She opened the safe with an ease that told him this wasn’t the first time. Next, she removed the marquetry box that held the pearl set, placed it on the desk, and then opened her bag and slid something into the box. She rearranged the contents, closed the box, and replaced it in the safe. She took out the second box, the larger jewel case that held the rest of his mother’s jewelry and returned what seemed to be most of the jewels to the box. When she was finished, she shut the safe door and re-hung the painting.
Stacy returned to the foyer and waited at the base of the stairs. He ignored the rabid pounding of his heart. He was sure she had a good reason for what he’d just seen. He was sure of it. She would tell him about it and they would chuckle and spend the night in each other’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-One
Portia’s palms were damp and her heart was pounding so loud it deafened her.
You’re almost done. The nightmare is almost over, the voice in her head reminded her as she replaced the painting and tucked the pillowcase into the pocket of her cloak.
The worry of the past few weeks suddenly hit her, turning her legs to jelly. She wanted to collapse at Stacy’s desk and weep with relief, but she kept moving, closing the library door and heading toward the stairs. Maybe she would surprise Stacy and slip in beside him while he was sleeping. Her lips pulled into a smile as she imagined it.
Portia was so preoccupied with the amorous visions in her head that she collided with the man himself at the bottom of the stairs.
“Stacy! What are you doing?” It was too dark to see his face and only the outline of his body was visible in the gloom.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. Where were you?” He sounded . . . perturbed. What had he seen?
Portia blurted out the first lie that came to mind. “I was hungry. I didn’t eat much at dinner.”
“You need your cloak for a journey to the kitchen?”
She bit her lip. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I was full after eating so I took a walk. It’s lovely out. You enjoy this time of night, do you not?” The only sound in the big foyer was the pounding of her blood in her ears.
He finally spoke. “You are returning to your room?”
“I was hoping to return to your room.” She let more than a hint of suggestion into her voice. The silence drew out until Portia’s face burned. His lack of response was far more insulting than any words could have been. She opened her mouth to ask him if anything was amiss but his voice stopped her.
“I believe you need your rest. We wouldn’t want you to suffer a relapse of your dreadful headache.” His voice was colder than an arctic wind.
Portia was still trying to think of something to say when she saw a flicker of white moving up the stairs. She ran up after him, fast enough to leave her breathless, reaching the third floor just in time to see a flash of ivory silk and hear the soft but distinctive click of a door.
Her knees buckled and she leaned against the wall.
What had he seen?
The five days that followed her meeting in the woods were some of the worst in Portia’s life. It was even worse than the bad times with Ivo—the times when she could not leave the house without a veil after one of their more violent confrontations. Not that Stacy had laid a hand on her—in any way.
He was pleasant to her in the same way he was pleasant to his servants. He never raised his voice or said anything rude or cutting but his well-modulated kindness was more painful than a whip or fist. He knew she’d lied and he was furious. He’d told her that first day he abhorred lying. And Portia was most certainly a liar.
After a dinner spent discussing pleasantries they retired to the library and he worked on some project while she pretended to read but really watched him. After a few hours he put away his papers, rose from his chair, and bid her a polite good night. When he didn’t come to her bed that first night, she checked the connecting door to his room and found it locked. The message was more painful than a slap in the face; she didn’t try the door again.
By the fifth day she was nearly ill with despair. She sat in the breakfast room and pushed a piece of toast around her plate. Even their lessons, which they’d both been thrilled to continue after their marriage, passed as bloodless transactions between polite strangers.
Portia had resolved to tell him the truth today; she could not continue to live this way. Besides, she knew in her heart that Ivo would be back. Blackmailers always returned to the source of their money; every fool knew that. She would tell Stacy the truth and make him believe her. Eventually he would forgive her for lying and the next time Ivo came they would face him together.
Oh yes, that is exactly what will happen, the dry voice jeered.
Portia shoved away her uneaten food and stood just as the door to the breakfast room opened and Stacy entered. He wore his black glasses and was dressed for riding.
“Ah, you are finished with your breakfast, Portia?”
She lowered herself back into her chair. “I would have another cup of coffee if you would not mind the company.” She would tell him after he ate. They would go to the library and she would tell him everything.
“I always enjoy your company, my dear.” The words were spoken absently, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Portia turned to the footman. “Would you please bring a fresh pot of coffee?”
Stacy served himself from the sideboard and sat down at the far end of the table.
“I saw you leave on Geist hours ago.”
“Yes. I went into Bude, to the Elephant and Castle,” he cut a piece of ham and raised it to his mouth. She could not see his eyes but she could feel the weight of his stare.
“Did you?” Although he’d begun to go out in public with increasing regularity after their marriage, he still did not go into town very often.
He took a bite of food, chewed, and swallowed, a vision of unruffled poise.
Portia hated his glasses, especially now, when she knew he was using them as a weapon to keep her at a distance.
The footman entered and they both waited while he filled their cups with fresh coffee.
Stacy set down his knife and fork. “I received a message early this morning that a dead body had been found on the beach.”
Portia froze, her cup half-way to her mouth. “A dead body?”
“Thank you, Thomas, that will be all for now,” Stacy said. When the door closed behind the servant he turned to Portia, “Yes, a body.”
“Where?” she asked when it was clear he was not going to volunteer any information.
“It was on the rocks beneath Penhallow’s Bluff—what everyone refers to as Lover’s Leap. Right below Nanny’s.”
Portia’s hand trembled and coffee spilled over the edge of her cup, missed her saucer, and stained the snowy table linen. She stared at the brown blossom, unable to wrench her eyes away.
“Was it someone crossed in love?” she asked, finally looking up.
He remained motionless for a moment longer and then picked up his fork and knife and resumed eating. “I suppose he might have been someone’s lover.”
“He?” she repeated. “Was it somebody you knew?”
“It was a foreign gentleman, nobody from around here. He was carrying nothing that gave any clue as to who he was.”
Portia frowned. “How do you know he was foreign if he had no identification?”
“His clothing is of fine quality but of foreign make—except for his boots, which bore Hoby’s mark. He might be an itinerant actor. Or perhaps a musician.” He shrugged. “He is most likely one of the many refugees we’ve been seeing from the Continent now that the War is over.”
Tiny needles of fear began to shoot through her, bouncing and ricocheting and multiplying. “An actor?”
He chewed, swallowed and took another drink of coffee before answering. “Or a musician, although that is not likely as one of his hands had been crushed rather badly at some point.”
The conversation was like the bad dr
eams she’d been having recently, the ones in which she tried to run but got nowhere.
She had to clear her throat several times before she could speak. “When did he die?”
“The doctor believes he must have drifted back to shore after spending several days in the water.”
Portia’s mind buzzed like a beehive that had been poked with a stick. Several days? What did that mean? Four days? Three days? But Ivo had promised to be gone the next day. Well, that would have been five days. Had he stayed around for another day for some reason? If so, how had he ended up at the bottom of a cliff?
Her frantic mind leapt to the money. Where was the money? Had the person who found him taken it? Had somebody else taken it before he fell to his death? Perhaps he had been robbed? And what about the marriage lines? Had he been foolish enough to have those with him?
She looked from her plate to her husband, who was facing her, as still as a statue.
Portia dropped her gaze. She needed to be alone. Now. She stood and tossed her napkin onto the table.
“I promised Nanny some embroidery silks for the christening bonnet she is making.”
Stacy was on his feet in an instant and preceded her to the door. His hand lowered to the door handle but he did not open it. “Please give Nanny my regards and tell her I shall visit her later today.” He stood close enough that Portia could feel the warmth of his body and smell his tantalizing cologne. She swayed toward him, teetering on the brink of flinging herself into his arms and telling him everything.
She opened her mouth and looked up.
He had a polite smile on his face. Polite and cold.
“I will,” she said.
She felt his eyes on her back all the way down the hall. When she reached her room, she shut her door and collapsed against it.
Good God. Ivo—dead! What would happen if they found out who he was?
Stacy waited until his wife disappeared from view before closing the breakfast room door and resuming his seat. His unfinished breakfast held no appeal and he pushed it away.
He took off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger until it hurt. He’d cast out his lure about the dead body hoping to be mistaken but Portia’s reaction had left him in no doubt: she’d known the man.
What in God’s name was she involved in and why wouldn’t she tell him? The late-night jaunt and visit to the safe had been one thing; a dead man on his property was something else entirely. What was she so desperate to hide?
As the local magistrate it had been Stacy’s duty to examine the body when it was found. The corpse was badly water damaged but he recognized it as the same man who’d been arguing with Fant that day.
He’d stood looking at the body, nauseated, and not just because of the stench. The dead man was an Italian and Stacy’s wife was half-Italian. He wanted to believe it was a coincidence, but his wife’s reaction this morning proved him wrong.
“Blast and damn,” he muttered. Why the bloody hell wouldn’t she trust him with whatever was bothering her? Pain and disappointment mingled in his gut and threatened to choke him. He reminded himself that she’d never promised him love or affection and he’d been a fool to expect it. He ground down any regret he felt over the admission and squared his shoulders. He’d go to Nanny’s today and see Fant. He might be unable to get the truth from his own wife, but he could bloody well get it from a man in his employ.
The people in the village spoke of almost nothing but the mysterious body so Portia was able to keep abreast of matters without asking her husband for information.
As nobody came to claim the body, Stacy ordered the man buried in a pauper’s grave.
Every day Portia waited for an opportunity to sneak away to Ivo’s meager camp site. Every day Daisy stayed so close she might have been stitched to Portia’s side. Every day she expected somebody to learn Ivo’s identity and come for her.
Even going at night was out of the question. Although Stacy continued to wage his frigid campaign, Portia knew he would be watching for nighttime jaunts.
She also knew she should feel sad about Ivo’s death, but she only felt angry that he’d come to such a pitiful end after such a glorious beginning. He’d possessed the kind of talent that occurred only a few times in a generation. Portia mourned the loss of Ivo the musician far more than Ivo the man.
Going to church was one of the few activities Stacy and Portia still engaged in together. They’d stopped their daily rides and no longer spent evenings in companionable silence in the library. Their lessons continued, but only three times a week now, and they’d become polite transactions between strangers.
The Sunday ride back from the church was as uncomfortable and stilted as the ride there had been and Stacy stared out the carriage window rather than at his wife when he said, “Viscountess Pendleton has sent us an invitation to a house party at Thurlstone Castle.”
Portia was studying her clasped hands, her profile tense, and did not answer him. What was in her mind at that moment? Would he ever know her any better than this?
“Would you like to go?” he asked when she didn’t respond.
She looked up; her face impassive. “Do you care what I like, Stacy?”
There were mauve half-circles beneath her expressive eyes. How long had those been there? Stacy realized he’d not really looked at her since the night he’d caught her sneaking about and lying; it was too painful to look at her without touching her.
But he looked at her now. Was it his behavior that was making her look ill and drawn? Had he done this to her? To the child she was carrying?
Stacy placed his hand over hers, the motion awkward and stiff. “I do care what you like.” He’d meant to be kind but his voice came out even colder than usual. He sighed as he looked at her distant profile. There was a part of him—the part accustomed to being obeyed—that wanted to demand she tell him the truth. Just who the devil had that man been and what the hell happened in the woods that night?
But there was another part of him, a part that became more pronounced every day, and it had only one question: did he really want to hear what she said?
The truth was Stacy was afraid of whatever she was hiding.
What would he do if she’d done something terrible? Had she known the man? Had he been some lover from her past? Had he been Ivo Stefani—her husband? The crushed hand certainly suggested that was a possibility. Whoever he was, why had he come here? Had he been blackmailing her? Had she brought the jewels to silence him and then shoved him off the cliff instead? Perhaps the man had struck her and she fought back? Perhaps somebody pushed him off the cliff before she met him?
Stacy ground his teeth as the questions whirled. He’d gone to shake some answers out of Fant but Mrs. Fant said her husband was visiting family in Yorkshire. The dour woman claimed to know nothing of the man Stacy described. Had Fant and the stranger merely travelled together for a time, as people frequently did to minimize danger? Stacy wanted to believe that, but it didn’t sit right. The two men had been arguing in a way that seemed far too personal for mere traveling companions.
He knew he should just ask Portia and clear up the matter, but he couldn’t. When he’d asked her to marry him, he’d believed he was merely obsessed with her body, her talent, and the child she carried. Now that he’d lost her companionship—her friendship—the truth was unavoidable: He loved her and was afraid to learn what had really happened that night.
Stacy snorted; he loved her but he did not trust or believe her. What kind of man did that make him?
“Do you want to accept your brother’s invitation?” Her voice jerked him from his self-loathing.
Did he want to get to know his family or did he just want to get his wife away from whatever might have happened that night at Lover’s Leap? Robert’s face flickered through his mind. “I would like to meet my sisters and spend time with my brother.”
“What of Frances? Will you forgive her?” The words were soft but accusatory.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. Stacy was still too furious to think clearly about her betrayal. Besides, he was far more concerned about Portia and whatever it was she’d done. Good God. What if she’d killed that man? Did he love her enough to forgive and forget the crime of murder? He didn’t want to know the answer to that.
“It would be nice to get away for a while.” The words were so quiet Stacy almost missed them. He studied her unreadable profile. Could he get away, especially when the source of the trouble would be right there beside him? He removed his hand from her arm and turned back toward the window.
“Very well,” he said. “We shall go to Thurlstone Castle.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was less than seventy miles to Thurlstone but Stacy decided they would break the journey in Plymouth.
“You will need your rest,” he told Portia in his cool, implacable way. She was tempted to argue—just because—but he spoke the truth: she did tire easily lately.
He rode alongside the carriage with his valet, hatted and gloved and scarved, leaving Portia and Daisy to entertain each other inside the traveling coach. When they reached Marlborough House, they found it crowded with revelers who’d come to watch a mill that was to take place that night.
“We just have the one room, Mr. Harrington. If you’d like, I could move one or two of the gentlemen who—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Stacy assured the haggard innkeeper. “We’ll take the room you have.”
Stacy sent the servants to a nearby inn, clearly preferring to wait on himself rather than have Powell and Daisy view their frigid interactions in such an intimate space. Not that either servant could have failed to notice their master and mistress no longer visited each other’s beds.
The Music of Love Page 21