The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “You’ve not said how you finally learned all this?” Stacy asked.

  He hadn’t thought it was possible, but Robert looked even more miserable. “My father recently told me when he, uh. . .” he coughed, his face darkening beneath his healthy tan. “It might be easier if you would ring for Frances.”

  Stacy felt as if he’d been punched in the face. “How the devil do you know my aunt?”

  Robert Harrington stared fixedly at the floor, as if he’d used up whatever reserves he’d brought with him. “Just summon her.”

  Stacy ground his teeth but pulled the bell. The men didn’t have long to wait before the door opened and Frances entered, as if she’d been waiting.

  “Stacy,” she hurried toward him and then stopped, her worried eyes flickering to the other occupant in the room. “Have you told him everything, Robert?” She clasped her hands in a vaguely prayerful way as she looked from Pendleton to Stacy.

  Stacy gave an ugly bark of laughter. “Just what the hell is going on?”

  His aunt, or whoever she was, winced, whether from his tone or his unprecedented swearing, Stacy neither knew nor cared.

  “I haven’t told him everything, Frances.”

  Stacy dropped into his chair, not caring that Frances was still standing. “How do you two know each other?” He looked at the woman he had always believed to be his only living relative. “Who the hell are you?”

  She rushed toward him and sank down beside his chair. “I’m so very sorry, Stacy, so very sorry. I’ve wanted to tell you for years, but Father forbade it. I never wanted to lie to you.” Tears welled and fell and she grabbed his hand.

  Stacy shot to his feet and yanked out of her grasp, equal parts confused, angered, and repelled. He gestured to the chair beside the viscount.

  “Have a seat.” His head was heavy and hot; his thoughts were in a jumble. Who was this woman? She’d been the bedrock of his existence all his life and she’d been lying to him for thirty-five years? Thirty-five years.

  Stacy couldn’t bear to look at her and turned back to his brother. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to finish this story, my lord?”

  Pendleton glanced at Frances Tate—or whoever she was—and turned back to Stacy. “Frances is the earl’s eldest daughter by his first wife. We have two other sisters, Mary and Constance.”

  Stacy’s brain tried to absorb what this man—his brother—was saying. He looked at his . . . sister but she was staring at the carpet, tears falling onto her folded hands.

  Something else occurred to him. “Wait. How do you know her?” He whirled on his aunt—his sister—before Robert could answer. “You’ve stayed in contact with them?” His voice vibrated with disbelief and growing anger. Frances covered her face and wept.

  “She comes to visit us several times a year—on Father’s orders—I’d always believed she lived with a widowed friend in Cornwall.”

  Stacy’s laughed bitterly. “Ah, yes. The widowed friend you go and visit.” His head throbbed. She’d lived two separate lives and he’d never known. He was a fool—a pitiful idiot.

  Frances reached out, as if to touch him, and waves of rage blurred his sight as he absorbed the depth of her deception—her betrayal.

  “I think it would be best if you departed with Lord Pendleton when he leaves.”

  She stood and took a step toward him. “Stacy, I want to tell you—”

  “You’ve had almost thirty-five bloody years to tell me the truth, Frances.” He stared into her familiar—once beloved—blue-gray eyes, more furious and hurt than he could ever recall being in his life. “You may start packing now.”

  She gave a pitiful cry and stumbled toward the door.

  “You’re being cruel,” the viscount said when the door shut behind her. “She merely did what Father ordered. It was Frances who finally made him tell me the truth about you. She couldn’t bear it any longer, now that you are married and to have a child. She was tormented—”

  Stacy removed his glasses and looked at his brother. The man stopped talking, his mouth still open. Stacy felt a nasty smile twist his lips. What a powerful effect a simple pair of eyes could have.

  “My God,” Pendleton breathed.

  “Or the devil. Perhaps now you understand why the earl banished me?”

  Pendleton flinched as though Stacy had struck him. He shot to his feet, his face a cold, proud mask that looked oddly familiar.

  “I knew nothing of this. I am just as much a victim as you are. I didn’t need to come here today, I wanted to.” He shook his head hard, as if to dislodge something. “Like a fool I could hardly wait to meet the brother I never knew I had.” He realized he was still clutching his glass and lowered it to the table with a clatter. “If you’d rather I never darken your door again, I will leave.”

  Stacy saw himself in the other man’s face for the first time: haughty, proud, and stiff. Twinges of something arrowed through his body—guilt? Curiosity? Remorse? Pendleton was right: Robert Harrington wasn’t the responsible party and Stacy was behaving like a fool.

  He dug deep to find the reserve of calm he needed. “I apologize for my ungracious words and behavior.” Stacy paused. “Tell me, my lord, what is it you want from me?”

  Pendleton frowned uncertainly but resumed his seat. “I don’t know. All I know is that when I learned I had a brother I had to meet you. I know your wife is to have a child and I—” he stopped, an agonized spasm distorting his handsome features. “You are my heir; do you understand that? If I have no son—which seems likely as my wife has not been pregnant in eight years of marriage—then you will be the next earl.”

  Stacy gaped. No, he’d not realized that.

  Indecision and insecurity flitted across his brother’s proud features. “All my life I’ve wished for a brother. I love our sisters but they were so much older than me. When I was young, I used to rattle around Thurlstone Castle and wish I had somebody my own age to play with. Mary and Constance are mad to meet you. This has not been easy on them. None of our sisters have married and likely never will.” He laughed but there was no mirth in it. “Our father is a hard man. In some ways you’ve been lucky to grow up away from him. He crushed the girls and I suppose he did a fair job of crushing me, too.” He flushed at his words but did not explain. “I’ve always admired Frances because I believed she’d somehow gotten away. Now I see he used her even worse than the rest of us. She was twenty-seven when he sent her away with you. Constance told me Frances begged to be the one who raised you.” He cut Stacy a hard look, his jaw taut. “You ask what I want? I want to know my brother; I want you to come to Thurlstone. I’ve already told our father I would ask.”

  Stacy could only gape; how could he share a father with this stranger—a father who’d banished Stacy at birth? What kind of man did that? The kind of man who would’ve thrown him over the castle walls still squalling in the Middle Ages. His lips twitched at the melodrama of the notion. Could such a father be worth knowing? He looked at his brother, who was staring at him with open curiosity. Not because of his skin or eyes, but because of who he was: his brother—his twin—his flesh and blood.

  “All my life I believed there was only my aunt and myself—a tiny but close family of two. I’m sure you can guess how my appearance has mitigated against too much mixing in society. Indeed, if my wife hadn’t come to me it’s doubtful I ever would have married.” He smiled ruefully. “We’ve been married a little over a month but already I understand that expanding one’s family can be a very comforting thing. I will speak to Mrs. Harrington on the matter and perhaps we will make a visit one day, or perhaps you and your wife will come here. Who knows?” He picked up his spectacles.

  “Is Mrs. Harrington at home? I should very much like to offer her my felicitations on both your marriage and upcoming happiness.”

  Stacy took out his watch. “She should have returned from town by now.” He rang the bell and they waited in awkward silence until Soames opened the door.

  “Ask Mrs. H
arrington to join us.”

  “She is not in, sir.” His eyes drifted to Stacy’s distinguished visitor.

  “She’s not back from Bude? She left hours ago.”

  “She went out again, sir.”

  “In this weather?” Stacy glanced out the window he now left uncovered. The sky was an ominous gray and the rain was coming down in buckets.

  “Yes, sir, she went out shortly after his lordship arrived.”

  “I hope Daisy prevailed on her to dress warmly,” he said as he stared at the deluge.

  “You could ask her, sir. Daisy came downstairs looking for Mrs. Harrington some time ago.”

  “She did not accompany Mrs. Harrington,” Stacy repeated sharply.

  “Er, no, sir.”

  Stacy shook his head. He’d asked her not to go out unattended and already she’d disregarded his request. “That will be all, Soames.”

  “Is aught amiss?” Pendleton asked, reminding Stacy he was not alone.

  “I daresay I am behaving like an over-protective husband, but I wish she would not wander off without her maid.”

  Pendleton smiled. “You’ve only been married a short time. You’ll soon learn it’s pointless to attempt to direct one’s wife. Indeed, more often than not I find that I’m the one taking direction.” He was smiling, but Stacy thought the other man’s voice held an edge. What was his brother’s viscountess like?

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Eight years.” He did not sound particularly happy.

  There was another scratch on the door and Frances entered. She gave Stacy a slightly defiant look. “I’m only here because I wanted to say goodbye to Portia and Daisy told me she went to Nanny’s,” she paused, flushing under Stacy’s stare. “I think something might be wrong. I came that way myself only an hour ago and I did not see Portia. I should’ve passed her if she was on the path.”

  Stacy’s anger turned to fear.

  “Is it a treacherous path?” Pendleton asked.

  Stacy shook his head. “No, but she’s been rather short of energy lately. I wonder if she stopped to rest someplace.”

  “Perhaps she’s waiting out the storm?” Pendleton suggested. “I’m sure you’re eager to go look for her. I’m not familiar with the area but an extra pair of eyes is never a bad thing.”

  His mind raced. “Tell Hawkins to saddle Geist and Selene. Lord Pendleton and I will take the road. Tell Baker to walk the trail to Nanny’s. Have either Powell or Hawkins search the south end of the forest. She sometimes likes to sit by the stream.”

  Frances left without a word.

  Stacy turned to his brother. “I’m sure it will turn out to be nothing but she tires so easily and—” He sounded like a hysterical fool.

  Robert gave him a reassuring smile. “Come, my heavy cloak is in the coach, I’ll get my man to fetch it and we can go.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was dark when they finally found her.

  She’d burrowed into the hollow of a big tree not far from the road to Bude—nowhere near the trail to Nanny’s.

  Surprisingly, it was Pendleton who saw her. Their lanterns barely cut the dark, not to mention the torrential rain. The storm broke for half an hour near dusk and then returned with a vengeance. They’d looked for two hours when Pendleton spotted the edge of her cloak, a miracle really, as the garment was rain-darkened and brown. She was unconscious and shivering and Stacy held her in his lap, swaddled in his greatcoat while Pendleton went back to fetch the carriage. He wiped water from her face with his handkerchief. Her lips moved but Stacy couldn’t hear what she said. He held her close, keeping her warm with his body and murmuring in her ear.

  “Say something if you can hear me, Portia.”

  She remained silent and he leaned back to look at her face. She was pale and her skin was so cold.

  “Ivo, no!” The words were a harsh, weak croak and her eyes flew open.

  “Portia, it’s Stacy.” He pulled her closer.

  “Stacy?” Her eyes were wide but unfocused.

  Relief screamed through him and he forced himself to loosen his crushing hold. The beads of moisture on her long black lashes glinted like diamonds in the lantern light.

  “I was so lost; I couldn’t get home. I couldn’t see the sky.” She shivered violently and her eyes fluttered closed.

  “Portia?” He gave her shoulders a light squeeze. Nothing. He lowered his ear to her mouth. She was breathing deeply, as though she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep. If she’d left Whitethorn when Soames believed she had, then she’d been in the rain for hours. Damn stubborn female. This never would have happened if Daisy had been with her—all the locals knew the woods like the backs of their hands. Stacy pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her to keep her warm. She’d bloody well obey him in the future or she wouldn’t leave the house.

  The minutes crawled past and he kissed the bridge of her proud, Roman nose, her freckle ominously dark against her unnaturally pale skin. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been waiting when he heard the wheels of the carriage even over the rain.

  “Thank God!” he whispered, closing his eyes and kissing her too-cold mouth.

  The rain on his lips tasted of salt.

  When they reached the house his aunt—or sister, he mentally corrected—insisted the first thing they must do was warm her while they waited for the doctor.

  “The sooner the better, Stacy.”

  He ignored her chiding tone, kissed his wife on her pale, clammy brow, and reluctantly left her in the women’s hands. By the time Doctor Gates showed up Portia was dry, swathed in a fluffy blanket, and lying in bed drinking from a cup of tea which Frances had to hold for her.

  When the doctor finished his examination he turned to Stacy, frowning. “The child is fine, but I would like to cup her.”

  “No!” Portia sat bolt upright, her hair wild and her dark eyes feverish. “No!”

  “Shh, Portia.” Frances gently pushed her back against the pillow. “Doctor Gates only wants to do what is best for you and your baby.”

  Portia paid her no attention, her imploring eyes on Stacy. Stacy went to her and laid a hand on her brow. She was no longer cold, nor was she particularly feverish. Still, if the doctor recommended cupping, that is what he believed was necessary.

  He stroked her sweet, rounded jaw. “It will make you feel better, Portia.”

  She grabbed his wrist, her eyes wide with terror. “No, please, Stacy.”

  “Hush, darling,” he soothed. “You are becoming overwrought. Doctor Gates believes this is for the best, so I really must insist. I will be here with you.”

  “Please, no!” She sobbed as if her heart were breaking, madly kissing his hand and fingers, begging in a slurred, frightening way.

  Stacy glanced up at the doctor. “This is necessary?”

  Gates’s mouth was compressed in a grim line. “Yes, absolutely. It will help settle her hysteria and—”

  “They killed my mother that way.” Portia’s hands squeezed his forearm hard enough to shift bones. “They bled her until there was nothing left. Please, I beg of you. If you keep him away from me I will do whatever you say. I promise to obey, just don’t let him touch me, I’ll never argue with you again. I’ll obey you.” The last words were more of a moan and tears poured from her huge, dark eyes.

  Her vehemence was shocking and Stacy realized she’d never spoken of how either of her parents died. But whatever had happened, he could see she had a fear of cupping that verged on phobic. His kissed her brow and held her face close to his.

  “Shh, darling, don’t make yourself ill. There will be no cupping tonight. But tomorrow, if you’re still—”

  “I’ll be better, I promise. I promise, Stacy.”

  He stroked her cheek and forced a smile. “I’m going to hold you to this sudden vow of obedience.”

  Her eyes closed and she sagged against him. “Thank you, Stacy. Thank you. You will not regret it. I’ll be good—I promis
e.”

  Stacy turned to the doctor. “No bleeding, doctor.”

  “It is the accepted treatment in such cases, Mr. Harrington.”

  Stacy knew it was and he hoped to God he was doing the right thing—for Portia and their child. “Come again in the morning. If she is not better, we can discuss the matter then.”

  “This isn’t wise,” Frances said. “I’m afraid you will regret indulging her. Please—”

  Stacy ignored her. “I shall see you in the morning,” he said to the doctor.

  Gates’s expression said he believed Stacy to be another idiotic new husband, but he shrugged and put his implements back in his bag.

  “See the doctor out, Frances.” Stacy wanted to be alone with his wife. He waited for his sister to move from the bed so he could sit beside Portia. When the door shut he took her hand.

  “You’ve made me a promise and you may start obeying me now,” he scolded quietly. “You will rest, do you hear me? You will only leave this bed when I say you may.”

  She gave him a tremulous smile that squeezed his heart. “I will stay in bed as long as you say. Thank you so much. Thank you, Stacy.” Her eyes fluttered closed before she’d even finished speaking.

  Stacy waited until she was breathing evenly before releasing her hand and pulling up her blankets. The door open and Daisy entered. “Mr. Soames sent me up to sit with Mrs. Harrington if you want to get ready for dinner.”

  Stacy blinked: dinner?

  The girl gave him a gentle smile. “Viscount Pendleton is still here, Mr. Harrington.”

  Blast! Stacy had completely forgotten he had a peer of the realm in his house.

  He gave an abrupt nod. “If she wakes, send for me.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Stacy opened the connecting door to his room and found Powell waiting with hot water.