He turned to a blank page and wrote at the top: An ambassador’s wife needs several qualities. She should be capable of setting others at ease, understanding politics, respecting other cultures, and possess a natural curiosity that makes her want to learn more. She must have a sense of adventure and be kind-hearted. She ought to enjoy speaking of books and art, past and present, and converse well on challenging topics. She must be more than a political partner, but a friend to her husband.
Luca needed a wife that fit this new list. In truth, he needed Emma.
He dropped the pencil and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing at them but unable to dismiss his concern.
She had misunderstood him in the garden, but he couldn’t be certain how to repair the damage. Not until he spoke to her. And she had successfully avoided speaking to him alone for nearly a week.
A knock on the door leading to Torlonia’s room made Luca mutter a less than appropriate word. The monks would’ve been horrified he even knew such language. He winced and sent a silent prayer to heaven for forgiveness. Then he called, “Enter.”
Torlonia came into the room between both of theirs, dressed for the day as impeccably as ever. Frowning as darkly as ever.
“Mio Signore,” he said, speaking rapidly in their native tongue. “The ambassador from Austria is in London, and we have received word of his attempts to paint our kingdom as unstable and unworthy of English trade.” He shook a piece of paper in the air as he spoke, his eyes wide and wild. “There are all the usual claims made, that Austria must have sovereignty over the whole peninsula, and Metternich is pressing for a meeting of nations.”
Metternich, an Austrian diplomat with more to do with Napoleon’s rule than anyone liked, had shown far too much interest in Italy of late. The man had helped engineer Napoleon’s second marriage, tried to control the outcome of the Congress of Vienna in 1814, and made his first visit to Italy the following year. He had been part of every important committee in Europe for a decade, having the ear of more than one monarch at vital moments.
“I thought he was to return to Austria after the Congress of Aachen,” Luca growled, reaching for the letter. He had a counterpart at that congress sending him letters and newspapers as representatives from other nations discussed what to do about the allied troops in France.
“Not until December. He is coming from Brussels—the congress there is ended—and will spend Christmas with the tsar in Venice. You know how it will be. He will spend all the time gathering information to present against unified Italian states.” Torlonia started pacing while Luca read the report. “We must go to London.”
Luca’s head jerked up. “London? Parliament is not yet in session.”
“I know that,” Torlonia barked. “I am not a simpleton. But communication is easier there, and faster. I have it through my sources that Matternich will send a representative to begin the work of convincing the British to call another meeting with Spain, to speak of forcing King Ferdinand to change the constitution or give up his rights to his Austrian cousins.”
Luca dropped the letter on his desk. It contained the suppositions Torlonia shared, as well as information that the Prussian court supported Austrian rule over all of Italy.
“It cannot be as dire as you seem to think,” Luca said, frowning at the paper. “We have heard nothing distressing about Austria’s claims from our own court. Things move slowly. There is time to understand more.”
“Time?” Torlonia froze on the spot. “You speak of time as though we are wealthy with it—but do you remember how quickly France swallowed most of Europe? Of course not—you were a mere boy. Hiding with monks in the country.” Torlonia shook his head, his shoulders falling. “We must go to London, at once. We can leave now and have our luggage sent after. The duke will understand. In London, we will be better positioned to keep watch over this situation.”
“It can wait,” Luca repeated, though without conviction.
“His Majesty the King would not want you to sit idly in the country when you could move forward, when you could take action. Parliament will not convene until January, yes, but there are members who are there now.” Torlonia took on a pleading tone, then reached into his coat and withdrew another folded piece of paper. “And there is this.”
With misgiving, Luca took the paper from him and opened it. “What is this?”
“This is a letter from a friend in Ferdinand’s court.” Torlonia lifted his chin into the air. “There are questions that have arisen about your suitability for your role.”
“Why would such questions come about?” Luca asked, reading a list of rumors about himself that made his temperature rise. “They say I do nothing? That I am spending my time as a youth—frivolously wasting the king’s coin?” Luca lifted his eyes to Torlonia. “Who would dare say such lies? I have worked every day since my foot touched English soil to see to our country’s needs.”
Torlonia said nothing, but there was a gleam in his eye. He had triumphed, Luca realized, presenting the argument that would most efficiently make Luca see things his way. The secretary had been present when men of greater standing had questioned Luca’s suitability in the role of ambassador due to his age and his lack of experience in the political arena of their nation.
If the same men continued to vent doubts when Luca was not there to defend himself, the king might well decide to recall him.
“We must go to London,” Luca murmured, a weight pressing upon his chest. “I will inform the duke—”
Nothing could have delighted Torlonia more, given his sudden and rapid speech. “I have already told him and sent for your horse. Bruno is preparing your things now.”
Luca looked up, meeting the secretary’s eyes. “You did what?” he asked, standing. “You would presume to do such a thing before you even informed me of the circumstances?”
The older man’s cheeks turned red. “I knew how it would be. You are young, Signore, but you are not stupid.”
Something felt wrong about the circumstances, about rushing away, and it was not only the knowledge that he must leave Emma behind.
Leaving her with such uncertainty between them could well end everything—their friendship and the potential for so much more between them. Torlonia had overstepped, and Luca would make his secretary and himself look foolish if he did not leave that very day. Torlonia had seen to that by announcing their departure to all in the castle.
“I must write a letter first.”
The door to Luca’s room opened, and Bruno came out, holding a saddle bag over one arm and Luca’s riding clothes over the other. The elder man moved with haste, his face pale. “È tutto pronto, mio Signore.”
Torlonia gestured to Bruno. “Yes, get dressed at once. You may write your letter in London. I will dress and meet you in the grand hall. I am certain His Grace will be waiting to bid you farewell.” The secretary, all pomposity restored, turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Luca could not keep the duke waiting. He looked to Bruno, noting the sheen of sweat on the other man’s forehead. “What is happening, Bruno? Why the haste?”
The valet shook his head. “It is nothing. Here, let us hurry to have you ready.”
Rather than distress the old man by making him wait, Luca dressed with his help. He kept composing a letter to Emma in his head, but there were no simple words for what he felt—for what he must explain—and how he hoped she might come to see things between them as he did. What could he possibly do—how could he convey everything to her in the midst of this uncalled-for haste?
Why was Torlonia so insistent they leave right away? The secretary had thought visiting the duke would demonstrate status and elitism. Surely he had to know that Luca’s friendship with a high-powered member of the English nobility meant good things for their kingdom. Practically fleeing the duke’s hospitality would cause the opposite.
Luca finished dressing and took out his notebook. He carefully tore the page out upon which he
’d written his new hopes, his new ideals for a companion of his heart. A wife.
“To Emma,” he scrawled at the top of the torn page. Then, at the bottom, he wrote: “I must leave today—though I do not understand the need for haste. Know that I regret leaving before we could speak. Emma, write to me. Please. There is much I must tell you. I hope these words will make a beginning. You must know, they describe you perfectly.”
It was as bold a statement as he could make on paper. He rushed from the room, saddlebag over his arm and paper in hand.
Torlonia waited in the hall. “Finally. Come, we must go down at once.”
“No, I need to deliver this letter to Miss Arlen.” Luca turned toward the long hall which would eventually take him to the family’s quarters, where he knew Emma’s room lay.
“She will likely be downstairs to bid us farewell. Come.” Torlonia started walking at a fast clip, and Luca followed. He didn’t know where Emma’s room was. He had only been in the family wing once. It made sense that she—as a member of the household—would be present to say goodbye.
Except Emma wasn’t there. Only the duke, Lord Farleigh, and Sir Andrew stood at the door. Luca stopped before the duke, confusion swirling in his heart and thoughts.
“We are sorry you must leave, Atella,” His Grace said, his expression friendly enough. “I hope we will see you in London after Christmas. You must come visit us at at our house in Mayfair.”
“The moment I can, Your Grace, I will call upon you there.” Luca still clutched the letter in his hand, and he knew he had only one option left to him if he wished it to find its way to Emma’s hand. “Your Grace, though I leave you in this rude manner, I have a great favor to ask of you. Would you grant me permission to write to Miss Arlen?”
He heard Torlonia’s sharp intake of breath.
The duke’s eyebrows raised, but it was Sir Andrew who spoke.
“To what end, Atella?” He wore a wide, almost mocking, grin. “After our last conversation, I was under the impression she hadn’t any particular desire to spend time in your company, let alone receive your letters.”
Luca glared at the baronet, wondering why anyone liked the man and his constant jests. “You know precisely why.”
“I am not privileged with this information,” the duke said, his deep voice measured and certain. “Why do you wish to write Miss Arlen?”
“I hope to continue our friendship while I am away,” Luca replied, meeting the duke’s gaze squarely. He and his daughter shared blue eyes, but while Lady Josephine had never seemed to give Luca a serious thought on any matter, the duke’s gaze was probing and quite solemn. “And hopefully grow it into something more. If it pleases you, Your Grace.”
The duke considered Luca, then gave one slow nod. “Very well. You may write to her.”
His heart stuttered, then he turned to Sir Andrew. The man wore a smile as smug as anything Luca had ever seen. “Will you see to it your cousin receives this note?” He held the folded paper out to the other man, then gritted his teeth when he realized Sir Andrew might well be the sort of person who would read it before delivering it.
“I will.” Sir Andrew took the folded paper and tucked it into a pocket. “And I will promise not to read it, in case that’s what made you frown like someone stepped over your grave.”
Although the English phrase made Luca hesitate, Torlonia cleared his throat, and Luca knew he had spent enough time on the matter. His secretary felt an urgency Luca did not understand, but everything set in motion for his departure could not come to a halt now.
“Thank you again, Your Grace. I hope you know that the time here at Castle Clairvoir has meant more to me than I can say, and that you will always have a friend in me.” He bowed, formally taking his leave, and then Luca and Torlonia were out the door and on horses.
At least it was horses and not a carriage.
Luca heaved a disappointed sigh as they rode away, casting one last look over his shoulder at the castle before he set his sights forward. To London.
England had a reliable mail system, at least. Emma might well send a letter after him that would arrive before his luggage did. The thought alone made him content.
* * *
Tucked up in her bed, playing the part of an invalid, Emma turned Luca’s note over and over again in her hands. She said nothing, only stared at the blankets on her bed. Josephine sat in a chair, arms folded, glaring at her friend.
“I hope you see what playing at being ill has caused,” Josie said. “We could have been downstairs when he left, but no. You had to plead illness last night and illness upon waking. You could have seen him, could have looked directly in his eyes and—”
“And what?” Emma asked, voice soft. “It is not as though he would make a confession of love in front of your father. Or anyone else. If he even intended it.”
“Of course he intended to,” Josephine argued, gesturing to the letter. “You are everything he wants. He said so himself.”
With a disappointed shrug, Emma unfolded the note in her hand and read it again.
To Emma:
An ambassador’s wife needs several qualities. She should be capable of setting others at ease, understanding politics, respecting other cultures, and possess a natural curiosity that makes her want to learn more. She must have a sense of adventure and be kind-hearted. She ought to enjoy speaking of books and art, past and present, and converse well on challenging topics. She must be more than a political partner, but a friend to her husband.
I must leave today—though I do not understand the need for haste. Know that I regret leaving before we could speak. Emma, write to me. Please. There is much I must tell you. I hope these words will make a beginning. You must know, they describe you perfectly.
- Luca
“He mentions being a friend. That is not a declaration of love.” She handed the letter to Josephine. “And an ambassador’s wife? Josie, I couldn’t do that. Not without more than friendship.”
“First of all,” Josie said, reading through the letter, “you would make an excellent ambassador yourself. If women were permitted to be such things. So I think you are perfectly suited to be the wife of an ambassador. Second, he says there is more he wants to tell you. What else could it be but a declaration of love?”
Emma shook her head and closed her eyes. “In the garden, he said he wanted to discuss finding an English bride with me.”
Shaking the letter at Emma with some violence, Josie spoke sternly. “Did you ever stop to think that he meant you for his bride, you ninny?”
With alarm, Emma’s eyes popped open, and she reached for the letter, afraid her friend would harm it by shaking it about. “For a moment, I hoped he did. But I convinced myself it could not be so.”
Josephine released the paper into Emma’s hand. “You are behaving foolishly, which the poets and playwrights lead me to believe means you are very much in love with the ambassador. Because you are never foolish, Emma. You are the most clear-minded person I know.”
“I haven’t felt that way in a long while.” Emma put the paper down on the table near her bed, then took up a cushion to hug to her chest. She ought to get up. With Luca gone, there was no reason to feign illness. She had only done so to avoid answering him about helping him gain an English bride.
“Papa gave you permission to write to him.” Josephine rose and pointed one elegant finger at Emma’s writing desk. “You must begin at once. I imagine it will take you many drafts before you are happy with whatever it is you wish to say. I suggest you take him to task for misleading you, then forgive him, and tell him how you feel.”
Emma’s cheeks heated. “Certainly not.”
Josephine glowered. “What are you going to say then?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at the paper on her table, the single ragged edge that meant he’d torn it from a book where some other soul had carefully sewn it together. “I need to think about things. Perhaps wait for another letter from him explaining why
he left in such haste.”
Although Josephine frowned in disapproval, she did not say anything else on the matter. She changed the subject instead, and rather abruptly. Perhaps she knew that the more she pushed Emma, the more Emma only wished to push back.
Matters of the heart could not be decided through letters. Luca hadn’t confessed his feelings to her. Indeed, he had provided a list of things he wished for in a wife and stated she fulfilled those qualifications. It wasn’t quite a declaration.
Perhaps his next letter would help her understand what he really wanted from her and if she was capable of giving it.
Chapter Twenty
A fortnight in London, and Luca had not received a letter from Emma. What he had received, in terms of mail, amounted to a large stack of papers locked in his temporary desk drawer. Temporary because the house he had leased to set up as the embassy was under minor construction. So he stayed in a hotel near St. James’s Court.
Eventually, he would move into Davies Street, where number 14 Three Kings Yard would host him and future ambassadors at a most reasonable rate, considering the fashionable address. But at the moment, it wasn’t livable, with men-of-all-work coming and going at all hours.
As it was, he only visited the site that day and stood in the room meant to be a reception hall and ballroom. It was large enough to host a fashionable number of couples, and the floors were in a fine state, but the walls were atrocious.
If only he could ask Emma about them. Her opinion on decor was the only opinion that mattered to him. Unfortunately, with no encouragement to write to her, there was no way to know what she would wish. Luca had chosen a silk paper with ivory pillars and curling vines that reminded him of his home.
Torlonia was at the hotel, too. Busier than ever with his letter writing, and gaining invitations for the both of them to fine homes. The man was in something of a frenzy about the work. Something Luca didn’t understand.
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