Jamie gripped Nora’s shoulders, holding her away to search her face, crumpled with fear. “I’m going to stop at Casa Beaumont for Wat. Can you manage here or would you rather be there?”
Nora looked at Castellimonte and back at Jamie. “Here I think. At least I won’t be alone.” He kissed her fiercely, breathing in her sweet scent of lilac for strength.
“It may take time,” he said.
“Do whatever it takes. I’ll be safe here.” She glanced up at Castellimonte. The old man needed her as much as she needed company. That thought reassured Jamie. Nora could lean on the count for now, but it might be a different story if they failed to find the little girl.
A vision of Isabella, frightened and alone, filled the space in his heart. He ran like the devil.
Within thirty minutes,Jamie and Wat began to scour the seediest taverns, gaming hells, and brothels, probing for information.
Jamie never believed the abduction could be entirely the work of street thugs, but the possibility that the kidnappers hired local muscle drove him out into the streets. Someone somewhere must know something.
An aging prostitute in filthy dive coyly suggested she had what Jamie needed. He declined, sipping stale ale and eyeing the drunken men around him.
“Did I understand that you need information about a girl?” she asked, rubbing against him.
“Not the sort of girl you mean,” Jamie answered, pulling away.
“Pity,” the old drab said.
Wat grabbed her hand before she could lift Jamie’s purse.
Jamie returned the favor at another prime location, dropping a brutish-looking fellow who took offense at Englishmen in general.
After hours of it, a furtive little man leaned across Jamie’s drink to whisper, “I may have the information you need, Signore.” The temptation to believe him proved too great to resist.
The weasel rubbed his fingers together. He licked his lips at the coin Jamie offered. “Not here,” he whined.
Jamie followed him. By then he felt too exhausted to think of any other option. If the weasel had information, he wanted it.
“You say the girl disappeared from Castellimonte’s household?” the man asked.
Jamie nodded.
“You deal with dangerous people, Signore. Dangerous people indeed,” he said, and he laughed a toothless laugh.
“You need a keeper,” Wat shouted, downing the first of Jamie’s attackers. Weasel had many friends. Jamie had a skilled one. It took the two of them twenty busy minutes, several cracked ribs, and the last of Jamie’s strength to fight their way out of the alley.
“Do you think he actually knew anything?”
“No,” Wat answered. “I know those bully boys. They just wanted drink money.”
Jamie groaned.
“Tell me, Major, do you really think any of those dolly-mop Italians at the Palazzo would deal with street vermin? They would never let them in the place.”
“Have you been humoring me?” Jamie asked.
“You looked like you needed a fight. I thought I ought to keep an eye out,” Wat said.
Jamie sent Wat home. He still needed a fight. Healmost got one when he pounded on the door to Hanover’s Embassy long after midnight and demanded to speak to Wentworth.
Wentworth sent word to admit him, but the steward kept him in the foyer until the old man wheezed down.
“Major! You look like a refugee from Seven Dials,” the old windbag said.
Jamie’s jacket reeked filth where it wasn’t ragged, blood had dripped down onto his shirt, and his face had an ugly scratch. He didn’t care.
