The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “Yes, yes of course, I’m fine.” She looked up at Stacy. Something—Portia didn’t know what—passed between the two before Stacy turned to his brother.

  “This is Katherine Charring, Robert. She is from Plymouth. Kitty, this is my brother, Viscount Pendleton.”

  Mrs. Charring’s perfect, coral-pink lips hung open but no sound came from between them. Once again, she swayed alarmingly. Once again, Stacy’s arm went around her, but this time it stayed.

  Robert strode forward, his face its usual mask of polite charm. “Mrs. Charring, what a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Lord Pendleton,” she murmured.

  Portia could not look away from the trio, who’d all forgotten her existence they were so transfixed on each other.

  Just what the devil was going on?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Portia cut a glance at her brother-in-law’s taut profile. “Thank you for driving me yourself, I’m sorry you’ll miss what must be a lovely walk.”

  He made a soft clucking sound and the lively bays leapt forward. “I’ve taken the walk hundreds of time but I’ve never had a drive with my charming sister-in-law.”

  “What a honey-tongued devil you are, my lord.”

  “You must call me Robert, otherwise I cannot call you Portia,” he reminded her. “And I do love the sound of your name on my honeyed tongue.” He flashed her one of his charming smiles, his mask firmly in place.

  “Have we far to go?” Portia asked. Maybe if she talked, she wouldn’t have to think about the bizarre scene she’d left behind her. The last she’d seen of Stacy he’d been walking some distance behind the others, his head bent close to the gorgeous Katherine Charring.

  “It is not far at all on foot, but we will take a slightly longer route, which is prettier than the more direct road.”

  Portia tried to think of something to say—some pleasantry—but found nothing. Instead, she watched him handle the reins, his hands competent and elegant in their tan gloves.

  “What do you think of Thurlstone so far, Portia?”

  “It is fascinating and overwhelming.” And so were the people who occupied it—not to mention some of the guests.

  “I am terribly sorry you’ve had such brushes with danger on your brief trip. I hope it will not keep you from visiting again?”

  She knew Robert meant the stray bullet and collapsing balcony, but the only danger she could think of right now had red hair and green eyes. She tried to swallow the raw jealousy that threatened to choke her.

  “Portia?”

  Robert was looking down at her, his brow furrowed. “Do you not feel well?”

  Hysterical laughter joined raging jealousy and it took every bit of self-control she had not to unravel. Instead, she smiled. “I am just a little tired.” Portia was still scrambling for something to say when Robert spoke.

  “Have you known Mrs. Charring long?”

  “I met her a few moments before you did.”

  His hands tightened on the reins. “Ah, I see. I thought Stacy seemed to know her.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Do you know how they met?”

  “No, I don’t. But surely Lady Pendleton must have invited her, so she must know her?”

  His lips twisted into a smile that sent a chill through her. “Oh yes, my wife certainly knows her.”

  Portia waited for more, but he remained frustratingly silent and she changed the uncomfortable subject. “Will it be difficult to find the craftsmen to repair the minstrel’s gallery?” she asked, keeping the conversation for the remainder of the ride centered on the safe subject of maintaining an ancient building.

  When they reached the drive to Hillcombe Park they saw several other carriages already parked on the verge. Robert turned the horses over to a groom and lifted Portia down.

  “I’m afraid it’s all by foot from here. Do you feel up to the task?”

  “I’m ready for a walk. I am also, I’m disgusted to confess, quite hungry again.”

  “Well, it is your lucky day as a feast awaits.” He led her toward a narrow, stepped path. “The lake is in the shape of a swan, yet another homage to West Wycombe Park in Buckinghamshire,” he said.

  “The owners do not mind us trespassing?’

  “We’ve always been amiable neighbors, although relations have been scant these past years as the family is rarely here. The new Lord Bishop is around my age and we were slightly acquainted at Eton. My father was a contemporary of his grandfather and the two locked horns on more than one occasion. Even so, we’ve always availed ourselves of each other’s properties.”

  The park was nothing short of spectacular, even if it was rather neglected. They followed the trail in companionable silence, passing a small reflecting pond, complete with stone benches, enormous goldfish, and an ancient-looking grotto.

  When Portia commented on the structure Robert chuckled. “It’s probably not much older than I am, but the last Lord Bishop was an expert at reproducing antiquity.”

  The path meandered through a small glade and on the other side were the shores of the picturesque lake. Guests strolled near a generously sized pavilion set with comfortable-looking chairs, colorful awnings, and food enough to feed ten times the crowd. Portia could not see her husband. Or Katherine Charring. Misery and fury surged inside her but she forced them down.

  You promised to think before you became overly emotional, her inner, hectoring voice reminded her.

  I did promise him that, but he’s not making the promise easy to keep.

  Remember the last time you made a fool of yourself—mere weeks ago.

  Portia gritted her teeth. I’m trying. And she was; she couldn’t recall trying to restrain her temper quite this much. Ever. But he deserved the benefit of the doubt.

  “Let’s get you something to eat before you expire from hunger,” Robert teased, breaking into her annoying thoughts.

  “Are you rested, Mrs. Harrington, or has my husband been exerting you?”

  Portia turned to find Rowena had come up behind them, her smile sly. “I am quite rested, thank you. What a lovely display.” Not that Portia could take any enjoyment from it.

  “You really must try the liver mousse and our very own ham, sliced tissue thin. It is far superior to what is offered at Vauxhall Gardens.”

  A young couple approached. “Where should we set up the croquet, my lady?”

  “I’ll leave you in my husband’s care.” Rowena gave Portia a lingering look before turning to the young man.

  Portia heaved a sigh of relief; she was not in a mood to deal with Rowena’s cutting, oblique comments just now.

  Robert cast a cool, speculative glance at his wife’s retreating back before turning to Portia and smiling. “Why don’t you have a seat while I wait on you?”

  Portia did not demur and he left her in a chair beneath one of the striped awnings, her mind racing until he returned a short time later with a heaping plate.

  Portia laughed. “You plan to share this with me, I hope?”

  “Save some for me—I’ll be back in a moment. I’m going to find Stacy and tell him you’ve arrived.” He left without waiting for a response.

  That was just as well as Portia didn’t want to think about her husband and what he was doing, or with whom he was doing it. Instead, she demolished her heaping plate and watched Rowena order the young guests about as though she were a field marshal with poorly trained troops. She ate her way through the mountain of food and was just finishing a piece of creamy gold cheese when Rowena returned.

  “Did you enjoy the ham?”

  “I enjoyed it too much.” She gestured at her empty plate.

  Rowena looked around. “Where did Robert disappear to?”

  “He went to find Stacy.”

  “Ah. He should have asked me. I saw your husband go in the direction of the gothic chapel with Mrs. Charring, they appear to be great friends.”

  Portia burned to ask the viscount
ess who the beautiful Katherine Charring was and why Rowena had invited her, but for some odd reason she sensed the woman would enjoy that. So instead she turned away from her sister-in-law’s probing eyes, toward the croquet players, and felt, rather than saw, Rowena drift away.

  Her eyelids became heavy and she soon succumbed to her body’s demand for rest and closed her eyes. The voices became a hum and she drifted into the type of dreamless slumber she’d not experienced since she was a child. Her limbs were immobile and leaden but her mind was strangely light and floated just above her body. She was beginning to sink deeper into sleep when a high-pitched female squeal jarred her awake.

  Her sluggish brain took a moment to sort reality from dream. Clouds were covering the sun and Portia could not have said how long she slept. It couldn’t have been too long, as the croquet players had not yet finished their game. She rose from the comfort of her chaise and went to the buffet, where a footman stood ready to serve.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “It is two-thirty, ma’am.”

  So, she’d slept no more than thirty minutes. She searched the groups milling about, unable to find Robert, Rowena, Stacy, or Mrs. Charring.

  “Have you seen Lord Pendleton?” she asked the footman.

  “I believe he went toward the chapel.”

  Where Stacy and Kitty had gone, according Rowena. “How far is that?”

  “Perhaps a quarter of an hour walk.”

  “I’m going to walk to the chapel, if anyone should ask for me.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Harrington.”

  As Portia made her way toward the cluster of trees she couldn’t help wondering why she was going after Stacy and the beautiful redhead. She knew what Rowena had been trying to insinuate with her sly smile and she couldn’t help wondering why Stacy had not simply told her how he’d met Mrs. Charring.

  You’ve just promised him you would not jump to conclusions, her rational side accused yet again.

  I’m not jumping to conclusions—I hardly even need to take a step toward them—they are coming toward me. Besides, I have not lost my temper.

  Her mental bickering continued as Portia entered the trees. She followed the path for perhaps five or ten minutes before coming to a large clearing. At the opposite end was a tiny, ornate gothic church that seemed to have grown right out of the hill behind it. The air was heavy and motionless and debris cluttered the courtyard in front of the chapel. Weeds had been busy buckling and pulling apart every joint, split, and crack between the cobbles.

  There must have been double doors on the chapel at one point but both were gone and someone had even torn the hinges out of the stone wall. The jagged opening resembled a mouth with sharp, broken teeth and beyond the bricks was an inky black maw.

  Nothing in the world would have lured Portia into the liquid blackness.

  Nothing, that is, except the sound of her husband’s voice.

  “Shhh, darling, don’t cry.” Stacy must have been some distance inside the old chapel as he was barely audible.

  Portia opened her mouth to call out and then froze when a voice answered, “I’m so sorry, Stacy. It’s just too—too dreadful.”

  “Things are never as bad as they seem, my dearest Kitty.” His voice was tender and the endearment was like acid on Portia’s heart. She knew she should run in the opposite direction as fast as her legs would carry her. Instead, she took another step into the darkness.

  “What am I going to do?” Katherine Charring’s voice throbbed with pain.

  “We’ll think of something.”

  Portia’s foot came down on a piece of broken stone and she stumbled, flailing in the darkness. She grazed her knuckles on the rough wall but stopped herself from falling.

  “What was that?” Mrs. Charring’s voice was suddenly very loud.

  “Probably just some vermin,” Stacy assured her.

  If only you knew.

  Portia remained where she was, unwilling to risk either discovery or injury by going any farther. Besides, she could hear more than enough from her current position.

  A delicate sniff floated through the darkness. “I thought I’d squashed my love and come to terms with my life but now I see I was just lying to myself.”

  “You poor darling. Come here.” It was the same comforting voice he often used on Portia and the long pause could only mean they were embracing. And maybe kissing.

  She swallowed so hard she was amazed they couldn’t hear it.

  They’re distracted; the only thing they are hearing is each other.

  Portia closed her eyes, as if that would somehow stop the voice in her head.

  “There’s nothing that can be done now, I’m afraid. You must know a divorce is out of the question?”

  Divorce? He wanted a divorce? Portia could barely hear the soft sound of crying above the roaring in her ears.

  “Oh, Stacy, I thought I’d gotten beyond it all, but coming here has made my heart break all over again—” the sound of soft sobbing filled the air and it was a long moment before the woman could gain control of herself and continue. “I know I told you I was no longer in love, but I was lying, Stacy.”

  “Shh, sweetheart. God, how I wish you’d told me all this a long time ago. If you want to leave today I will take you back to Plymouth. But I want to tell Portia the truth before I go and—”

  “No! Please don’t, Stacy, I should hate for her to know everything. It’s not as though we could ever do anything about it. I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

  Portia tasted the salt of her own tears and roughly scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She stumbled backward, blinded by pain as she listened to her husband comfort a woman who’d obviously decided too late that she loved him.

  As she ran from the clearing she wondered if a person could actually hear the sound of their heart breaking.

  Portia did not stop running until she was out of the trees. She slumped breathlessly against a boulder beside the path and squeezed her pounding temples, as if she could squeeze out the horrible thoughts.

  Stacy had only married her because she was with child and now this woman—a woman he clearly cared a great deal for—had decided she wanted him. Portia winced at the memory of the anguish in his voice as he’d soothed his lover’s pain.

  Agony, fear, and jealousy twisted inside her and her gorge rose. She covered her mouth—she could not be sick now; it would only draw unwanted attention. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands until the pain distracted her. When she unclenched her hands there were bloody half-moons. She was still staring at her palms when she heard her name and looked up.

  Robert was coming toward her from the direction of the trysting couple. Good God! Had he—

  “You went for a stroll, Portia?” His gaze flickered toward the direction she’d just come from and Portia knew, in that instant, that he’d heard the lovers. The smile he gave her was taut and fixed, and lines of strain bracketed his eyes. The expression in them was one of pity.

  “Yes, just a short one,” Portia said, struggling against a powerful urge to run and run and run. “The viscountess was looking for you,” she said absently.

  “Yes, she found me.” He glanced over her shoulder and his face tightened. “Ah, here are Stacy and Mrs. Charring.” The false jollity in his voice was worse than a knife in her chest.

  Portia dug deeply for the strength to face him. She told herself this was not the worst she’d endured. If she could survive the miscarriage Ivo had caused with his fists, she could survive this, and so would her baby.

  Stacy smiled, looking almost as if he was glad to see her.

  Mrs. Charring looked from Portia to Robert, her beautiful face showing no sign she’d been crying a short time ago.

  “Did you find the chapel?” Robert asked.

  “Yes, we did. It’s quite a fascinating little structure.”

  Nobody seemed to have anything to say, and an uncomfortable silence settled over them.
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  “Shall we return to the pavilion?” Robert finally asked.

  They were able to walk four abreast as they were out of the trees.

  Stacy put his hand on Portia’s arm and she looked up at him. “How are you feeling, my dear?” His face was tender as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was all Portia could do not to flinch away. She darted a look at Mrs. Charring. What must she be thinking of her lover’s behavior?

  But the other woman was staring into the distance, her face expressionless.

  Portia took a step back and broke contact with his hand. “I’ve already eaten, napped, and even taken a walk.”

  “Is that all? No game of croquet?” Stacy asked playfully. “Were you just waiting for the right partner?”

  Portia was sickened by the ease with which he played his part; who knew he had such duplicity in him? “I shall have to pass on the croquet today.”

  He was immediately solicitous. “Are you tired? Would you like to go back to Thurlstone? You have a long evening ahead of you.” He looked at his brother. “I’m sure Robert wouldn’t mind if I used his curricle to take you back.”

  Robert, who’d been staring at Kitty Charring, tore his eyes away from the beautiful woman with obvious effort. “Absolutely, Bains can have the team hitched in a trice.”

  The last thing Portia wanted was to ride back to the castle alone with Stacy. That would be a disaster; she needed time to get control of her temper. “There is no need to rush off before you’ve had a chance to eat. And you should join the next game as they are desperate for fresh blood. I’ll relax under the awning and watch for a while.” Portia moved away quickly, heading for the same chair she’d used before, this time angling it away from the buffet table. She didn’t want to look at either food or her husband. But Stacy followed her and dragged a chair up beside her. He was lowering himself into it when Lady Elizabeth and two other women approached.