The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “Follow you where? And why did you shut it?” Portia demanded as she hurried after Rowena, who was now the only source of light.

  “I doubt you want an audience for this meeting.”

  Portia didn’t want Rowena, either. “I didn’t say I wanted to go, did I?”

  The other woman stopped so abruptly that Portia ran into her. “Are you saying you wish to go back? Will you give up what is yours so easily?”

  “And have you confronted all your husband’s mistresses?” Portia shot back.

  “No, I have not—but then I am not carrying Robert’s child. I heard them speaking, Mrs. Harrington, That woman will have him if you do not fight for him. You might be carrying the heir.”

  Ahh, now Portia understood—it always came back to status and blood lines and the future of the bloody earldom with this woman.

  She opened her mouth to demand Rowena take her back, but the scorn in the other woman’s eyes was too much to bear. Portia threw up her hands. “Fine, lead on.”

  Rowena turned without a word.

  Portia had to trot to keep up with her and she stubbed the toe of her thin satin slipper against something hard. “Will you please slow down,” she called out as the light disappeared around a corner. She rested one hand against the wall and massaged her aching toe until Rowena came back.

  The viscountess reached up to a wall sconce and Portia saw there were others evenly spaced down the narrow hall. She plucked out the candle and lit it. When it flared to life it bathed the space between them with twice as much light.

  She came back to Portia, her pale face eerie. “Here.” She handed her the candle and resumed her journey.

  Portia scrambled after her down the hall but paused when they reached a second, longer, set of stairs.

  “Hold carefully to the railing and watch your step,” Rowena called over her shoulder.

  “I thought you said they were going to the chapel?” Portia asked Rowena’s retreating back. “This feels like we’re headed down the side of the cliff.”

  “The tunnels run to Thurlstone and beyond. We must go down and then come up again in another section. They are very old—far older than the chapel itself, which is not even a hundred years old.”

  Portia’s stomach was in knots; did she really want to find them? “Perhaps—”

  “Perhaps what?” Rowena asked without pausing.

  Portia stared at the other woman’s back. What should she tell her? She didn’t know what to think, herself.

  You need to see them, don’t you, Portia? You need to rub salt in the wound.

  She grimaced; is that why she was following? To torment herself? Or maybe. . .

  Maybe what?

  Maybe Rowena is right—maybe I should fight for him.

  But what of your pride, Portia?

  The thought surprised her so much she stumbled, glad to be holding the railing. Was pride really the only thing standing in her way? No, surely that couldn’t be true. Could it?

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and continued down a narrow, windy corridor with a wood-plank door at the far end.

  Rowena opened the door and paused. “Perhaps, what, Mrs. Harrington?” She gestured for Portia to take the lead.

  Portia preceded her. “Perhaps we should not be doing this,” she said lamely, not wishing to put her thoughts into words. “I would rather talk to my husband alone—later.” That much was true, at least.

  Rowena laughed, her pupils tiny black dots in the candlelight.

  “This is no laughing matter to me.” Portia’s voice shook with suppressed anger, not all of it for the woman across from her.

  Rowena laughed even harder, shaking her head as she struggled to catch her breath.

  “What is wrong with you? Why would laugh at such a thing?”

  “I’m laughing because it is not your husband she wants, Portia, it is mine.” She snorted at Portia’s shocked face and then roughly shoved past her.

  Portia hurried to catch up, a tiny spark of hope burning in her chest. “What?”

  “Yes, it is Robert. He and the whore had a child together years ago, you see. The two met in Plymouth while he was staying in my father’s house, if you can believe it. She was a governess somewhere—I don’t recall now. But I do recall Robert met her after we were betrothed. Even before we married he was whoring.” She laughed and the sound sent an uncomfortable tingling sensation down Portia’s spine. Something was very wrong.

  Portia stopped, and then began to back up.

  Rowena spun around. The hand that wasn’t holding the candle held a pistol, which she was pointing at Portia.

  “Stop where you are, Mrs. Harrington.”

  Portia froze and the other woman advanced on her, the gun pointed at her midriff.

  “You are not going back, Mrs. Harrington. Ever.” Her smile was terrifying, but not as terrifying as the look in her eyes. For the first time since Portia had met the woman her face wore a genuine expression: madness.

  She reached out and tapped Portia’s stomach with the barrel of the gun. “You will walk or I will shoot you right now.”

  Portia’s brain spun like a toothless gear, unable to find purchase.

  Rowena gestured to the corridor ahead. “Now. Start walking.”

  Portia looked from the gun to the other woman’s face; hatred blazed in her pale green eyes and she prodded Portia’s stomach hard enough to hurt. “This is the last time I will say it. Walk.”

  Portia turned and took several hasty steps while holding the candle high and squinting into the darkness. She could see nothing ahead of her other than the narrow, dark tunnel.

  Rowena poked her shoulder with the gun. “Faster.”

  Portia walked faster. “Why?” she finally asked.

  Her question elicited another frightening laugh.

  “Why must you die? Why must your child die? And, most importantly, why must your husband die? Because I married the wrong brother, you idiot. Because our interfering, controlling, monster of a father-in-law threatened to expose everything unless I produced an heir. Did you not hear what he said to you tonight? You are his new broodmare.”

  Portia stumbled over an uneven spot in the floor and came to a fork in the tunnel.

  “To the right,” Rowena barked. “Our wretched father-in-law has threatened to tell everything if I do not let his disgusting son touch me. He gave me a year, and it is almost over. He will tell the truth and I will live out the rest of my life as nothing more than the wife of a cheating, worthless second son.”

  Rowena’s words rang in Portia’s ears and her head spun. “Good God!” she said, her voice a wheeze. “Stacy is the elder.”

  “Ah, congratulations, my dear Mrs. Harrington, indeed he is. I suppose I should call you Lady Pendleton?”

  Portia had no response for that.

  “For thirty-five years the secret held.” Portia felt the pistol jab her in the back. “It most likely would have continued to hold but for you. It is your fault, my lady. But for you the earl would have had no weapon to use against me. But for you the freak would never have found a woman to marry him and would have continued going to whores. Without you the freak would have gone to his grave without ever siring offspring.”

  Her brutal words and horrible insults made Portia stiffen—but with rage rather than fear. She squared her shoulders and stopped.

  Rowena pressed the gun against the back of her skull before she could turn. “Don’t get any foolish notions. I can shoot you in the back as easily as in the front.”

  “Why should I do what you say if you are just going to shoot me? Why should I make it any easier for you?”

  “Because I can let you die slowly while I shoot you through the leg, the other leg, the arm, and so on. Or I can offer you something that will give you a painless release.” She spoke with a quiet, menacing certitude that turned Portia’s anger to terror. “Now walk.”

  Portia walked.

  “Trust me, dear sister, this is not my choice
. I tried to do things the easy way. Both you and your husband must have been born under fortunate stars. First he escaped those inept highwaymen I hired. And then, just when I thought I might actually have to shoot you myself, your dearly departed came back to life.”

  Portia gasped. “You know about Ivo?”

  She gave a bark of laughter. “Know about him? Good Lord! I paid the man to take you away. But what does he do? He decides to make a little more money and blackmail you.”

  “So you killed him?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Fant killed him.”

  “Fant?”

  “Yes, the Fants have worked for my family for generations. They are very loyal—and I pay them well, of course. Unfortunately, even money can buy only so much. Fant became frightened that he would hang after killing Stefani so he came running to me to help him out of his fix. He is far more willing to do my bidding now, not that he is any more effective—as he demonstrated by shooting off your horse’s ear instead of your head.”

  Portia was too astonished to speak.

  “Imagine my irritation when you not only managed to dodge the bullet but stay in the saddle of a half-mad horse.” Her bitter laughter made Portia’s scalp tingle. “I suppose I will have to accept the blame for the minstrel’s gallery myself. Not one of my most inspired ideas but it would have worked if not for Frances.” She paused. “And so, my dear sister-in-law, I came to the conclusion that I would have to take care of matters myself. If you behave, it will be painless. I’ve got something that will make you drift off to sleep. After you are gone I’ll let the truth about your husband’s relationship with the whore be known and there won’t be any doubt in people’s minds why you took your life.

  “Then I shall take care of your husband at my leisure. Who knows, maybe he will be so devastated by your death he will do away with himself? I’ve seen the way he looks at you—everyone has. Except you, it seems.” Her voice brimmed with malicious amusement. “You must be an idiot to believe he was planning to run off with the whore. What did you hear in the chapel, I wonder?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “As annoying as all this has been it has given me a good deal of pleasure to watch my own dear husband stew in his miserable juices. If I’d known how enjoyable it would be to watch him suffer and pant I would have thrown the two of them together years ago, instead of working so hard at keeping them apart.”

  A small, iron-strapped door appeared ahead in the gloom.

  Rowena thrust a large key over Portia’s shoulder. “Open it.”

  Portia fumbled with the lock before it made a dull click.

  Rowena reached around her and opened the door. “So, here we are dear sister-in-law.” And then she knocked the candle out of Portia’s hand and shoved her into darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “I’m so sorry to pull you away from your family’s ball, Stacy,” Kitty said yet again as they ascended the stairs to the third story. “I feel like such a fool, but I just could not bear another moment. Robert wouldn’t—”

  Stacy patted her hand. “He’s not thinking clearly. I believe he and his wife have been playing these nasty games for years. You are well away from it while I get to the bottom of everything. Jewell will take you to Plymouth and then return for us.” She began to protest and he cut her off. “No, that is what will happen. This situation is intolerable. I don’t know what that woman is about, but I plan to find out.”

  He took her through a large set of double doors that separated the main wing from one of the older sections. He looked around the dark hallway and frowned. The smell of damp and mildew was stifling.

  “Good Lord, who put you all the way over here? This is dreadful—the viscountess should be flogged,” he muttered. She stopped walking and he turned. “What is it, Kitty?”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m so ashamed at having brought all this on you.”

  Stacy took both of her shoulders and gently shook her. “Stop it right now, Kitty. You are not to blame for any of this. It’s obvious the viscountess is playing some sort of game with Robert.”

  Her beautiful face twisted into an expression of misery. “I wouldn’t have come but when the letter mentioned the baby—”

  “Kitty,” he said sternly, “I’ll find out everything I can—including the truth about your child. Do you understand me? The woman is poison and has driven my brother half mad—you must leave. All you need to worry about is—”

  “Stacy!”

  Frances was running toward them, clutching her ball gown in her fists. “It’s Portia,” she gasped in between breaths. “You must come with me now!”

  Portia fell into the darkened room and bumped into something hard.

  “Stay put,” Rowena snapped, entering the room and shedding light in the darkness, slamming the door behind them.

  The room was perhaps three times as wide as the tunnel they’d just left behind and there was a second door across from the one they’d just come through. The only furniture was a spindly side table against one wall and a large, rough-hewn table in the center of the room, which is what she’d hit.

  Wide leather straps were attached to the top, middle, and bottom of the bigger table and Portia could barely pull her eyes away. When she looked up, she wished she hadn’t. The walls had dozens of carved niches and each one held a hideous mask. It felt as though dozens of hate-filled eyes were watching.

  Rowena dribbled a daub of wax on the side table and stuck her candle in it. The determined grimace on her face was far more frightening than any of the masks on the wall.

  “Get on the table.” She pushed the pistol into Portia’s side to encourage obedience. Her eyes slewed toward the second door and her mouth tightened with irritation as it slowly creaked open. Mr. Fant stood in the narrow doorway, his eyes wide.

  “Close the door, you idiot,” Rowena snapped. “What took you so long?”

  The dour-faced man flushed. “I got lost, my lady. There’s miles of tunnels down here.” He carried a big wooden tool box in one hand and a shielded lantern in the other.

  A look of intense annoyance spasmed across Rowena’s face and for a moment the hand holding the pistol wavered, as if she were considering shooting her accomplice.

  “Do you have it?” she asked through clenched jaws.

  Fant’s eyes flickered from his mistress to Portia and moved quickly to the wooden box. He set it on the floor beside the lamp and dug into its depths, extracting a large piece of folded canvas and a small round clay jar. “The woman said it only took a mouthful.”

  “Put that out,” she gestured to the lamp in his hand and held out her pistol. “Take this.” She waited impatiently as he complied. “Can you keep this trained on her without shooting either yourself or me?”

  Fant’s lips tightened at her belittling tone but he took the gun without comment, aiming it at Portia, his expression even grimmer than usual.

  Rowena pulled the bung out of the earthenware jar and thrust it Portia. “You’re going to take at least two mouthfuls and then lie back on the table. It will happen fast and there will be very little pain. Do you understand? I’ll strap you down if you—”

  The heavy plank door behind her flew open and slammed into her shoulder. She cried out and staggered sideways, knocking into the table where she’d set the candle. Her hand scrabbled for purchase and she knocked the candle to the floor, plunging the room into darkness.

  “Put down your weapon Fant, I know you have a pistol,” a calm, familiar voice demanded. “There are five men with me and more approaching from the other direction. You are trapped. Do as I tell you, and you might live.”

  Portia jumped off the table and took a step. And then an arm snaked around her neck.

  “Stacy!” Her scream came out a choked gurgle as she struggled against Rowena’s surprisingly strong hold, clutching her stomach protectively. Rowena’s arm tightened around her throat and Portia gagged.

  “Fant, hand me the gun,” Rowena demanded.

  “Do not
give her the pistol, Mr. Fant.” Stacy’s voice was almost bored. “My pistol is aimed at your heart. You know very well that I can see better in the dark than a cat. I can see you right now, in fact, backing toward the other door. You’ve got a lamp in your hand.”

  “Give me the gun!” Rowena screamed, shoving something against Portia’s lips.

  Portia realized it was the flask of poison and clamped her jaws shut tighter than a vise. A mindless fury swept through her trembling body and she drove her elbow back with all the force she could muster. Rowena grunted and staggered back, her arm loosening. Portia dropped to her hands and knees and crawled between the legs of the big table, curling her body into a tight ball.

  “Fant!” Rowena screamed.

  Portia heard the sound of scuffling feet and a muffled curse as somebody struck the tool box and sent the contents clanging and banging across the flagstone. The deafening crack of a pistol filled the room and what sounded to be at least a dozen male voices shouted just before a second gun went off, followed by a sickening grunt and the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor.

  “Fant is down, Lady Rowena. It is over.” Stacy’s voice came from someplace close by and Portia had to bite her tongue to keep from calling out.

  The sound of pottery shattering on the flagstone was followed by a watery, choked laugh. A light flared and Portia looked up to see Stacy holding a candle away from his face and staring at something on the other side of the small room.

  “My God. What did you do?” His voice was thick with dread.

  “You didn’t think I was going to let you lock me up, did you?” Rowena’s gurgling laughter turned into an animal scream of pure pain. Her pale green eyes bulged with the torment she’d promised Portia she would not feel and she slid down the wall until she sat slumped on the floor.

  The door Fant had come through exploded and Robert stood panting in the doorway, his lantern illuminating the carnage, a giant man beside him holding an ax.