Page 78 of The Music of Love

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.