The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  He saw Fant’s body first. “The devil!” he hissed.

  “Ah, my darling husband has arrived.”

  Robert turned at the sound of his wife’s voice.

  “Rowena! What have you done?” He closed the short distance in one long stride and dropped down beside her. Blood oozed from her mouth and she coughed and spat blood at his feet.

  “You poor fool,” she rasped. “I did all this for you. And it was all for—”

  Portia closed her eyes at the sickening sounds and felt a light touch on her shoulder and looked up to find Stacy’s beautiful eyes only inches away. He took her hand and lifted her to her feet. “Are you hurt, darling?”

  She launched herself at him. “I am so sorry, Stacy.”

  “Sorry for what, sweetheart?”

  Portia further embarrassed herself by dissolving into tears, the love in his voice making her feel like the world’s greatest fool. She squeezed him until she hurt.

  He stroked her hair. “Don’t cry, Portia, you’re safe now.”

  “I never cry.” She sobbed into his neckcloth.

  “I know you don’t, love,” he agreed, his laughter a low rumble in his chest. “But I think you may have earned this one. In fact, do you mind if I join you?”

  She laughed but it turned into wracking sobs, her body shaking so hard she could barely stand.

  “Are you going to faint, Portia?” He pressed his lips against her head over and over.

  “I never faint.”

  And then everything went black.

  The first thing Portia saw when she woke after the nightmare in the tunnels was her husband, reading a book in a wingback chair close to her bed. A slow smile spread across his face when he saw she was awake. He took off his reading glasses and put down his book.

  “I thought you would sleep today away,” he murmured, coming to sit on the bed.

  Portia took his hand and looked up into his beautiful eyes, “I am so sorry, Stacy,” she said, the enormity of her idiocy the first thing to enter her mind.

  “You kept saying that all the way back to the house last night, even after you fainted. You’d wake from time to time and mutter how sorry you were. Would you mind telling me exactly what you are sorry for?” He reached out and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Or do I want to know?”

  Her face became hot and she kissed his palm before holding his hand against her face. “I heard you and Mrs. Charring in the chapel yesterday.”

  He looked blank. “So?”

  “I believe I didn’t listen quite closely enough to what you were saying. I’m afraid I thought something quite different.” His brow wrinkled and she groaned. “I thought you were the one she loved and you regretted marrying me. I am an idiot.” Tears built behind her eyes and that made her even angrier. When had she turned into such a watering pot? She closed her eyes and hot lines made their way down her cheeks.

  He took both her hands in his. “Look at me.” She heard the sternness in his voice and her stomach clenched painfully. “Portia, open your eyes and look at me.”

  She opened her eyes; he looked angry. “I love you.”

  She blinked. “What did you say?”

  He gave her a look of helpless amusement. “I love you. I’d hoped you might understand how I felt based on my behavior. I see now that I could not have been more wrong. I love you, Portia. Can you get that idea into your beautiful head?”

  Portia did not trust herself to speak so she nodded.

  “Good. I will tell you again in five minutes. Just to make certain you heard me.”

  “And . . . Kitty?” Portia seemed to have lost her ability to concoct complete sentences.

  “I was Kitty’s lover years ago—almost a decade ago. We’ve been nothing but friends for a very long time. I know I should have told you as soon as she arrived but she had a dreadful shock when she saw Robert and she needed help.” He grimaced. “I suppose I should have guessed you would draw the worst possible conclusion from the way Kitty and I were behaving. I love Kitty as a friend and would do anything for her, but that is all.”

  Jealousy flared at the thought of him with another woman but this time the emotion flickered and then died; he loved her.

  “Please, tell me what happened.”

  “Are you sure? It is not a pretty story—nor is it short.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “On the face of things, this whole mess appears to be a coincidence of almost mythic proportions. However, most of it happened by design—Rowena’s design. Robert met Kitty years ago—before he married Rowena.” He stopped. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Kitty grew up in a vicarage, the youngest of two daughters. She was eighteen when her father died and she needed to find work. She took a governess position just outside Plymouth. Her young charge had an elder brother who came down from Oxford with friends from time-to-time. One of them was Robert. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess what happened, next. They fell in love. Unfortunately, Robert was already engaged.”

  “That’s what Rowena told me,” Portia said.

  “Well, Robert knew Rowena was not in love with him and he felt certain he could convince her to release him. He told Kitty what he was going to do and promised to return as soon as he’d spoken to Rowena, the duke, and his father.

  “Robert told Rowena the truth and she agreed that she didn’t want to marry a man in love with another woman. Rowena said she would go to her father and claim that she’d changed her mind. She didn’t seem upset, and she even invited him to stay the night and dine with her and her brothers.

  “The next morning, on his way to Thurlstone Castle, Robert’s horse was shot from under him while he was crossing a bridge.” He gave her a grim look. “Based on Rowena’s recent behavior, Robert and I have assumed it was no accident. A local squire found his body beside the river, not far from his dead horse. He had a broken leg and was badly concussed; there was nothing that identified him. It was weeks before he returned to Plymouth and by then Kitty was gone.”

  “This is like a novel from the Minerva Press,” Portia said.

  Stacy nodded and continued. “The family Kitty was working for found out that she was with child. It’s not wild conjecture to think Rowena was behind that, as well. They discharged Kitty without references.”

  Portia could hardly imagine the young girl’s terror. At least when Ivo had abandoned her, she’d had her friends to turn to.

  “She waited for him until she ran out of money, and then she sold the only thing she had left.”

  “Dear God,” Portia said. “And Robert?”

  “Her former employer told him Kitty had gone to an aunt up north but they didn’t have the woman’s direction. Robert went to her father’s old vicarage, but the new vicar knew nothing about Kitty’s family and nobody in the village had ever heard of an aunt. He had nowhere else to look.”

  “What a horrible story.”

  “There is more. Rowena knew exactly where Kitty ended up because she made sure the Fants were there to offer her a place to stay.”

  “The Fants!”

  “They’ve worked at the duke’s Yorkshire property for generations. So when the time came for Kitty to give birth to Robert’s baby, Rowena paid the midwife who attended the birth to claim the baby died.” He gave Portia a chilling look. “The reason Kitty came to Thurlstone was because she received a letter telling her the child was still alive. The letter said that if she wanted her child she would come to the house party.”

  Portia shook her head. “But why? Why would Rowena do such a thing?”

  Stacy shrugged. “Revenge? Anger? We’ll never know, now.”

  “How did you learn about the child?”

  “Fant told us.”

  “But I thought he was shot?”

  “His wound was mortal but he lingered for several hours and was conscious. He told us the truth in exchange for letting his wife go free. He claimed she knew nothing about any of it.”

  Portia pictured the shre
wish woman and her small, mean eyes. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Neither do I, but it was the only way to get the rest of the story.” He continued. “Several years ago Rowena became curious about Frances and didn’t believe the story about her living with a school friend, so she had her followed.”

  “Why?” Portia asked.

  “Frances thinks Rowena might have heard something from Nanny’s elder sister—a woman named Elsa who was the midwife who delivered us. Elsa lived in a cottage on the estate and Rowena, doing her duty as the future mistress of Thurlstone, met the woman while delivering calf’s foot jelly or whatever it is that angels of mercy think the poor, old, and infirm need. Elsa would have known the truth, and perhaps she decided to share it. Or maybe, like Nanny, her mind simply wandered and the story came out. In any case, it is telling that Elsa died not long afterward.”

  Portia shivered. “More like an angel of death. How did the Fants begin working for Nanny?”

  “Fant said Rowena told them about the position when Frances advertised for it. Fant said part of his duties were to keep an eye on me and he was the one who found out I knew Kitty and reported that odd coincidence to his employer. Rowena had no use for that information until recently, when she decided Kitty would be the perfect weapon to punish both me and Robert.”

  He stopped, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “Did Rowena tell you about the earl?”

  “What about him?”

  “She must have smothered him in his bed just before she came after you.”

  “Oh God!” Portia covered her mouth with both hands.

  “She thought it would stop the secret from going any further, but the murder of my father would have been her undoing. You see, he left sealed letters explaining the truth for both Robert and me in the event of his death.” Stacy’s lips curled with disgust. “I’m never happy when anyone dies, but my father truly deserved what he got.”

  “Do you think he knew Rowena was behind all those accidents?”

  “I don’t want to know, and I’m glad the truth died with him.”

  Portia remembered something else from the night before. “She paid Ivo to come to Cornwall, but I don’t understand how she even knew about him.”

  “She never met him, but she sent Fant to check up on you when she began to worry you and I might be getting fond of each other. She sent him to London to your old house.”

  Portia grimaced. “Mrs. Sneed was our landlady. She is a dreadful woman; I daresay she was thrilled to bits to sell any information she had. So, Fant killed Ivo?”

  “With his dying breath Fant claimed Ivo’s death was an accident. He also said he knew nothing about the money Ivo blackmailed from you.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “No, I think his wife has the money, but she will have hidden it well.” He shrugged. “I didn’t trust the woman and before we came to Thurlstone I had Hawkins’s oldest daughter move into Nanny’s cottage to keep her safe.”

  Portia blinked. “What made you do that?”

  “I saw Fant talking to Ivo.”

  “What?” Portia sat up straighter.

  “Yes, the day we went to look at the Humboldts’ roof. The same day we had a picnic in the woods.”

  Portia remembered the day very well. From the look on his face, so did Stacy. He smiled and ran a hand over her stomach, the gesture both tender and possessive.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What was there to say? I suspected there was something odd about Fant but I had no proof. When I went to ask him about Ivo’s death later, his wife said he’d gone up north for a visit.” The candles illuminated his sculpted features and stunning eyes. “You’re staring, Lady Broughton.”

  Portia gasped. “How is Robert taking all of this—he must be devastated?”

  “He’s like a man in a dream. He hasn’t said much about his marriage to Rowena but I gather the two of them made each other fairly miserable.”

  Portia thought about the woman who’d tried to kill her at least three times and shivered. “She was ready to murder all of us for a ridiculous title.”

  Stacy squeezed her hand. “I know, darling.”

  “What about Kitty and Robert—was it true about their child?”

  “Fant said his brother raised the child. Robert has already told me he will be leaving in the morning to fetch their daughter.”

  “What do you think Robert and Kitty will do?”

  “I don’t know. But whatever happens he told me he would no longer live here.”

  She frowned. “Are we moving here?”

  “No. At least not until after the baby is born. Robert has agreed to stay until then.”

  “Thank God. I want our child to be born at Whitethorn.”

  “As do I, my love.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tight she couldn’t breathe. “I love you, darling. Do you think we could have a week without you forgetting that?”

  She laughed. “I promise. Maybe even two weeks.”

  Epilogue

  Several Months Later

  Whitethorn

  Stacy heard a tentative scratch on the library door and leapt to his feet.

  “Come,” he called, his voice rough from disuse.

  It was Soames. “The countess is asking for you, my lord.” His lips twitched and Stacy could see he was struggling to contain a smile.

  He stared at his generally somber butler and opened his mouth. And then closed it. And then opened it again. “Thank you, Soames, I shall be up directly.” He remained standing and staring at the door even after it had closed. He’d wanted to be upstairs with her for hours and now, quite suddenly, he was . . . nervous.

  Robert lowered the paper he’d been reading and regarded him with an amused, tolerant smirk. “Well, are you ready, old man?”

  Stacy looked at his brother—his younger brother—his mind a whirl. Poor Robert had not had an easy time these past months. He’d stayed to manage their father’s holdings, but Kitty had wanted nothing to do with him. Fortunately, he’d seen their daughter, April, quite often, even bringing her to Thurlestone to meet their aunts. Stacy and Portia had met the girl, as well, but Kitty never brought up the subject of his brother, and Stacy did not feel right about prying. Who knew what would happen between those two after such a tortured past?

  “Are you just going to stand there all day, Stacy?”

  He shook himself, and took a deep breath, Robert’s laughter following him from the room.

  Stacy was only vaguely aware of the faces of most of his servants as he made his way toward the master suite. It felt as though the distance between the library and their bedchambers had tripled at some point during the last twenty-two hours. He took the steps two at a time and almost collided with his sister Mary at the top of the stairs.

  She beamed and seized his hand. “Come, they are waiting.”

  They? Oh, yes, it wasn’t just Portia he was going to see.

  There seemed to be a hundred people in Portia’s bedchamber: her friends from the academy—all but Miles and Honoria—had made the long journey and had been here almost a week. Stacy had met all of the former teachers during a visit to London last Christmas, and he liked all of them—even the far-too-handsome Miles. He was glad her friends had been here for her, but right now he only had eyes for his wife. Portia was propped up on a mound of cushions, her wild black hair loose about her shoulders, her beautiful face exhausted but glowing with pride.

  She held out her hands. “Oh, Stacy!”

  He kissed her brow and squeezed her hands so hard she winced. “How do you feel, darling? You look beautiful. They would not let me in. Frances and Serena stopped me at the door and would not let me pass.”

  She laughed and glanced over his shoulder and he turned.

  Frances held a child in her arms.

  And so did Serena, Portia’s closest friend, a fiery young widow much like his own wife, and a woman he was coming to like very much.

  Stacy’s jaw hit
the floor. “Two?”

  “Our son and daughter, Stacy.” Portia’s voice was soft and full of wonder.

  “Twins?” he asked stupidly. A chill expanded in his chest; were they like him?

  He got to his feet slowly and approached the bundle Frances held. He looked down on a pink face with a scant fluff of black hair and smiled.

  “This is your daughter, your first-born,” Frances said. “She is twelve minutes older than your son.”

  Stacy touched her tiny pink cheek with one finger and she squirmed but continued sleeping.

  He turned to Serena. The usually gregarious Frenchwoman was even more disheveled than usual, her long, wild hair sticking out in all directions. She met Stacy’s eye with an uncharacteristically solemn look. “This is your son, my lord.”

  Stacy pulled back the blanket. His son was not sleeping. He was pale with no hint of color except for his eyes; eyes that were a pale, pale blue. Stacy stared into those eyes for a long moment, his emotions a confusing welter of love, joy, fear, and a little sadness at what his son would have to face. He swallowed hard at the thought of the boy’s future. He would endure the same stares and cruelty as Stacy had and his life would never be easy. But then, whose life was? And at least he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

  His son gurgled and his hand shot out and grabbed Stacy’s finger, his grip fierce for such a tiny thing.

  Stacy laughed and looked toward the bed, meeting Portia’s worried gaze. “He’s got your hands. Our children are beautiful, my love. Both of them.”

  Relief flooded her face and Stacy frowned. Had she been worried he would not love his own child?

  Had he been worried about the same thing?

  He turned to Frances and Serena, who were both grinning broadly, and held out his arms.

  “Both of them?” Serena asked, hesitating.

  “I’d better become accustomed to it.”

  They felt so light in his arms; they weighed nothing but had already changed everything.

  He sat on the bed with a baby carefully balanced in the crook of each arm and looked at his wife.

  “You were wise to stop with two, Portia, I do not have another arm to spare.”