Page 101 of The Music of Love

“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 viscountess 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.