When she did decide to marry, she hoped to have the full support of the duke. His place as her guardian, and his acting as a father to her in everything but name, had won her trust and love when she was still a little girl, mourning the loss of her parents.
“You will help me if the count proves overly flirtatious?” Josephine asked, somewhat plaintively. “I have no wish to disappoint my father, or hurt the count’s pride, but I will not play the flirt. Even if it is for political relations.”
The weight of the moment, the seriousness of Josephine’s tone, sobered Emma. “You are not truly worried, are you? His Grace isn’t trying to encourage your marriage to a stranger. If he hoped for a match, he would say so directly.” She lowered her embroidery hoop to the basket beside her chair.
“But what if this is a test? If the count and I get along, Papa might bring him back in a year or two or give the count hope that there might be a union between us one day.” Josephine tangled her fingers together in her lap, as she did when nervous.
Emma rose and came to kneel before her friend, stilling the movements of Josephine’s hands by laying her own across them. “Josie, why do you worry so? If the count does not suit you, your father will not press the matter. If you find you do like the count, there would be no harm in seeing him again in the future. I think you are borrowing trouble, nothing more.”
“I know what people see when they meet me, Emma.” Josephine’s voice fell almost to a whisper. “We both do. They see my father’s power and influence. Not a woman with her own head and heart. I may be only nineteen, but I know well enough that I am a pawn on the board to most people. A means to an end.” She shivered, then clutched Emma’s hand in both of hers. “Promise me you’ll help as long as you can. I want my freedom a little longer. Please.”
Emma stared up into her friend’s lovely blue eyes. As children, they had often pretended they were sisters rather than friends. They both had brown curls, were of similar petite build, and liked all the same games. Only their eyes were different—Josephine’s blue and Emma’s brown. With age, their subtle differences had become more pronounced. Emma’s nose was small and turned up slightly at the end, and Josephine freckled easily and was a few inches taller than her friend. And Emma filled out her gowns a little more than the duke’s daughter.
But they had stayed as true and as close as sisters, despite any physical changes they underwent or the disparity in their ranks.
Emma made her vow with all the love of a sister. “I will help you, Josie. I promise.”
In whatever way she could.
* * *
Luca closed his eyes against the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through the carriage windows. Travel in carriages rarely agreed with him. He fasted rather strictly on days when he knew he would be in a wheeled conveyance longer than a few minutes, and on unknown roads. Small sips of tea were all he permitted himself.
Travel on horseback was much easier, but his secretary had insisted that the Conte di Atella, di Regno delle Due Sicilie, could not arrive on an English duke’s doorstep in anything less than the finest carriage money could buy.
Never mind that he would show up feeling horrifically ill.
Concern about Luca’s relative youth had already clouded the opinions in the Italian courts on whether or not he would make a suitable ambassador to England. Surely, eight and twenty years were enough to garner trust for a man of his education and lineage.
Carlo Torlonia, his secretary, sat across from Luca at that moment. Reading.
Next to Torlonia sat Luca’s manservant, Gabino Bruno. Il valletto in Italian. Valet in English. Of the three of them, Bruno’s English was the least capable, and Luca’s the most. He had studied English with tutors for several years, along with French during the occupation of the French pretenders.
French had been easier than English.
“Are you reading anything of interest, Signor Torlonia?” They had agreed to speak English unless it was absolutely necessary that they revert back to their native Italian. Torlonia needed the practice. Luca still had moments when his accent came out more strongly than he wished. Poor Bruno at least understood a great deal, even if he could not speak more than a few words of English.
“The history of Rutland, Signore.” Torlonia glanced up from his book. “I thought it best to prepare for conversations which might require more knowledge of the duke’s lands.” Why did the man always sound smug when he spoke? It was yet another detractor to their relationship.
Luca leaned into the corner of the carriage, looking out as they entered a lane shaded by large trees. Oaks, he thought. There were more oak trees in England than he had seen in the Italian countryside, and their oaks were undoubtedly of a different variety than those his homeland boasted.
His homeland. A place in turmoil, despite the finalization of the kingdom’s borders. Already there was talk of secret societies set upon destroying the monarchy, of sowing dissent and rebellion, plunging his land into more bloody conflicts too soon after the war with Napoleon.
He winced when they came out of the shaded lane, turning upward toward a hill. He caught the briefest glimpse of towers resembling the battlements of ancient castles. He blinked. They were turning up a road to go to that castle.
“I thought Clairvoir Castle was newly constructed.”
Torlonia glanced up from his book. “Ten years ago, I am told. On a site as old as the Norman invasion, where three castles have existed before.” He shook his reading material toward Luca. “I told you this book would prove useful, Signore. You are
