“Then we shall come to Rome,” Andrew said. “The air is conducive to one’s health I hear.”
“And conducive to diplomacy as well?” Jamie asked.
“That too,” Richard said, and he gave Jamie one of his rare smiles.
“Good luck, Jamie. You have the letters?” Andrew asked.
Jamie patted the letters of recommendation in his pocket. They meant well, but he wouldn’t use his friend’s influence to find work unless he had to. He’d had enough of that.
“Letters! Bless me sir, I forgot!”
Jamie turned to see Harvey rooting about in his ever-present valise. The little man pulled out a large bundle of letters. Jamie thought it was odd.
“Didn’t Harvey tell you?” Richard asked.
“Tell me what?” Jamie responded.
“Quite strange,” Harvey blustered. “Most peculiar. A pouch arrived at Whitehall from Rome two days ago. These letters were tucked inside for you, the whole pile of them. They appear to be from Lady Ross. I meant to give them when I met you.”
Jamie snatched the bundle of folded papers. Nora’s handwriting covered the top one. He turned them over and over in his hand. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“People give letters to our officers abroad frequently. They trust our couriers will bring them safely to England,” Richard said.
“Just as I sent mine for Nora to be delivered via courier.”
“Exactly,” Richard replied. “Occasionally one may wait until there is room in the courier’s pouch, but we can’t account for this many at once.”
“She wrote,” Jamie breathed. “She wrote to me.”
“It appears someone in Rome delayed them,” Harvey frowned. “Someone performed poorly indeed.”
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” Richard said quietly. “We will look into it.”
Jamie didn’t care who did it. He stared at the letters.She wrote!She hadn’t given up on him.
“Sorry to interrupt, sirs,” the flat American voice of the captain broke in, “but we can’t miss the tide.”
Jamie slipped the bundle into his jacket, cradling them against his chest. With a nod, he turned to board the ship for Rome and Nora.
“I suppose I will have to bring her my response,” he called back to his friends.
Chapter Forty-One
Nora sat on a wooden bench in an empty corridor of the Lateran Palace, sick with fear, while men judged her fitness as a woman, her fitness to raise Isabella.
Fury made her determined to overrule them. Fear held her in place. She might have tried to demand entrance, but for one thing: the man who followed Wentworth and Salvia into the courtroom.
The Count di Castellimonte sauntered down the hallway and into the court in full silken splendor accompanied by pike-carrying bodyguards and two black cassock-clad counselors. Only it wasn’t the old count. Victor Filiberto avoided her eyes until the last moment. Just as he passed through the door, he shot her a look of triumph. Then he was gone.
If Filiberto was the count, the gruff old man who loved Isabella was dead. Victor would take Isabella just to prove his power. Grief and new fears added to Nora’s burden of emotion.
Her heart skipped a beat when the door opened and a man came out. It sank when she recognized him. Only Archie Campbell.
“What,” she croaked, “what news?”
Campbell scowled at her obvious disappointment.
“Nothing yet. I thought you might worry about the time.” He reached for her hand on the bench. Nora moved it to her lap before he could touch her.
