Page 72 of The Music of Love

It appeared her husband was a significant depositor at their bank and Mr. Nelson was eager to keep his new wife happy. A quarter of an hour elapsed on pleasantries before Portia could work Mr. Nelson around to the point of her visit.

“My husband set up an account for me with your bank.”

Mr. Nelson nodded. “Yes, several. One for general use and one that is held in trust.”

Portia hadn’t known about the trust account. What else had he given her? She wanted to drop her head into her hands and weep with shame but now was not the time.

“I should like to withdraw two thousand pounds.”

The banker did not even blink. “Of course, Mrs. Harrington, I will be pleased to arrange matters for you. Are you sure you don’t care for tea?” he asked for the fifth time.

“Thank you, but I’m rather pressed for time.” Her not so subtle words sent him on his way.

The transaction did not take long but Portia was forced to spend another five minutes reassuring him she would be fine carrying such a large sum and did not need a guard to carry it.

“Very well,” he finally agreed. “But I’m afraid I must put my foot down on the issue of a hackney. I’ve had my carriage brought round for you.”

Portia was nearly mad with worry by the time she took leave of the officious little man and settled into his very comfortable carriage. It was an hour and a quarter since she’d left the warehouse. If Daisy and Baker had returned and found her gone it would be more than a little awkward.

She tucked her bulging reticule under her arm as the carriage slowed and the footman opened the door and then handed her out with a flourish.

The first thing Portia saw upon entering the Marlborough House was her husband.

Chapter Twenty

Stacy was struggling mightily not to vent his spleen on the innocent innkeeper at his favorite inn. He took a deep breath and tried again.

“I already went to the address your porter gave the hackney driver and the clerk said my wife left for the Marlborough over an hour ago. Her maid confirmed that. Are you certain you did not see her return? Perhaps she came back and went out again? Would not your man have—”

“Stacy?”

He spun on his heel and found Portia looking up at him, her big brown eyes worried as they glanced from him to the innkeeper and back. The relief that surged through him at the sound of her voice was instantly replaced by four kinds of anger.

He tamped down his fury with no little effort. “Ah, Mrs. Harrington, there you are.” He looked from his anxious wife to the equally anxious innkeeper. “We shall use our private parlor right now, Mr. Withers.”

“Very good, sir, your usual rooms are ready for you, Mr. Harrington.” The older man glanced nervously from Portia back to Stacy, no doubt fearing a domestic altercation.

“Transfer my wife’s possessions to my rooms.” He held out his arm. “My dear?” Stacy impressed even himself with his cool, level tone.

When they reached the parlor he removed his driving coat, hat, and gloves and threw them onto a chair before turning to his silent wife.

She was clutching a large, bulging reticule before her as though it were a shield. When he reached for her cloak she flinched back. He froze, his arm still outstretched. One side of her mouth twitched into an embarrassed smile.

“Why do you flinch from me, Portia?” His tone was harsh and accusatory and he tried to soften it. “Did you think I would strike you?”

“No, of course I didn’t think that.” She smiled uneasily and pulled at the ribbons on her bonnet. Her hands were shaking.

He saw by her flushed face that he had guessed correctly. “Good God! Did Stefani strike you?”

She yanked at the ribbon, which was already hopelessly knotted. Her fingers pulled so hard her knuckles were white and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Portia?” Stacy could barely hear his voice over the claxons screaming in his skull. Somebody had hit her. By God he would find whoever it was and thrash them to within an inch of their life, he’d bloody—

Stacy realized his hands were clenching with rage and his heart was thumping like a marching drum. He exhaled slowly.

Once he’d regained control of himself, he removed the mangled ribbon from her unresisting fingers. She watched without speaking as he eased the knot apart, her eyes huge in her pale face. When he’d untied the ribbon, he lifted the hat from her head. Next, he unfastened her cloak. When he went to take her reticule she clutched it to her chest, as if for safety. He let her keep it and led her to a chair.

She stared up at him, her expression oddly blank. “Are you angry I’ve come shopping?”