“Two days.” Across the table from me, Nanny nodded her agreement. “I know you’re right,” I said, “but Aunt Alva . . .”
“What are you most afraid of?” Nanny asked. “Your aunt Alva’s temper or your cousin coming to harm?”
Her words put matters into perspective and I realized the decision was already made. “I’ll go to Jesse tomorrow. Surely he’ll be able to keep things quiet and out of the newspapers.” I couldn’t help eyeing Derrick. We were newspaper people, he and I; we both knew the lure of a good story. “Consuelo’s disappearance would make national headlines, Derrick. You’ll keep my confidence, won’t you? Please promise me.”
A glimmer of hurt entered his eyes. “Do you honestly think I’d betray your trust for a headline?”
“No, of course not,” I said quickly. But hadn’t I? Or was I just exhausted and not thinking straight? “Derrick, I’m sorry. I needed to be sure.”
He came to his feet. “You know, Emma, perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with your Vanderbilt relatives.”
“What does that mean? Derrick—”
“It means you need to learn to take people at their word and trust them. Good day, ladies.” With that he crossed to the kitchen door and was gone.
I stared after him, then looked to Nanny in hopes of gleaning some sort of comfort. There was none to be found, just a look of disappointment and a sad shake of her head.
After Nanny’s warm breakfast and a hot bath, I slept for several hours. One might think nightmares would have awakened me at every turn, but the truth is I slept like the dead and dreamed of nothing. Not of my missing cousin, not of those murderous men on Rose Island, not of the chilling, rocky depths of Narragansett Bay . . . and not even of Derrick, whom I’d wronged inexcusably that morning. Exhaustion claimed me completely, and I might have slumbered in that dreamless state until the next day if the telephone downstairs hadn’t jangled me awake sometime in the mid-afternoon.
I bolted upright, disoriented at first, confused by the angle of the sunlight hitting the backs of the window curtains. What was I doing in bed in the middle of the day? It took only a glint off the ocean through a gap in the curtains, and another jingle of the telephone bell, to bring the memories flooding back. Could the caller have news of Consuelo?
Katie’s Irish tones drifted up the staircase as I hurried down, securing my dressing gown around me. “Miss Cross isn’t available just now—”
“I’m here, Katie.” My slippered feet slid on the floorboards as I circled to the alcove beneath the stairs and glided to a stop in front of her. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Millford from the paper, miss.”
I practically snatched the earpiece from her hand. We sidestepped each other and Katie made her way down the corridor to the rear of the house. “Mr. Millford? What happened to my article yesterday morning? The one about the murder at Marble House? Why wasn’t it—”
“Emma, glad I caught you at home,” he said, neither acknowledging my question nor pausing for pleasantries. “How quickly can you get into town?”
I glanced down at my dishabille, thought about my aching side, and winced. “Oh, uh, not long. Has something happened? Is this anything to do with the murder?”
“In a way, yes. You’ll be here soon, then?”
Within the hour I brought my carriage to a stop outside the Observer’s offices. Whatever Mr. Millford wished to talk to me about, I resolved not to give him the chance until I’d learned why my story about Madame Devereaux’s murder hadn’t been run.
The question never left my mouth. I strode into Mr. Millford’s private office to find Ed Billings there as well, and looking as pleased as a popinjay in full plumage.
“Emma, you’ll never guess what.” My fellow reporter practically danced a jig in front of me while Mr. Millford looked on from the other side of his desk with the air of a proud parent.
I blew out a breath, knowing whatever had happened, I’d been beaten once again. “I give up, Ed. What?”
“Anthony Dobbs has been implicated in the murder at your aunt’s house. Implicated by me, Emma.”
I staggered to Mr. Millford’s old, scarred desk and clutched the edges of it for support. Ed’s words pounded through me. Anthony Dobbs . . . a murderer? The man who not two weeks ago had accused my own brother of a similar crime? Black spots danced before my eyes and a rushing like ocean waves filled my ears.
After what might have been only seconds, or as much as several minutes, I found myself able to gain control of my breathing and face Ed. “How do you know this?”