Page 77 of The Music of Love

Portia hated his glasses, especially now, when she knew he was using them as a weapon to keep her at a distance.

The footman entered and they both waited while he filled their cups with fresh coffee.

Stacy set down his knife and fork. “I received a message early this morning that a dead body had been found on the beach.”

Portia froze, her cup half-way to her mouth. “A dead body?”

“Thank you, Thomas, that will be all for now,” Stacy said. When the door closed behind the servant he turned to Portia, “Yes, a body.”

“Where?” she asked when it was clear he was not going to volunteer any information.

“It was on the rocks beneath Penhallow’s Bluff—what everyone refers to as Lover’s Leap. Right below Nanny’s.”

Portia’s hand trembled and coffee spilled over the edge of her cup, missed her saucer, and stained the snowy table linen. She stared at the brown blossom, unable to wrench her eyes away.

“Was it someone crossed in love?” she asked, finally looking up.

He remained motionless for a moment longer and then picked up his fork and knife and resumed eating. “I suppose he might have been someone’s lover.”

“He?” she repeated. “Was it somebody you knew?”

“It was a foreign gentleman, nobody from around here. He was carrying nothing that gave any clue as to who he was.”

Portia frowned. “How do you know he was foreign if he had no identification?”

“His clothing is of fine quality but of foreign make—except for his boots, which bore Hoby’s mark. He might be an itinerant actor. Or perhaps a musician.” He shrugged. “He is most likely one of the many refugees we’ve been seeing from the Continent now that the War is over.”

Tiny needles of fear began to shoot through her, bouncing and ricocheting and multiplying. “An actor?”

He chewed, swallowed and took another drink of coffee before answering. “Or a musician, although that is not likely as one of his hands had been crushed rather badly at some point.”

The conversation was like the bad dreams she’d been having recently, the ones in which she tried to run but got nowhere.

She had to clear her throat several times before she could speak. “When did he die?”

“The doctor believes he must have drifted back to shore after spending several days in the water.”

Portia’s mind buzzed like a beehive that had been poked with a stick. Several days? What did that mean? Four days? Three days? But Ivo had promised to be gone the next day. Well, that would have been five days. Had he stayed around for another day for some reason? If so, how had he ended up at the bottom of a cliff?

Her frantic mind leapt to the money. Where was the money? Had the person who found him taken it? Had somebody else taken it before he fell to his death? Perhaps he had been robbed? And what about the marriage lines? Had he been foolish enough to have those with him?

She looked from her plate to her husband, who was facing her, as still as a statue.

Portia dropped her gaze. She needed to be alone. Now. She stood and tossed her napkin onto the table.

“I promised Nanny some embroidery silks for the christening bonnet she is making.”

Stacy was on his feet in an instant and preceded her to the door. His hand lowered to the door handle but he did not open it. “Please give Nanny my regards and tell her I shall visit her later today.” He stood close enough that Portia could feel the warmth of his body and smell his tantalizing cologne. She swayed toward him, teetering on the brink of flinging herself into his arms and telling him everything.

She opened her mouth and looked up.

He had a polite smile on his face. Polite and cold.

“I will,” she said.

She felt his eyes on her back all the way down the hall. When she reached her room, she shut her door and collapsed against it.

Good God. Ivo—dead! What would happen if they found out who he was?