She didn’t wish me a good day in turn. She only frowned at me as I hurried out of the room.
“I thought we agreed this was none of your business, Emma.” Derrick’s voice carried through the lobby of the Atlantic House Hotel; several guests, a porter, and the clerk at the check-in desk sent us inquiring looks.
Derrick seized my elbow and drew me into a corner half-hidden by an overgrown potted palm. “You promised, Emma.”
“Did I?” I gazed up into his eyes—at this moment dark and fiery—and almost forgot why I’d come to see him. I’d made a quick stop at the police station to hand Jesse the evidence I’d found. He’d been skeptical but promised to have an expert examine the petals. Then I’d rushed here and found Derrick in, but not necessarily in the most receptive state once he heard my request. Or was he still fuming over my suggestion that morning that he might use Consuelo’s disappearance to sell newspapers for his father?
“Derrick, don’t you see that my cousin’s disappearance and those smugglers might be connected after all? Those men mentioned someone called Stanford, and a woman by the name of Hope Stanford is staying with Aunt Alva. She was there when the medium died and Consuelo disappeared.”
“And what? You think this woman is involved in smuggling?”
His mocking tone raised my hackles. “Don’t be silly. But her husband is also staying in Newport. The pair are supposedly in support of the temperance movement, but what if her husband secretly isn’t? What if—”
“There you go, jumping to conclusions and stretching the facts again.” He crossed his arms in a defensive posture, yet his eyes never left mine as they narrowed pensively. I waited silently, letting him work through the same thoughts that had earlier occurred to me. “It would be a good cover, wouldn’t it? The husband of a temperance leader flooding the market with illegal rum . . .”
I struggled to keep the triumph from my expression, though he quelled it quickly enough. “I still don’t see how it could have anything to do with your cousin.”
“Well, the man’s wife is staying at Marble House. Maybe Consuelo heard something.”
“That would mean Mrs. Stanford would have to be in on the crime. Could she be that accomplished an actress? I’ve heard of the woman’s antics in town. Do you know she took a sledgehammer to a bar top?”
“I’ve heard the story,” I said, remembering hearing the details from the woman herself only two days ago. “But it’s not only the Stanfords who might be involved. There is also Winthrop Rutherfurd.”
“Ah, yes. Winty.”
“With his involvement we can’t rule out a connection to Consuelo.”
I could see from the softening of Derrick’s jawline that I had him half-convinced of my suspicions. Please don’t judge me harshly, but I used that moment to press my advantage.
“Derrick . . .” I laid my fingertips on his forearm, the summer-light weave of his coat sleeve softly nubby against my skin. “I’m sorry about this morning. I know you would never betray a confidence, mine or anyone else’s. I wasn’t thinking quite straight yet.”
“I know.” He covered my hand with his own, sending a warm shiver up my arm. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been angry after all you’d just been through. But it’s true, Emma. I will never attempt to benefit from anything you might confide in me, except to ensure nothing bad happens to you.”
His voice had become a balmy rumble; this, and the sudden warmth in his gaze, instantly became too much for me. Too revealing and too open, as if it were my turn now to respond, to reveal something of myself.
I wasn’t ready. Not after adamantly turning down Derrick’s proposal of marriage such a short time ago. Good grief, had it only been the morning of Madame Devereaux’s murder? It seemed as though eons had passed since then.
Had I made the right choice? My head and everything I wanted for myself said yes; but that look in Derrick’s eyes and the alarm building inside me suggested otherwise, and as the seconds passed I grew in greater and greater danger of falling prey to those suggestions.
Then Derrick removed his hand. I dropped mine from his forearm. We stepped apart. He coughed, I chuckled. A horribly awkward moment passed.
With a rueful quirk of his mouth, he said, “So, tell me about this latest plan you’ve cooked up.”
Chapter 11
Derrick and I waited until the next day to implement my plan. I didn’t relish the delay, but he insisted I go straight home after our brief encounter in the Atlantic House Hotel’s lobby. He said I’d likely collapse if I pushed myself any further that day, and though I loathed admitting it, he was likely right.