I hoped for better results with Carrie and Waldorf. Yet when I casually brought up her name, they stared back at me with blank expressions. “Heard from Consuelo?” Carrie parroted. Her mouth formed a rigid line as she raised a hand to adjust the netting around her beribboned chapeau. “No, I have not, and I am beginning to take it rather personally. I had believed she and I to be friends.”
“As did I,” her cousin agreed. “But it seems she’s been too busy for old acquaintances this summer.” He gave a shrug, and his voice lost a bit of its resentment. “Planning her wedding, I suppose. Clever Consuelo, to land herself a duke.”
Consuelo and Waldorf had never been sweethearts, but like many friends who’d essentially grown up together, they shared a sibling-like closeness and kept few secrets from each other. It didn’t surprise me that her apparent abandonment of her friends had been taken to heart. But no matter where Consuelo’s future took her, she would need these old friends. I couldn’t let them slip away because of her mother’s actions.
“Consuelo hasn’t been ignoring you,” I said earnestly. “She’s been longing to see you, to see all her friends.”
“Then why have we been turned away each time we’ve called at Marble House?” Carrie demanded to know. Waldorf nodded his consensus.
“It’s . . . she’s . . .” If Aunt Alva got wind of my interference, I’d never hear the end of it. But concern for my cousin took precedence. “It’s her mother. She’s been refusing to let Consuelo’s friends see her all summer. It’s because of the engagement.” Having said too much, I closed my mouth. They didn’t need to know the ugly truth about Consuelo’s impending nuptials. They were as aware of Aunt Alva’s penchants as everyone else in their social circle. Her temper was legendary, her tendencies familiar if inexplicable.
But I’d obviously given too much away. “Consuelo isn’t happy about the engagement,” Waldorf said rather than asked. His youthful gaze sharpened. “She’s being forced.”
I wanted to backtrack, to lie and say Aunt Alva simply wanted Consuelo to focus and prepare for her new role as a duchess, for an American, however much an heiress, had much to learn when it came to mingling with European royalty, as she surely would once she married. But the Astors had been lied to enough when it came to my cousin.
“She’s not happy, I’m afraid. To be honest, she’s rather afraid of the prospect, but she’s determined to make the best of it.”
Carrie studied me, her blue eyes shrewd. “Then why are you looking for her?”
“Oh, I’m not,” I replied, probably too quickly. I looked out over the phaetons, victorias, and curricles, as well as single riders passing by. “I only wanted to know if you’d heard from her. I thought . . . well . . . perhaps my aunt relented and allowed her to at least speak with you.”
Neither Carrie nor Waldorf replied for a long moment, their expressions burning with speculation. Then a soft-gloved touch descended on my forearm.
“If there is anything we can do . . .” Carrie murmured.
“Yes, please let us know,” Waldorf finished for her.
I nodded my thanks and moved to climb back into my carriage. Waldorf offered a hand to help me up, and when I’d settled in the seat he smiled at me. “How’s Brady doing, by the way?”
“Much better and vastly relieved,” I said. “As you can imagine.”
“Never did believe he was guilty. I just wanted you to know that, Emma.”
Carrie moved beside Waldorf, a head taller than she despite being so much younger, and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Me neither. We’re glad it turned out well for him. And things will turn out just fine for Consuelo, too. You’ll see.”
“Thank you. Both of you.” I hoped Carrie was right. If nothing else, her optimism bolstered me on my way into town after I dropped Katie off at home. There was one more person I was eager to question, but first I had a stop to make.
Ed Billings’s voice boomed from Mr. Millford’s office as I stepped into the tiny lobby of the Newport Observer on Lower Thames Street. I shot a glance at Donald Larimer, Mr. Millford’s secretary, half buried behind the stack of paperwork on his desk.
“What’s going on?” I asked him as the voices from the inner office crescendoed a second time. I tried to make out the words, but only the name Anthony Dobbs penetrated the walls and the mostly closed office door.
“Big scandal,” whispered Donald with a sidelong glance into the narrow corridor off the lobby. Sunlight from the large front window glinted on his oval spectacles. “Ed just got the scoop.”