Murder at Marble House by Alyssa Maxwell

be terribly upset over what happened in her gardens yesterday, but why are you here? ” His eyes sparked with alarm. “Has something happened to Consuelo?”
    “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
    “Miss Cross, I wish you’d stop speaking in riddles.”
    “But that’s precisely what this is, Mr. Rutherfurd. A riddle.” I paused to choose my words carefully. “You see, Consuelo isn’t . . . presently at home. I don’t know where she is—”
    “And neither does her mother, does she?” I expected an ironic smile; instead, lines of concern aged his face beyond his thirty-odd years. “This isn’t like Consuelo, not like her at all. She doesn’t do things like this, doesn’t rebel or run off in fits of temper. Or fits of anxiety. Dear heavens . . .” A waxy pallor suddenly replaced his outdoorsy complexion. “Do you think whoever murdered that woman . . . but no, the maid did it, didn’t she? And she was caught red-handed. Surely the woman couldn’t have had time to strike twice. . . .”
    I cut his outburst short. “Is she here?”
    “I—what? Who?”
    “Consuelo, Mr. Rutherfurd. Is she here?” I ground out each impatient word from between my clenched teeth.
    Winty’s palm slapped the table in a way that had me wishing for the reappearance of his footman or a maid or anyone else. “How dare you imply such a thing, Miss Cross?”
    His anger all but shuddered in the air between us. I drew back in my seat, but I forced myself not to look away. “I am not implying anything, Mr. Rutherfurd. I’m merely asking a direct question. You did ask me to stop speaking in riddles.”
    His nostrils flared. “That was no simple question, Miss Cross. You’re practically accusing me of . . . of stealing Consuelo away from her home and hiding her here.”
    My hands balled into fists around the purse strings in my lap. “Did you?”
    Winty sprang to his feet. “I most assuredly did not. Do you honestly believe I’d play with her reputation in such a dastardly way? The woman I lo—”
    He broke off, but I heard his unspoken sentiment. The woman he loved. “All the more reason to steal her away from her impending marriage. An unwanted marriage.”
    “I’m afraid it’s time for you to leave, Miss Cross.”
    I came to my feet but refused to budge any further. How I managed such audacity I couldn’t say. Instinct forced from me words and actions I’d never have been capable of under normal circumstances. But just as when Brady had been accused of murder and my faith in his innocence compelled me to hazard any risk to clear his name, so did my concerns for my cousin’s life prompt me to defy a man in his own home.
    “If Consuelo truly isn’t here,” I said calmly, “then you shouldn’t mind if I take a look about.”
    “You may not, Miss Cross,” he said in a tone that brooked no debate. He worked his jaw from side to side. His gaze swept to the servants’ doorway, then back to me. When he spoke again, his voice was less stern, but adamant. “You’ll have to take my word for it that your cousin isn’t here, nor have I seen her since the Astors’ ball last month, except now and again from a distance as we happened to pass each other in town. As for searching my house”—he drew in an audible breath and smiled grimly—“how dare you insult me, Miss Cross. You have all but called me a liar.”
    “I’m sorry, but my cousin’s life is at stake,” I began, but before the words were fully out of my mouth, the servants’ door swung inward, as if the footman who appeared on the threshold had answered Winty’s silent call of a moment ago.
    He bobbed a deferential greeting to his employer. “Will you be wanting the lamps in your study lit now, sir?”
    “Yes, Davis, thank you. On your way, please see Miss Cross out.” With that, Winty sank back into his chair and lifted his newspaper, giving it a brisk snap before hiding his face behind it. “Good day, Miss Cross.”
    I briefly considered