“I am a working lady, now, Nanny.”
Nanny turned to peer up at Frances. “You shouldn’t work the poor girl so hard, Miss Tate.”
“Oh Nanny, Daisy is teasing you,” Frances said, her tone more suited for a small child than a woman of ninety.
Nanny’s eyes narrowed and Portia hastily rang for more tea, turning the subject to defuse possible hostilities.
It was the first time Portia had seen Frances with Nanny and she got the distinct impression Nanny did not like the other woman. Portia realized that Nanny, who’d taken to her so quickly, could be a prickly character with other people. Luckily she liked Daisy, whose entire family she seemed to know.
Once the tea tray arrived Portia brought up Nanny’s favorite subject—and one dear to her heart as well, she realized—and regaled them with story after story about Stacy. She was in the middle of relating a tale about Stacy and his first pony when she blinked and looked around.
“And where is my favorite today?” Nanny asked.
“He’s gone to Plymouth, to procure the wedding license,” Portia reminded her.
“Oh, that’s right.” She shook her head, and then smiled. “He’s a caution. He always was. He had you wrapped around his finger quick enough Miss Frances, didn’t he?” She shot the other woman a smile that lacked the malice of her earlier looks.
“Yes, he was remarkably adept at getting his way. It’s fortunate he wasn’t a malicious boy,” Frances agreed, her face softening.
“No, he has none of his father in him,” Nanny said.
Frances flinched and the two women locked eyes, something unpleasant flowing between them.
“Stacy will back home this evening,” Portia said to smooth over whatever was going on. “And we’ll both come to visit you tomorrow, Nanny.”
Her darling’s name was enough to make Nanny stop glaring at Frances and the conversation reverted to the subject of the wedding, the awkward incident forgotten.
All through dinner that night Portia hoped to hear Stacy’s carriage. The meal had been a cozy, feminine affair with only her and Frances and the women retired to the smaller of the sitting rooms and chatted until Portia noticed Frances’s head nodding.
Portia was tiptoeing toward the door so as not to wake the older woman when she heard the clatter of wheels on cobblestones.
The sound woke Frances, who blinked owlishly, glanced around until she saw Portia, and said, “I’m pleased that he is home but I really wish he would not travel at night.”
“At least it is a full moon,” Portia said. “I believe I shall go meet him in the—”
The door flew open and Soames stood in the opening, his eyes wild. “Signora—you must come quickly. It’s Mr. Harrington—he’s been shot!”
Chapter Thirteen
Stacy was dozing when Jewell’s—his coachman—frantic shout woke him. He’d been enjoying one of those very rare moments in life: a moment of pure contentment.
The Plymouth trip had been a success in all but one area. He’d purchased the common license and then gone to the jeweler he favored. It hadn’t taken him long to decide on a large emerald-cut diamond. The stone was exquisite and the setting simple yet elegant. He’d given the man a glove of Portia’s that Daisy had filched and then arranged to come by the following morning to collect the ring. On his way out of the shop he’d spied some lovely diamond hair pins and had the man to add a dozen to his order.
He’d then gone to Kitty’s and suffered her gloating and preening, as if she, rather than Stacy, was the one who was getting married.
“Was it dreadful when you proposed? Did you stutter like the greenest of boys?” she teased.
“I actually fainted, Kitty. I believe that is the only reason she accepted me, she was too embarrassed to do aught else.”
Kitty’s shout of joy had almost deafened him when he’d told her Portia was with child.
“Oh Stacy, she sounds like a marvelous woman, perfect for you—fiery and fearless. She won’t let you give her that haughty look you specialize in and quiver in her slippers.”
Stacy rolled his eyes. “Good God, Kitty, you are an idiot.”
His words only made her laugh harder. But she stopped laughing when Stacy invited her to the wedding.
“You’re daft—you should be locked in Bedlam. Invite a whore to your wedding?”
Stacy gave her one of the frosty looks she’d just mentioned. “It would please me if you did not refer to yourself with that word, Kitty.”
“That look does not work on me, your highness. I know what a pussy cat you really are.”
“I can see I’ve been too lenient with you in the past.” He gave her the severest of his glares.
But she just shook her head. “I cannot come to your wedding, Stacy. It would not be a good way to start a life of domestic harmony. Have you told her about me—about us?”
“Not yet, but we’ve hardly had time to talk about much other than wedding arrangements. Besides, there isn’t anything to tell other than you are my best friend.”
Kitty heaved a sigh. “There is the fact I work in a brothel. There is the fact we were lovers.”
Stacy shrugged, refusing to give ground. “We’ve not been lovers for years.”
“Oh, men are so stupid. Trust me, Stacy, she wouldn’t welcome my presence at her wedding; she would be insulted. If she is as fierce as you say, you would not survive the wedding night intact. Indeed,” she bit her plush lower lip and then said, “you should not visit me again.”
They’d argued in earnest after that; through dinner and then through tea, Stacy using every argument he could muster—and no small number of threats—to get Kitty to agree to come.
And all for nothing.
But at least she had relented on ending their friendship.
“I will receive you again—you must know I will, Stacy—but you will jeopardize your marriage if you continue our friendship.” When he’d opened his mouth to argue she’d embraced him fiercely. “My dearest, dearest friend. I am so pleased for you. You deserve nothing but the best and it sounds as if you have found it. I wish you everything that is good and happy.”
Stacy pondered her words during the long carriage ride home. Was it an insult to Portia to invite his closest friend? He’d been agonizing over the question for a good two hours when Jewell shouted and a gun discharged, the sounds pulling him rudely from his revelry.
Powell, his valet, was ever at the ready, and handed him a pistol even as the carriage began to slow.
Stacy opened the vent and called out, “What is it?”
“Three men that I can see, sir.”
“You’re loaded, Baker?” Stacy yelled to the groom seated beside his coachman.
“Aye, sir, so is Freddy,” he said, referring to Stacy’s footman, who rode on the small perch on the rear of the coach.
Stacy peered out the window but could see little. It was just past dusk and the trees to the west of the road blocked the last rays of daylight. They’d begun their journey early in the day but had stopped to help a wagon that had collided with a gig. There had been two rather nasty injuries and no way to transport the victims other than load them into Stacy’s carriage.
As a result of their Good Samaritan actions they’d been hurrying against the darkness.
Stacy chewed the inside of his mouth as he considered the logistics. The lack of light would work in Stacy’s favor but not those of his men.
“Can you see well enough to get a good shot off?” Stacy asked his driver.
“Not any worth taking, sir. They’re all behind us still.”
“Did they hit anything with their shot?”
“No, sir. I believe they were aiming at young Freddy.”
Stacy cursed. Freddy was utterly exposed. He took a deep breath. “Listen carefully, here is what we will do.”
Portia was running before Soames finished speaking and almost trampled the elderly butler. Stacy was between Powell and Jewell, his arms around their should
ers, his booted feet dragging. His face, cravat, shirt, and hair were caked in blood.
She whirled on Soames, who’d shadowed her steps. “Send for a doctor.”
“Baker has already gone, ma’am.”
“Bring him into the drawing room,” she ordered, hurrying alongside the men.
For once Stacy was without his dratted glasses. His eyes were half closed and his lips were curled into a smile.
“Hello, Portia.” His voice was slurred and drowsy.
“Where is he hit?” she demanded.
“In the neck and in the leg.”
Portia let out a string of the vilest Italian curse words she could think of.
Soames, Powell, and Frances gaped.
Stacy laughed weakly. “Fiery and fierce,” he murmured.
“Bring more light,” Portia told Soames once they reached the drawing room. She motioned to Powell, “Put him on the settee, Jewell, and then go fetch a basin of hot water. Powell, get me a glass of brandy. Frances, you will help me.” She saw Daisy hovering anxiously in the open doorway. “Daisy, find old bedding or something we can use for bandages.” Daisy and the men scattered and Frances dropped down beside her, already unbuttoning Stacy’s coat and waistcoat.
The men had tied a tourniquet around his leg wound—which was leaking slowly—but the one on his neck only had his bloody cravat pressed against it. Portia removed it and hissed; the bullet had not severed an artery, but the wound was bleeding freely.
Powell came with the brandy.
“Lift his head,” she ordered, holding the glass to his lips, which were now as white as the rest of him. “Drink, Stacy, it will help with the pain.”
They poured a little down his throat but she was afraid to choke him with more and handed Powell the glass before turning to the other woman. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding. How are your needle skills, Frances?”
She glanced at the gash, grimaced, and then shook her head. “I am not afraid of blood—but this. . . No, I cannot do it. Are you sure it needs to be done now? Can’t we wait for—”
“I will do it.”
Frances’s jaw wobbled with shock. “Are you sure?”
“I volunteered in soldiers’ hospitals in London and I’ve seen it done many times.” Although she’d never done it herself—but why mention that? “It needs to be done quickly.”
Frances pressed her lips into a grim line and nodded. “I’ll go fetch my embroidery bag.”
The next half hour was one of the worst of Portia’s life. It took five people to hold Stacy down while she sewed the bleeding wound shut. He was weak from a lack of blood but swore like a sailor. By the time she was finished Stacy was hoarse from yelling but at least the bleeding had stopped.
The injury in his thigh was another matter entirely; the bullet was lodged in the flesh. She had packed the wound with clean cloths before beginning work on his neck, but they were soaked through from all his thrashing, even with the tourniquet.
Portia grimaced and looked up at Frances, whose blue eyes were red from weeping. “How long until the doctor comes?”
“He should be here by now.” Soames said. “He only lives on the other side of Bude.”
“He must be out on a call. It could be hours.” Portia chewed her lip ragged. “It needs to come out. The flesh is becoming more swollen by the minute. It will only get worse.”
Frances swallowed audibly and then nodded. “Right, then. I’ll clean the wound and make it ready, Portia, you get some of that brandy down his throat.” She took the basin of fresh, hot water Soames was holding and began to cleanse the area.
Portia knelt beside the settee and smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. His eyelids flickered. “Stacy, can you take some brandy? We’ve got to remove the bullet. It will go better for you if you can take some.” He opened his mouth and she tipped the glass, dribbling the liquid in slowly, until he’d finished it. “Can you take more?” He nodded and she turned to Powell. “Bring the bottle.” While he went to fetch more she looked down at her patient. “How are you?”
“You planned this so I’d take off my spectacles.” His voice was a hoarse croak.
Portia laughed, the sound hysterical. “Let that be a lesson to you. Perhaps next time you won’t tease me.”
Powell handed her another glass just as Soames entered with another basin of steaming water—and the doctor right beside him.
“Thank God!” Portia wiped away the tears that had begun to make their way down her cheeks.
The doctor was a calm, older man who was not about to be flapped by a mere bullet. He commended Portia on her stitchery and substituted a laudanum draught for the brandy. Within half an hour the bullet had been extracted and Stacy was in his bedroom, where the doctor and Powell could go about any business too delicate for females to witness.
Portia realized somebody had ordered tea and took a cup, her hands shaking. Nobody spoke for a very long time. It was Frances who finally broke the silence.
“You are very . . . resourceful, Portia.” Her voice held a mixture of reverence, respect, and fear.
“No, merely half Italian.” Portia laughed when she saw Frances’s confusion. “Stabbings were far too common in Rome. I was nine the first time I helped my father tend a victim. And of course I saw far worse in the hospitals.”
The door opened and the doctor entered. “Well, ladies, I hope you don’t decide to set up a surgery in my neighborhood or I shall go out of business.” He smiled at Portia and Frances, both of whom were liberally smeared with Stacy’s blood. “The wounds are fairly shallow and should heal quickly. He appeared much worse because of the blood loss from the neck wound. That was fast thinking on your part ma’am. Powell has a second laudanum draught for our patient if he needs it. Based on what I know of Mr. Harrington and his constitution, he’ll be up and about tomorrow. I’ll come and see him first thing.”
“Tomorrow?” Frances repeated. “Surely he should not be up tomorrow?”
“No.” The doctor laughed. “But I doubt you’ll be able to stop him. It won’t hurt him to get dressed and sit up, as long as he doesn’t try to resume his normal activities and rip his stitches. Just try to get him to rest, if you can—even if it’s just for a few days.”
Portia felt a grim, determined smile settle on her face. “Don’t worry, Doctor. He’ll rest.”
Portia would remember that promise often over the next few days.
The doctor had been correct, both when it came to Stacy’s injuries and his constitution. When Portia came down to breakfast the following morning Frances had just come from her nephew’s room.
“How is he?” Portia asked.
“Eating and complaining in equal amounts.”
Portia laughed. “I suppose that is promising.”
Frances shook her head, her expression one of frustration and despair. “He said he would stay in bed until Doctor Gates paid a visit.”
“I suppose that will have to do. Did he tell you what happened?”
Her expression shifted from frustrated to furious. “No, and when I asked him, both he and his valet could not stop laughing.”
“Laughing?”
“Laughing.”
What in the world could that be about?
“I spoke to Jewell,” Frances said, “but he wasn’t talking, either. He said Mr. Harrington should be the one to tell the story.”
The legend of what happened had plenty of time to grow before Stacy put everyone out of their misery. He told the story two days later at the dinner party France gave. In addition to the three of them, there were the vicar and his wife—Mr. and Mrs. Lawson—and their son Jeremy, who was a doctor in the neighboring town of Stratton. Jeremy was Stacy’s age and Portia had spoken to him several times after church. He was unmarried, attractive, and personable and she felt as if he’d been on the verge of asking her to go walking with him on more than one occasion. She was relieved things had never gone that far or it would have been awkward now. While she liked Jeremy La
wson well enough, he was not Stacy.
Portia wasn’t surprised that it was Jeremy—who was friendly, although not friends with Stacy—who demanded to know the truth.
“I say, Harrington,” Jeremy asked with a challenging grin, “won’t you give over already? We’re all dying to know what happened. There is an entire page devoted to the mystery in the book at the Castle.” He was referring to the betting book at the inn, which monitored anything interesting in Bude—and plenty that wasn’t.
Stacy looked as impeccable as ever. The cravat hid his neck wound and his deliciously snug pantaloons barely showed the surprisingly slim bandage on his leg. He looked at Portia and smiled, clearly enjoying the opportunity to keep them all—her in particular—on tenterhooks.
Portia crossed her arms. “I, for one, refuse to beg.”
She was loudly booed by everyone else at the table.
“Very well, very well,” she said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “Will you please tell us what happened, Mr. Harrington?”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Stefani?” Portia narrowed her eyes and Stacy laughed and raised one staying hand. “Very well, as you command. You all know it was highwaymen. We had four pistols to their three, and we also had something they never expected.” He smirked. “Me.”
Portia groaned. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”
“Me either,” Frances said.
But Stacy would not be stopped now that he’d started. “Jewell stopped the carriage and gave over his gun, Baker kept the other pistol hidden beneath his coat and so did Freddie. When the robbers demanded we open the carriage Jewell tried to persuade them they’d better not open the door. It was fortunate for us that the sun was almost completely gone.
“Finally, when the three men were threatening to start shooting if they weren’t allowed inside, I flung open the door and leapt out of the carriage. I had scruffed up my hair and made it as wild as possible and removed my glasses. The poor men did not have a chance. Our only miscalculation was that their fingers might spasm in fear.” He shrugged. “The closest man shot one of his companions by accident and the other two shot me.” Stacy took a drink of wine, his black lenses glinting in the candlelight. He didn’t notice, until it was too late, that the only one smiling with appreciation was the young doctor.
The Music of Love Page 12