“Not London’s slums, Rome’s,” he said and told Wentworth what had happened in a few, short profane sentences.
“Not good,” Wentworth said. “Very bad development.”
If Jamie believed the man’s concern was for Isabella, he might have been impressed. It wasn’t.
“We cannot have Castellimonte’s support diverted from Victor Emmanuel. We deal with the House of Savoy with difficulty as it is without gaining a king who actually…” He let his voice trail off.Who actually ran the country, Jamie suspected.
“You think this is aimed at Castellimonte?” he asked.
“Of course! What else would it be? No one really cares about Robert Beaumont’s daughter. Family is the man’s one weakness.”
Family. How much does Castellimonte know about the actions of his own son?Jamie had no answer for that. He would dearly like to question the baron.
“Can you help?” he asked Wentworth. “If not, our conversation is over.”
Wentworth looked lost in thought.
“We will have to shore up our contacts with the heir, Carl Felice,” Wentworth said, lost in his own thoughts.
“What about Isabella?” Jamie demanded.
“Oh, they won’t injure the girl, not as long as they need her to control Castellimonte,” Wentworth said absently. He waved a hand vaguely, a habit Jamie had come to loathe.
“But do you have any idea who might want to take her?”
“Any number of people,” Wentworth said, acting affronted that Jamie would doubt it. “Victor Filiberto, of course, loathes the king, but it’s unclear whether he would act against his father.”
Victor again. “I don’t doubt it,” Jamie said.
Wentworth went on as if Jamie hadn’t spoken. “The young ones for certain, but it’s difficult to determine which ones.”
The Boys. Wentworth seemed sure of it. Jamie’s blood went cold. He struggled to think who had time to get up to the nursery, snatch Isabella, and kill the maid. Several young men had left dinner together. Eduardo seemed closest to Filiberto, but he stayed behind at dinner as had Victor. They hadn’t left early, but Filiberto could easily be paying someone. There had to be more than one person involved.
“You see, Major, why it has been important to gather as much as we could about your students? If you had found out more, we might know, but as it is, one can’t be certain,” Wentworth pronounced.
“That’s it then? I failed and you can’t help,” Jamie spat.
“Don’t get hostile,” the old man responded. “I suggest you simply return to Palazzo Savoia and wait. The conspirators will contact Castellimonte soon enough.”
Jamie stalked to the door.
“Major?” Wentworth called after him. “You will let me know when they do, won’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Castellimonte attempted to distract Nora with chess. Nothing, neither the exquisite inlaid table, nor the hand-carved ivory pieces, nor the generous competitor pulled her mind from Isabella. They gave up after two games.
Eventually she sank onto a chaise lounge and pretended to nap. The count never left her.
Guards came and went, saluting with stiff formality. Housemaids came and went, wringing hands and bobbing curtseys. Courtiers came and went, oozing concern and courtesy. Every one gave the same message. No sign of the girl, no note, no demands.
Long after the scurrying stopped, long after the house quieted, long after the last patrol returned, her husband returned, filthy, bloodied, and ragged. His formal obeisance to the count looked ridiculous.
She flew to his arms.
Jamie held her to him in a fierce hug, but he looked directly at Castellimonte and shook his head. He brought no good news.
“What happened to your face? You look like you’ve been in a fight,” Nora said.
