Page 70 of The Music of Love

The answer to that question was terrifyingly clear: he must never find out.

Under other circumstances—those in which Ivo had not risen from the dead and commenced blackmailing her—Portia would have loved the cossetting and extra time with Stacy. But every second of enforced bedrest was agony when she could think of little except Ivo prowling about in the woods, waiting for his money.

Who had been coming to meet Ivo that day? Whoever it was, Ivo had a partner in blackmail—and somebody who frightened him. Judging by his pathetic campsite he could not have much money. What if someone discovered his makeshift quarters and his presence became known before she could get the money?

And that was another crushing worry: the money. Two thousand pounds? Just thinking the number nauseated her. The only money she had was the two hundred pounds Stacy had given her before the wedding. At the time, she’d tried to refuse the money—why would she need so much? Where would she spend it? He’d already paid her mountain of debts, even though it had shamed her to allow him to do so.

Portia bit her lip; how could she ask Stacy for more money? She couldn’t ask for two thousand pounds. Her desperate brain moved inexorably to the pearls he’d given her. The thought of selling them made her sick. They had belonged to his mother; how could she even contemplate doing such a thing?

Portia had learned how to pawn her possessions when Ivo was recovering from his accident and she needed money. It was possible to borrow against an item with the intention of retrieving it—although she’d never done so. Perhaps she could take the jewels to a broker who would contrive such an arrangement? But where? How could she do anything with Stacy watching her every move? He would not even let her out of bed, how would she manage to sneak the jewels to a pawnbroker? And where was the nearest one? Stratton? Plymouth?

Thinking about Plymouth made her recall he’d spoken of a bank account and marriage settlement. Where was the account and how much did it hold? And where did a person go to find out such details? Could she ask him without generating suspicion?

Portia groaned and thumped the bed with her fist. Why had she not paid more attention when he’d spoken of those matters before their marriage?

Think, Portia, think!

Stratton or Plymouth?

Stratton was far closer, but also smaller—and she might see someone she knew. It would have to be Plymouth and she would just need to figure out a way to get there.

Portia gave a laugh that contained hysteria rather than humor. How in the world could she go to Plymouth without her husband noticing?

The opportunity came far sooner than Portia could have hoped. Two days after Stacy released her from bedrest—a full five days after seeing Ivo—Stacy received an urgent message from his factor in Barnstaple.

Stacy and Portia had been writing letters in the library after breakfast when Soames entered with the note. “The messenger is waiting for your response, sir.”

Stacy’s frown deepened as he read. He looked up at her. “It seems there is a tempest brewing in Barnstaple. I’m afraid I have to set off as soon as possible.” He turned to Soames. “Have Hawkins prepare the coach and tell Powell to pack for three—no four—nights.”

“Very good, sir.” Soames shut the door behind him.

Stacy turned back to her. “I am sorry, my dear, but Carew wouldn’t send for me if it weren’t important.”

Portia tried not to show her excitement. “Naturally you must go. You needn’t worry about me. I shall have my time filled with the nursery.” Fixing up the nursery had been Stacy’s idea, no doubt something he’d conceived of to keep her occupied while she was under house arrest. “Daisy is already very keen to stitch every part of the room with her own hands.”

Stacy nodded absently, his mind on other things. “If you were feeling better I would take you with me, but—” he shrugged the thought aside. “I shan’t be longer than a few days. At least I don’t think I will.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, Portia.”

“I will be fine; you must do what you need to do.”

“Right now I’m afraid I must finish this letter.”

Stacy was packed, changed, and ready to depart in less than two hours.

Portia took his hand before he stepped into his traveling carriage. “I shall miss you, Mr. Harrington.” She looked up at two images of herself reflected in his glasses, marveling at the ease with which she could paste such an innocent expression on her face.

He kissed the palm of her hand and the casual, sensual gesture squeezed her heart. “I shall be back before you know it.”

Portia watched his carriage roll down the drive, her mind spinning quicker than its wheels.

Leaving Whitethorn proved much more difficult than she’d anticipated. When Portia made it known that she and Daisy would make an overnight trip to Plymouth she faced opposition in the form of Soames, who balked at having the smaller carriage made ready.

“You were thinking that Bannock would serve as your coachman, ma’am?” His face was impassive but there was a tense awareness in his hazy blue eyes.

“Has Bannock never driven Mr. Harrington’s carriage?” Portia asked.

Soames looked pained, as though he suspected her of trying to get him in trouble. “Bannock drove Mr. Harrington when Jewell was ill a few years back,” he admitted, every word grudgingly given.

“Then I do not foresee any problem.”