He referred to his brother Cornelius’s wife, who was always on the lookout for a suitable bridegroom for me. No one too lofty, considering my less-than-stellar origins, but as Uncle William implied, someone from good stock, maybe one of the old New England families of modest fortune.
It was my turn to sigh. “I didn’t come here to discuss my prospects, Uncle William. I take it Consuelo isn’t here, then?”
“I haven’t seen her.” I watched his face carefully and detected no guile, but then again why would he lie? “Would you like to search the boat?”
I chuckled despite my disappointment. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Sudden ire claimed his expression, taking me aback. “Believe me, Emmaline, even if Consuelo wanted to visit me, she wouldn’t dare because she knows how her mother would react. Alva would make her pay—pay dearly. The woman is doing her confounded best to turn my own children against me. It hasn’t worked so far with the boys—”
“It hasn’t worked with Consuelo either,” I hastily assured him.
“No? Give Alva time, she’ll work her devil’s magic. Let me tell you, it doesn’t surprise me a murder took place on the Marble House property. Everything that woman touches turns evil.... Good grief, it wouldn’t surprise me if she herself . . .” Scowling, he trailed off, unaware he’d echoed my own thoughts.
“She deserves to be toppled from her self-made throne,” he continued. “Wouldn’t it serve her right if the murder creates a scandal she’ll never recover from, that makes her a world-renowned social pariah. . . .” His smile, more a sneer, sent a foreboding shiver through me.
I sprang to my feet and stared down at him, awful possibilities gripping me like claws at my nape. Could kindly Uncle William have had reason to see Madame Devereaux dead? Reasons that had nothing to do with the woman herself, but with the wife who had so recently divorced him? Though unwelcome at Marble House, he did still have access to both the house and the grounds; the staff would never question his presence there. It begged the question, how far would a bitter man go to satisfy his need for retribution?
Then again, Alva had divorced William because she had discovered he’d been unfaithful. How did she discover his infidelity? Fortune-tellers, however deceptive, had their ways of uncovering the secret truth about people. And come to think of it, while fortune-tellers and mediums were all the rage among fashionable society, Aunt Alva had never struck me as fanciful enough to put stock in the supernatural. Yet she knew Madame Devereaux well enough to invite her into her home.... I wondered how, and under what circumstances, they had met before.
Oblivious to my speculations, Uncle William stood up beside me. “Would you like some lunch before you go?”
“No, uh . . . no, thank you.” The thought of food made me queasy. Did I believe Uncle William—or Aunt Alva—capable of murder, not to mention framing an innocent woman for the crime? No, not in my heart. But my believing it or not had little bearing on whether it was true. “I think I’ll . . . uh . . . head back into town . . . and wait for Consuelo at the dressmaker’s.”
“When you do see her, tell her to come visit me. Just to stick a blade between her mother’s ribs and give it a little twist.” It was his turn to chuckle, a cold sound that left me trembling. With a hollow smile I left him and began the climb back down to Angus’s skiff.
Chapter 7
“Where to now?” Angus asked me as he shoved off from The Valiant.
“Where to, indeed.” I sighed. Thus far all I’d achieved today was to widen my circle of suspects to include Winthrop Rutherfurd and my own Uncle William. Add Aunt Alva to that list, and it seemed everywhere I turned a suspect appeared out of the air. The queasiness of minutes ago seemed to settle in permanently. And yet my common sense ordered me to let it go, to acknowledge that events had sent my imagination and my suspicions barreling out of control. Uncle William? Aunt Alva? It was ludicrous. I’d promised Jesse I’d let the police solve Madame Devereaux’s murder. It was time I focused on what I had promised to do: find my cousin.
“Back to town,” I said half-heartedly, with no particular plan in mind. Where else could I search?
I set my sights toward where Long Wharf stretched into the harbor, but something closer caught my eye. A skipjack bounced across the waves twenty yards or so away. Some thirty feet in length, its two sails flashing silvery in the afternoon sun, the vessel maneuvered easily between the other pleasure craft, fishing boats, and freighters navigating Narragansett Bay. But that’s not what held my attention. No, it was the man at the helm, whose stance and figure might not have attracted my notice if I hadn’t just seen him that morning.