He arrived at Palazzo Savoia before the sun rose high, clean, shaven, and as angry as he had been the night before. Castellimonte had affection for Isabella, but he refused to make commitments. His position demanded priorities beyond the well-being of one little girl.
Jamie and Castellimonte waited for a message in a state of truce. They almost overlooked it when it came.
The old wolf, who sat at his desk and pretended to attend to administration, nodded regally when asked if he wished luncheon brought on a tray. The meal arrived with three footmen, several covered platters, and a maximum of ceremony. A portable table had to be set up. Chairs were arranged, covers lifted.
“We will eat,” Castellimonte announced, dismissing the servants.
Jamie never refused food. He had nibbled biscuits, mounted and ready, just before the first charge at Waterloo. That morning food tasted like ashes. He began to nudge the exotic morsels with his fork, moving them around.
“Wine?” the count asked. Jamie shook his head and reached for the water pitcher.
“What is that?” he asked pointing to a folded piece of ivory vellum under the edge of a platter. “Does your staff send you messages from the kitchen?”
Both men reached for it at once. Jamie grabbed it first, upending the platter and spilling gravy down the side of the table linen. The vellum, folded over and sealed, read, “To his Lordship, the Count Di Castellimonte.”
The count reached out an imperious hand.
Jamie fought the urge to tear it open and handed it over.
While Castellimonte read, Jamie called back the three footmen. “Who filled this tray?”
The three men looked at one another. None answered.
Jamie shouted, “Who touched it? Damn it, who had put the dishes on the tray?”
“Fruitless, Major,” Castellimonte said without looking up. “A dozen hands touched that tray, and more passed it on the way up from the kitchens. These three won’t know.”
He waved the folded paper with a deep frown. “Childish,” he snapped. He handed it back to Jamie.
“‘Come alone,’” Jamie read, his eyes noting the location in a public park. “It sounds like a bad novel.”
“Quite. As expected, our conspirators are amateurs,” the old man said.
“You can’t go alone,” Jamie told him.
“Of course not,” he replied.
“How shall we proceed?” Jamie asked.
“We?” Castellimonte repeated, glaring down his aristocratic nose.
The threats might belong to the count, but Isabella belonged to Jamie. “You’ll need a guard,” he said.
“Nothing so indiscreet. A subtle assistant or two.”
“They’ll know The Ferret.”
Castellimonte’s lips twitched. He didn’t need to ask which assistant Jamie meant. “True enough,” he said. “But they would know you also, Major. You are not a subtle man. There are others.”
The meeting request implied immediately. The count rose and excused himself. “You will hear from me soon,” he said. “Once we know their demands, we can plan our next steps.”
The door shut with a whisper. He left Jamie cooling his heels like a poor petitioner. A roar burst from him in an explosion of frustration. Wine spilled across the table linen, and the decanter hit the wall; a red stain dripped down the velvet wallpaper. Shards of etched crystal sprayed across the floor.
“Isabella matters first and last, you old fool,” he roared.Nora’s Isabella, mine to protect.
He sank onto a sofa and ran a clenched hand through his hair. Meeting with kidnappers just meant more delay. Isabella wouldn’t be there. Castellimonte and his enemies played games with her life while a tiny girl sat alone and afraid, or worse.
Jamie’s thoughts raced.Did Isabella actually leave the Palazzo? Wat seems to think not, but how can we tell?There had been no sign of forced entry. Guards on every door would have seen something. Yet, the inside search turned up no trace.
