“I am neither of those.”
It was then I realized she spoke with what my American mind interpreted as not quite a brogue, but some regional dialect from one of England’s more remote corners. That accent, along with her fair complexion and light, lifeless brown hair almost certainly ruled out her being Portuguese.
I had a sudden insight. “Are you renting this house from Mr. Delgado?”
“I . . .” Her gaze darted past me, then slithered warily back.
“Yes. What of it?”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t know that that’s any of your business, miss.” Again she whisked the handkerchief to her mouth and coughed, the sound like shaken gravel. I winced but tried not to show it. “Is there anything else?” she demanded.
“There’s someone else here, isn’t there?” Seeing her bracing for a second attempt at closing the door, I came to the point. “I’m looking for Consuelo Vanderbilt. I’m told she’s been seen walking on the beach. Is she here?”
Her eyes flashed with alarm, and though she recovered quickly, a shadow of fear continued to hover over her expression. “I’ve never heard of such a person.”
“Now that, madam, is a lie. Of course you’ve heard of her. I don’t care how new you are to this country, because she is as famous in Europe as she is in America. Everyone has heard of Consuelo Vanderbilt. Now”—I stepped up closer, nearly wedging myself into the few inches between the door and the jamb—“is . . . she . . . here?”
“Please—” She got no further before another coughing fit overcame her. Remorse at having overtaxed her rose up inside me and nearly had me turning about and leaving, but then the door opened wider.
“Stop badgering Marianne, Emma. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s been my friend. My only friend.”
“Consuelo.” The word slid from my lips, no more than a breath. There she was, standing right in front of me, her Angora cat, Muffy, cradled in her arms. The shock of finally seeing her, of having her within reach, rendered me otherwise speechless and immobile, as if she might flitter away at the slightest ripple of motion.
She let out a sigh and stepped back from the threshold. “You might as well come in. I doubt you’re simply going to go away.”
I followed her and the other woman, Marianne, into a tiny parlor. The room held a faded green sofa, a ragged easy chair, an equally shabby armchair, and a couple of side tables, all arranged around a central hearth of whitewashed brick. To the right of the fireplace an open doorway afforded glimpses of a stove and a bit of counter: the kitchen. A closed door stood off to my left, presumably a bedroom.
As if she presided over the tiny cottage, Consuelo gestured me to sit on the sofa. She took the easy chair and settled a purring Muffy in her lap. Marianne lowered herself slowly into the armchair, her effort obvious in how tightly she gripped the arms.
Consuelo wore a simple morning gown of coral muslin and no adornments save a single pearl that hung from a gold chain around her neck, a gift I knew to be from her father. Her hair had been braided and coiled at her nape. She sat with her back straight, her lovely neck leaning slightly forward as she regarded me with raised eyebrows, her expression halfway between resignation and amusement. Even in plain muslin, she looked regal, serene—and impossibly at odds with her surroundings. The dress was vaguely familiar to me, and I realized that when I had checked her dressing room for missing clothing I had only considered the more sumptuous items of her wardrobe, the gowns I’d grown used to seeing her in.
Simple attire, this shabby cottage . . . My confused mind grasped on to a single question. “What are you doing here?”
She smiled—almost. “Not marrying the Duke of Marlborough.”
Did I hear blame in her words? “But what will you do? Where will you go?”
“The world is a big place, Emma.”
That sent me to my feet. “No, it isn’t. Not for you. Where can you go where no one will recognize you?”
“After a time, that won’t matter anymore.”
“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?”