“The Count di Castellimonte.”
Nora watched the blood drain from the young man’s face until it was white as the paper in front of him. She doubted that boded well for her case.
A sudden longing for Major Bently’s help washed over her.Where had the blasted man gone?Nothing she said the previous evening convinced him to accompany her to the Hanoverianoffices. He claimed to be busy, but she suspected he had an aversion to the place.Typical man—when I need him most, I can’t depend on him.
The pouter pigeon regained some of his composure. “The man you need, Mrs. Haley, is Arthur Wentworth,” Campbell sputtered. “Been here the better part of twenty years. Fled Napoleon with the rest, of course, but stayed in touch with the papal court for all that. I can make you an appointment some time later this month.”
Panic set in. “You don’t understand. My brother is dying. I must see him immediately. Please ask!”
The clerk started to protest, but Nora overrode him. “You will inquire now, or your superiors in London will hear how you failed to protect an English lady in dire need.” As a threat, it lacked teeth.What would the major have said?
In the end, he sniffed his disapproval but went to do as she bid. In short order, he returned to show Nora into a strange little room with gilt cherubs on the vaulted ceiling, bookshelves around the walls, and a massive dark wood desk crouched in the center of the floor like some bear in a cave too small for it.
Arthur Wentworth, a bluff Englishman of the gentry class dressed in tweeds even in the heat of Rome, looked up from behind the desk. He did not stand; she noted the breach of manners. She saw no approval in his eyes.
“I have merely a moment, young woman, but perhaps you can give me a quick description of your problem. We will decide what must be done,” he growled.
Nora ignored the man’s obvious irritation at the interruption and described her brother’s condition as quickly as she could.
“Beaumont? Of course we know Beaumont.” She thought his attention sharpened at that. She outlined the arrangements for his daughter’s care, Robert’s desire that Isabella not grow up in the convent school, and the anticipated opposition of her mother’s family.
“And the count who is so concerned about the girl, do you have any idea who he is?” Wentworth asked.
“I believe he is a cousin of the King of Sardinia,” she said.
“Cousin and Secretary of State. These are not people used to having their wishes challenged.”
“I should think Napoleon would have corrected that notion,” Nora snapped, thoroughly sick of hearing about the power of the Italian aristocracy.
The old man chuckled. “One might think so, but since the Congress of Vienna, they are back and more powerful than ever. Victor Emmanuel has made it his business to remind his people about the divine right of kings, and he sends Castellimonte here in case the Pope forgets.”
“Still, there are laws,” she said.
“Yes. Even Italy has the rule of law, whether the House of Savoy understands that concept or not.” He sighed wearily. “What is it you wish, Mrs. Haley? Let’s get down to it. Do you believe you can raise this little girl yourself?” Wentworth looked doubtful.
“Yes!” she gasped, struggling to breathe normally. The depths of her need to have Isabella shocked her. “They don’t want her—not really. They plan to leave her in the care of the sisters. She deserves a family.”
“Your brother’s wishes? What are they?” he asked.
“He does not wish her to grow up at the convent. He has said so.”
“Is there a will? No court, Mrs. Haley, in this or any other country, would present the child to an impoverished widow over a wealthy and powerful family. Without a will, there is little I can do.”
In the moment, Nora saw herself as Wentworth must have seen her, a drab widow with no prospects. She doubted he could conjure a less likely a candidate to provide family for a small child. Her heart sank.How could she convince this man to help?
“I don’t know about a will,” she said. She pulled the creased and tattered piece of foolscap from her reticule. “Robert gave me this. He said to contact this person if anything happened to him.”
Wentworth’s expression shot from bland to interested astonishment.
“Antonio Salvia is a legal expert. We might call him a solicitor. He is one of the best,” he said. “Your brother may indeed have a will, but what it stipulates and how unbreakable it is remains to be seen.” Wentworth made some quick notes. “We’ll investigate. Perhaps I can at least clarify your position. That’s all I can promise.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wentworth.” She took the paper he offered and quickly wrote down where she could be found. “If I am not there, you could contact me through the Convento Santo Spirito. Mother Margarita will know where to find me.” His bushy eyebrows rose again at that, but he didn’t comment. He dismissed her with a careless wave of his hand.
In the end, Wentworth’s information about Robert’s will reached Nora two hours after news of Robert’s death.
Nothing comforted Nora,not the cool comfort of the hospital’s marble courtyard, nor the tender care of two nursing sisters who pressed “inglese” tea on her.
She sat, back rigid, numb with grief, and awash in sorrow while the women buzzed like bees in Italian, burdening her with unwanted compassion.
