Page 43 of The Music of Love

“I am a working lady, now, Nanny.”

Nanny turned to peer up at Frances. “You shouldn’t work the poor girl so hard, Miss Tate.”

“Oh Nanny, Daisy is teasing you,” Frances said, her tone more suited for a small child than a woman of ninety.

Nanny’s eyes narrowed and Portia hastily rang for more tea, turning the subject to defuse possible hostilities.

It was the first time Portia had seen Frances with Nanny and she got the distinct impression Nanny did not like the other woman. Portia realized that Nanny, who’d taken to her so quickly, could be a prickly character with other people. Luckily she liked Daisy, whose entire family she seemed to know.

Once the tea tray arrived Portia brought up Nanny’s favorite subject—and one dear to her heart as well, she realized—and regaled them with story after story about Stacy. She was in the middle of relating a tale about Stacy and his first pony when she blinked and looked around.

“And where is my favorite today?” Nanny asked.

“He’s gone to Plymouth, to procure the wedding license,” Portia reminded her.

“Oh, that’s right.” She shook her head, and then smiled. “He’s a caution. He always was. He had you wrapped around his finger quick enough Miss Frances, didn’t he?” She shot the other woman a smile that lacked the malice of her earlier looks.

“Yes, he was remarkably adept at getting his way. It’s fortunate he wasn’t a malicious boy,” Frances agreed, her face softening.

“No, he has none of his father in him,” Nanny said.

Frances flinched and the two women locked eyes, something unpleasant flowing between them.

“Stacy will back home this evening,” Portia said to smooth over whatever was going on. “And we’ll both come to visit you tomorrow, Nanny.”

Her darling’s name was enough to make Nanny stop glaring at Frances and the conversation reverted to the subject of the wedding, the awkward incident forgotten.

All through dinner that night Portia hoped to hear Stacy’s carriage. The meal had been a cozy, feminine affair with only her and Frances and the women retired to the smaller of the sitting rooms and chatted until Portia noticed Frances’s head nodding.

Portia was tiptoeing toward the door so as not to wake the older woman when she heard the clatter of wheels on cobblestones.

The sound woke Frances, who blinked owlishly, glanced around until she saw Portia, and said, “I’m pleased that he is home but I really wish he would not travel at night.”

“At least it is a full moon,” Portia said. “I believe I shall go meet him in the—”

The door flew open and Soames stood in the opening, his eyes wild. “Signora—you must come quickly. It’s Mr. Harrington—he’s been shot!”

Chapter Thirteen

Stacy was dozing when Jewell’s—his coachman—frantic shout woke him. He’d been enjoying one of those very rare moments in life: a moment of pure contentment.

The Plymouth trip had been a success in all but one area. He’d purchased the common license and then gone to the jeweler he favored. It hadn’t taken him long to decide on a large emerald-cut diamond. The stone was exquisite and the setting simple yet elegant. He’d given the man a glove of Portia’s that Daisy had filched and then arranged to come by the following morning to collect the ring. On his way out of the shop he’d spied some lovely diamond hair pins and had the man to add a dozen to his order.

He’d then gone to Kitty’s and suffered her gloating and preening, as if she, rather than Stacy, was the one who was getting married.

“Was it dreadful when you proposed? Did you stutter like the greenest of boys?” she teased.

“I actually fainted, Kitty. I believe that is the only reason she accepted me, she was too embarrassed to do aught else.”

Kitty’s shout of joy had almost deafened him when he’d told her Portia was with child.

“Oh Stacy, she sounds like a marvelous woman, perfect for you—fiery and fearless. She won’t let you give her that haughty look you specialize in and quiver in her slippers.”

Stacy rolled his eyes. “Good God, Kitty, you are an idiot.”

His words only made her laugh harder. But she stopped laughing when Stacy invited her to the wedding.

“You’re daft—you should be locked in Bedlam. Invite a whore to your wedding?”