Page 111 of The Music of Love

Portia’s stomach was in knots; did she really want to find them? “Perhaps—”

“Perhaps what?” Rowena asked without pausing.

Portia stared at the other woman’s back. What should she tell her? She didn’t know what to think, herself.

You need to see them, don’t you, Portia? You need to rub salt in the wound.

She grimaced; is that why she was following? To torment herself? Or maybe. . .

Maybe what?

Maybe Rowena is right—maybe I should fight for him.

But what of your pride, Portia?

The thought surprised her so much she stumbled, glad to be holding the railing. Was pride really the only thing standing in her way? No, surely that couldn’t be true. Could it?

They reached the bottom of the stairs and continued down a narrow, windy corridor with a wood-plank door at the far end.

Rowena opened the door and paused. “Perhaps, what, Mrs. Harrington?” She gestured for Portia to take the lead.

Portia preceded her. “Perhaps we should not be doing this,” she said lamely, not wishing to put her thoughts into words. “I would rather talk to my husband alone—later.” That much was true, at least.

Rowena laughed, her pupils tiny black dots in the candlelight.

“This is no laughing matter to me.” Portia’s voice shook with suppressed anger, not all of it for the woman across from her.

Rowena laughed even harder, shaking her head as she struggled to catch her breath.

“What is wrong with you? Why would laugh at such a thing?”

“I’m laughing because it is not your husband she wants, Portia, it is mine.” She snorted at Portia’s shocked face and then roughly shoved past her.

Portia hurried to catch up, a tiny spark of hope burning in her chest. “What?”

“Yes, it is Robert. He and the whore had a child together years ago, you see. The two met in Plymouth while he was staying in my father’s house, if you can believe it. She was a governess somewhere—I don’t recall now. But I do recall Robert met her after we were betrothed. Even before we married he was whoring.” She laughed and the sound sent an uncomfortable tingling sensation down Portia’s spine. Something was very wrong.

Portia stopped, and then began to back up.

Rowena spun around. The hand that wasn’t holding the candle held a pistol, which she was pointing at Portia.

“Stop where you are, Mrs. Harrington.”

Portia froze and the other woman advanced on her, the gun pointed at her midriff.

“You are not going back, Mrs. Harrington. Ever.” Her smile was terrifying, but not as terrifying as the look in her eyes. For the first time since Portia had met the woman her face wore a genuine expression: madness.

She reached out and tapped Portia’s stomach with the barrel of the gun. “You will walk or I will shoot you right now.”

Portia’s brain spun like a toothless gear, unable to find purchase.

Rowena gestured to the corridor ahead. “Now. Start walking.”

Portia looked from the gun to the other woman’s face; hatred blazed in her pale green eyes and she prodded Portia’s stomach hard enough to hurt. “This is the last time I will say it. Walk.”

Portia turned and took several hasty steps while holding the candle high and squinting into the darkness. She could see nothing ahead of her other than the narrow, dark tunnel.

Rowena poked her shoulder with the gun. “Faster.”