Page 113 of The Music of Love

Stacy patted her hand. “He’s not thinking clearly. I believe he and his wife have been playing these nasty games for years. You are well away from it while I get to the bottom of everything. Jewell will take you to Plymouth and then return for us.” She began to protest and he cut her off. “No, that is what will happen. This situation is intolerable. I don’t know what that woman is about, but I plan to find out.”

He took her through a large set of double doors that separated the main wing from one of the older sections. He looked around the dark hallway and frowned. The smell of damp and mildew was stifling.

“Good Lord, who put you all the way over here? This is dreadful—the viscountess should be flogged,” he muttered. She stopped walking and he turned. “What is it, Kitty?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m so ashamed at having brought all this on you.”

Stacy took both of her shoulders and gently shook her. “Stop it right now, Kitty. You are not to blame for any of this. It’s obvious the viscountess is playing some sort of game with Robert.”

Her beautiful face twisted into an expression of misery. “I wouldn’t have come but when the letter mentioned the baby—”

“Kitty,” he said sternly, “I’ll find out everything I can—including the truth about your child. Do you understand me? The woman is poison and has driven my brother half mad—you must leave. All you need to worry about is—”

“Stacy!”

Frances was running toward them, clutching her ball gown in her fists. “It’s Portia,” she gasped in between breaths. “You must come with me now!”

Portia fell into the darkened room and bumped into something hard.

“Stay put,” Rowena snapped, entering the room and shedding light in the darkness, slamming the door behind them.

The room was perhaps three times as wide as the tunnel they’d just left behind and there was a second door across from the one they’d just come through. The only furniture was a spindly side table against one wall and a large, rough-hewn table in the center of the room, which is what she’d hit.

Wide leather straps were attached to the top, middle, and bottom of the bigger table and Portia could barely pull her eyes away. When she looked up, she wished she hadn’t. The walls had dozens of carved niches and each one held a hideous mask. It felt as though dozens of hate-filled eyes were watching.

Rowena dribbled a daub of wax on the side table and stuck her candle in it. The determined grimace on her face was far more frightening than any of the masks on the wall.

“Get on the table.” She pushed the pistol into Portia’s side to encourage obedience. Her eyes slewed toward the second door and her mouth tightened with irritation as it slowly creaked open. Mr. Fant stood in the narrow doorway, his eyes wide.

“Close the door, you idiot,” Rowena snapped. “What took you so long?”

The dour-faced man flushed. “I got lost, my lady. There’s miles of tunnels down here.” He carried a big wooden tool box in one hand and a shielded lantern in the other.

A look of intense annoyance spasmed across Rowena’s face and for a moment the hand holding the pistol wavered, as if she were considering shooting her accomplice.

“Do you have it?” she asked through clenched jaws.

Fant’s eyes flickered from his mistress to Portia and moved quickly to the wooden box. He set it on the floor beside the lamp and dug into its depths, extracting a large piece of folded canvas and a small round clay jar. “The woman said it only took a mouthful.”

“Put that out,” she gestured to the lamp in his hand and held out her pistol. “Take this.” She waited impatiently as he complied. “Can you keep this trained on her without shooting either yourself or me?”

Fant’s lips tightened at her belittling tone but he took the gun without comment, aiming it at Portia, his expression even grimmer than usual.

Rowena pulled the bung out of the earthenware jar and thrust it Portia. “You’re going to take at least two mouthfuls and then lie back on the table. It will happen fast and there will be very little pain. Do you understand? I’ll strap you down if you—”

The heavy plank door behind her flew open and slammed into her shoulder. She cried out and staggered sideways, knocking into the table where she’d set the candle. Her hand scrabbled for purchase and she knocked the candle to the floor, plunging the room into darkness.

“Put down your weapon Fant, I know you have a pistol,” a calm, familiar voice demanded. “There are five men with me and more approaching from the other direction. You are trapped. Do as I tell you, and you might live.”

Portia jumped off the table and took a step. And then an arm snaked around her neck.

“Stacy!” Her scream came out a choked gurgle as she struggled against Rowena’s surprisingly strong hold, clutching her stomach protectively. Rowena’s arm tightened around her throat and Portia gagged.

“Fant, hand me the gun,” Rowena demanded.

“Do not give her the pistol, Mr. Fant.” Stacy’s voice was almost bored. “My pistol is aimed at your heart. You know very well that I can see better in the dark than a cat. I can see you right now, in fact, backing toward the other door. You’ve got a lamp in your hand.”

“Give me the gun!” Rowena screamed, shoving something against Portia’s lips.