Page 1 of The Music of Love

Chapter One

Bude, Cornwall

1816

Portia Stefani pulled her gaze from the moonlit countryside beyond the carriage window and stared at the well-worn letter she clutched in her hand. She’d read it so often that she’d memorized it, but she still needed to look at the words.

She’d done the right thing, hadn’t she?

Dear Signore Stefani,

The Stark Employment Agency forwarded your letter of interest regarding the teaching position. Naturally your skills and experience are well above what I’d hoped for in a piano teacher. It is my privilege to offer you a one-year term of employment. I require only two hours of instruction per day, six days per week. The remaining time would be your own.

Whitethorn Manor is in a very remote part of Cornwall, so if country living is anathema to you the position would not suit.

The letter’s author—Mr. Eustace Harrington—went on to offer a generous salary, suggest a start date and give instructions for reaching the manor. Nowhere in the letter did it say Ivo Stefani’s wife would be an acceptable substitute if the famous pianist was unavailable, uninterested, or . . . dead.

Portia’s hands shook as she refolded the brief missive and tucked it into her reticule. It was foolish to submit to her nerves, especially after she’d already accepted the private chaise, the nights in posting inns, and the meals Mr. Harrington’s money had provided.

She groaned and rested her aching temple against the cool glass, exhausted by the relentless whirl of thoughts. Her head had begun to pound several hours earlier and the pain increased with each mile. Weeks and weeks of living with her deception had taken its toll on both her mind and body. Thank God it would soon be over, no matter what happened.

The argument she’d relied on most heavily—that this deception was her only choice—had lost its conviction the closer she came to Whitethorn Manor. But that didn’t make it any less true. Portia had no money, no family—at least none who would acknowledge her—and her few friends were almost as poor as she was. She had nothing but debt since she’d been forced to close the Ivo Stefani Academy for Young Ladies.

She laughed and the bitter puff of air left a fleeting fog on the carriage window. Even now the ridiculous name amused her; Ivo had always possessed such grandiose dreams. It was unfortunate his dreams had rarely put food on their table, even before he abandoned her and their struggling school.

Although the small academy had been his idea and bore his name, her husband had pouted whenever Portia asked for help teaching or tutoring.

“Such work is fine for you, cara, but my ear bones,” he would shudder dramatically at this point, “they are in danger of breaking and bleeding if exposed to such abuse.”

“And how will your ear bones feel when they have no place to sleep?” Portia had asked on more than one occasion.

But Ivo had only laughed at her fears—and then run off with a woman whose very existence meant Portia’s ten-year marriage was nothing but a sham. Not that any of that mattered now. Ivo was gone and the humiliating truth with him; it no longer signified what he’d done or with whom he’d done it. What mattered was that Portia needed to survive and the only way she could do so was teaching music.

She could have found work in London, but the prospect of starting all over again in the same city had left her feeling tired and hopeless. If she hadn’t been destitute she might have considered the offer to share a house with three friends: Serena Lombard, Honoria Keyes, and Lady Winifred Sedgewick, all teachers from her now defunct school.

Unfortunately, all Portia had to offer anyone was debt, and most of it not even hers. But to the dunning agents who dogged her day and night it hadn’t mattered that Ivo had generated the mountain of bills without her knowledge.

No, she’d done far better to accept this well-paid position, even though she’d resorted to despicable—and probably criminal—deceit to get it.

The chaise shuddered to a halt and her thoughts scattered like startled pigeons.

Portia peered out the window and caught her breath. It was not a country house; it was a mansion: an imposing Palladian-style structure that loomed over the carriage, its massive portico and immense Venetian windows dominating the moonlit sky.

She had arrived.

The footmen had just removed their plates when Soames entered the dining room.

“I beg your pardon, sir, it appears the music teacher has arrived.”

Stacy Harrington took out his watch. “It’s quite late and no doubt he’s exhausted after his long journey. I’ll wait until morning to speak to him. Show him to his chambers and have Cook send up a tray.”

His aged butler did not move.

“Is there something else, Soames?”

“Well . . .”

“Yes, what is it?”