pulled her hands free of mine and glared down at the woman. “You knew about this?”
Marianne looked away and nodded once.
“And the rest?” Consuelo’s voice rose, cracking slightly. “Is my cousin correct? Did Jamie . . .”
Marianne shook her head. “I don’t know. . . .”
The horror running through me now filled my cousin’s eyes. She spun about to confront James. “Is it true?”
He held out a hand. “Darlin’, you can’t believe any of this. Surely—”
“Drop that Irish brogue,” I told him in disgust.
“Is it true?” Consuelo’s shout filled the little room.
He shoved me out of the way and in a stride was before her. He seized her wrist and tugged her closer. “Darlin’, I’ll take care of her. She won’t go telling anyone her lies. I’ll help you get away and then we’ll be together, as we planned. Think of it, Consuelo. We’ll find a little house somewhere far away from here. Down south, or out west where we can be free. Where your mother will never find you.”
“Let me go.” Consuelo tugged free and stumbled backward, nearly falling before catching her balance on the back of the sofa. Hatred robbed her face of a portion of its beauty as she regarded him. “Why?”
A world of accusation filled her single-worded question, and his expression changed from one of supplication to shaking fury. “Damn your meddling soul, Emma Cross.” Then, to Consuelo, “We might have been happy. Remember, this is
her
doing, not mine.”
Did he truly believe that? Had he hoped that by marrying Consuelo he would one day acquire a piece of the Vanderbilt fortune, perhaps when one or both of her parents had relented—or died? Those questions stuck in my throat as once again I wondered what was keeping Derrick. Fear for him crept up my spine, for I knew, as surely as I knew my own name, that nothing but foul play could have delayed him. Had James come upon him as he’d made his way toward the cottage?
Again, the questions stuck in my throat. If Derrick had a plan, I could foil it by bringing attention to his proximity to the cottage.
James’s assertion had rendered the rest of us mute. No one spoke, no one moved, until he suddenly strode to the closed door on the far end of the room—the one I’d assumed led to a bedroom—and swung it so wide it hit the wall. As soon as he disappeared inside I moved to Consuelo and took her hand.
“Come. Now is our chance to get away.” I cast a glance at Marianne; would she betray us? Then I glanced around for Muffy. Consuelo would never leave her pet behind, but I didn’t see the animal anywhere.
In the next instant James stepped back in the parlor, holding an object that turned my blood to ice. A wooden barrel rested in the crook of his right elbow, his fingers curled around a trigger, his left hand aiming the long end of the weapon directly at me. At first my mind conjured a rifle, but soon the barbed, steel shaft protruding from the wood identified the piece as a harpoon. A single shot, but deadly.
Perhaps he recognized my realization that he’d have only one chance to kill me, for he shifted his aim to Consuelo.
“No!” I bounded toward him but stopped short. My sudden movements might cause his fingers to twitch against the trigger. I held out my hands. “All right. What do you want?”
His sister spoke up first. “Tell them, James. They at least have the right to know the truth.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right, Marianne. Surely Consuelo will understand once she learns what happened to us.” To my dismay his hold on the harpoon didn’t slacken. But then, neither would my scrutiny. I vowed not to take my eyes off him, to seize any advantage should one arise. “Our story begins in England, in Oxfordshire, at Blenheim Palace.”
Consuelo gasped.
“What does that mean?” I demanded.
“Blenheim is the home of the Duke of Marlborough,” she whispered hoarsely.
James nodded. “Indeed. My father was first assistant to the house steward. My mother, the housekeeper’s assistant. Marianne was an upstairs maid.” He shot his sister a fond look. “She was about to be promoted to lady’s maid to the Duke’s sister, weren’t you, Marianne?”
She nodded slightly, her face sickly white.
“As a boy I had worked with the groundskeeper, but a few years ago I became a footman.” James’s expression darkened. “We were working hard, but going about our lives well enough until one day last autumn my father was accused of stealing and doctoring the house account books to cover his guilt. The Duke threatened my father with prison if he didn’t confess to the crime. My father was innocent, but—devil be damned—his word would never hold up against the Duke of Marlborough’s. Innocent or no, he’d rot in prison and the rest of us would be turned out to starve on the streets.
“So he confessed, and we were sacked anyway. All of us. Tossed out without references and nowhere to go. And do you know what happened then?”
I shook my head. Beside me, Consuelo trembled. Marianne sat with her head bowed, hands clenched around the arms of her chair.
“Winter set in,” he said matter-of-factly, almost amiably. “We’d gone to Oxford to search for work and found none. None that’d take us without references, that is. The four of us were living in a one-room attic with the sky showing through the gaps in the thatch. The rain came through as well, and then the snow. We fell behind on the rent, so the landlord threatened to send us packing. That was when our mother became ill. Pneumonia. She was dead within the fortnight.”
Marianne moaned, then bit down on her bottom lip and tightened her grip on the chair until her knuckles threatened to burst through the skin. She was so frail and forlorn, so defeated that, despite everything, I pitied her. I wanted to go to the woman and comfort her. I think Consuelo did, too. She looked down at Marianne but seemed to be holding herself back, perhaps debating if the Englishwoman deserved her sympathy, perhaps merely too afraid to move.
“Not long after, my father lay in the pauper’s grave alongside her.” James spoke more quietly now, as if the memories proved too much and the fight had gone out of him. “Hanged himself from the rafters one day when Marianne and I had gone begging for food.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Consuelo whispered through the hand she pressed to her mouth.
“Ah, but it doesn’t end there.” A smile dawned on James’s face—demonic and chilling. “With Marianne showing signs of consumption, I knew we wouldn’t last much longer where we were. England had become a hell for us. So I did anything I could—and yes, that included begging, cheating, and stealing—to scrape together enough money to book our passages to America. We arrived in New York early last spring.”
“Your story is a terrible one,” Consuelo said when he paused, “and surely you didn’t deserve what happened to you. I’m sorry for it. But why all of this? Why all of your lies?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Consuelo?” At the risk of tearing my gaze away from James and his speargun, I turned to her. “The Duke of Marlborough. Even in America, they found they couldn’t escape the man.”
She shook her head at me. “I still don’t understand.”
“Revenge.” I turned back to James. “Isn’t that right?”
James smiled shrewdly. “It was all too perfect. When I learned the bloody bastard was coming here to become engaged to Consuelo, I knew fate had arranged retribution in my family’s name. He needs your dowry to pay his debts and save his blasted estate. I intended to make sure he never got it—not one bloody cent. I moved us to Newport and soon enough learned that fate was even kinder than I had imagined. Pubs are a wondrous source of servants’ gossip, and I learned Consuelo wanted no part of this marriage. And then I met Miss Katie Dillon.” His brogue returned, dripping with mockery. “A bonnie lass, she is, and most accommodatin’.”
“You used her . . . and Emma . . .” Consuelo trailed off in a clear attempt to gather her thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice was clearer, stronger, her back straighter. “And me, apparently. But why murder Madame Devereaux?”
“Ah, an unplanned complication, that. Seemed the old boot was genuinely clairvoyant after all. Somehow she knew what I was planning. Knew I was going to spirit you away from Marble House, and she threatened to expose me if I didn’t pay her. So pay her I did.” His sister coughed, and James regarded her briefly. Then his gaze shifted to me. “I believe you found my coins scattered about the pavilion, Miss Cross. Aye, I didn’t have time to collect them, what with Mrs. Vanderbilt and her gaggle of quacking cronies waddling down the garden path. I’m afraid I had no choice but to leave a bit of a mess.”