The Music of Love Read online

  CROOKED SIXPENCE BOOKS are published by

  CROOKED SIXPENCE PRESS

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  El Prado, NM 87529

  Copyright © 2019 Shantal M. LaViolette

  Kobo Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address above.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons. Such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  First printing January 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-951662-00-4

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover image by Biserka Design

  Book design by Biserka Design

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from A Figure of Love

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Bude, Cornwall

  1816

  Portia Stefani pulled her gaze from the moonlit countryside beyond the carriage window and stared at the well-worn letter she clutched in her hand. She’d read it so often that she’d memorized it, but she still needed to look at the words.

  She’d done the right thing, hadn’t she?

  Dear Signore Stefani,

  The Stark Employment Agency forwarded your letter of interest regarding the teaching position. Naturally your skills and experience are well above what I’d hoped for in a piano teacher. It is my privilege to offer you a one-year term of employment. I require only two hours of instruction per day, six days per week. The remaining time would be your own.

  Whitethorn Manor is in a very remote part of Cornwall, so if country living is anathema to you the position would not suit.

  The letter’s author—Mr. Eustace Harrington—went on to offer a generous salary, suggest a start date and give instructions for reaching the manor. Nowhere in the letter did it say Ivo Stefani’s wife would be an acceptable substitute if the famous pianist was unavailable, uninterested, or . . . dead.

  Portia’s hands shook as she refolded the brief missive and tucked it into her reticule. It was foolish to submit to her nerves, especially after she’d already accepted the private chaise, the nights in posting inns, and the meals Mr. Harrington’s money had provided.

  She groaned and rested her aching temple against the cool glass, exhausted by the relentless whirl of thoughts. Her head had begun to pound several hours earlier and the pain increased with each mile. Weeks and weeks of living with her deception had taken its toll on both her mind and body. Thank God it would soon be over, no matter what happened.

  The argument she’d relied on most heavily—that this deception was her only choice—had lost its conviction the closer she came to Whitethorn Manor. But that didn’t make it any less true. Portia had no money, no family—at least none who would acknowledge her—and her few friends were almost as poor as she was. She had nothing but debt since she’d been forced to close the Ivo Stefani Academy for Young Ladies.

  She laughed and the bitter puff of air left a fleeting fog on the carriage window. Even now the ridiculous name amused her; Ivo had always possessed such grandiose dreams. It was unfortunate his dreams had rarely put food on their table, even before he abandoned her and their struggling school.

  Although the small academy had been his idea and bore his name, her husband had pouted whenever Portia asked for help teaching or tutoring.

  “Such work is fine for you, cara, but my ear bones,” he would shudder dramatically at this point, “they are in danger of breaking and bleeding if exposed to such abuse.”

  “And how will your ear bones feel when they have no place to sleep?” Portia had asked on more than one occasion.

  But Ivo had only laughed at her fears—and then run off with a woman whose very existence meant Portia’s ten-year marriage was nothing but a sham. Not that any of that mattered now. Ivo was gone and the humiliating truth with him; it no longer signified what he’d done or with whom he’d done it. What mattered was that Portia needed to survive and the only way she could do so was teaching music.

  She could have found work in London, but the prospect of starting all over again in the same city had left her feeling tired and hopeless. If she hadn’t been destitute she might have considered the offer to share a house with three friends: Serena Lombard, Honoria Keyes, and Lady Winifred Sedgewick, all teachers from her now defunct school.

  Unfortunately, all Portia had to offer anyone was debt, and most of it not even hers. But to the dunning agents who dogged her day and night it hadn’t mattered that Ivo had generated the mountain of bills without her knowledge.

  No, she’d done far better to accept this well-paid position, even though she’d resorted to despicable—and probably criminal—deceit to get it.

  The chaise shuddered to a halt and her thoughts scattered like startled pigeons.

  Portia peered out the window and caught her breath. It was not a country house; it was a mansion: an imposing Palladian-style structure that loomed over the carriage, its massive portico and immense Venetian windows dominating the moonlit sky.

  She had arrived.

  The footmen had just removed their plates when Soames entered the dining room.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, it appears the music teacher has arrived.”

  Stacy Harrington took out his watch. “It’s quite late and no doubt he’s exhausted after his long journey. I’ll wait until morning to speak to him. Show him to his chambers and have Cook send up a tray.”

  His aged butler did not move.

  “Is there something else, Soames?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Well, the thing is, sir, it’s not Signore Stefani.”

  Stacy frowned at his usually imperturbable servant. “What is it, Soames?”

  “It’s Signora Stefani,” Soames blurted.

  “Very well, so he brought his wif
e with him. I wish he’d let us know, but tonight they can stay in the rooms you have prepared and tomorrow we can move them to a larger apartment.”

  Soames cleared his throat. “Er, it is only Signora Stefani.”

  His Aunt Frances, who’d been inching closer to the edge of her seat with each new piece of information, could no longer contain herself. “What on earth does he mean, Stacy?” she asked, rattled enough to call him by his childhood pet name in front of a servant.

  Stacy didn’t mind the slip. In fact, he preferred “Stacy” to “Eustace”—which he’d always thought sounded like an undertaker’s name.

  He turned from his aunt to his hovering servant. “My aunt wishes to know what on earth you mean, Soames?”

  The butler’s parchment-like skin flushed. “It appears Signore Stefani is . . . well, he is dead, sir.”

  His aunt gasped and Stacy sat back in his chair.

  “Are you telling me there is a dead body in the carriage, Soames?”

  “Oh no, sir, no.” Soames stopped and stared a point somewhere beyond Stacy’s left shoulder, blinking owlishly. His brow creased and he fingered his long chin. “At least . . .”

  “Well?” Stacy prodded when it seemed the ancient man had calcified.

  “I understand she is alone in the carriage, sir. No maid or, er, body.” He glanced down at his hand. “She brought this with her and claims she is here for the music position.”

  Soames held out a folded piece of paper and Stacy took it. His own handwriting stared back at him; it was the letter he’d sent Ivo Stefani offering the famous pianist the position. Stacy put the letter aside.

  “Very well, show Signora Stefani to her room, have Cook send up a tray, and tell her I shall speak to her tomorrow.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  His aunt waited until the agitated butler left before speaking.

  “Well.”

  Stacy was amused by how much meaning she put into the single word.

  “Well, indeed, Aunt.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather speak to her now? Why wait until morning?”

  “She’s been in a carriage for almost three days, Aunt Frances. I daresay she is exhausted. Whether I speak to her now or in the morning, she’ll still need someplace to spend the night.” Besides, the woman had availed herself of a costly journey at his expense; he would question her at his leisure.

  “But why has she come, my dear?”

  “You heard Soames, Aunt, she’s come to teach.”

  “Was there any mention of this in the correspondence you exchanged?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Can she really expect you to offer her the position after she deceived you?” She stopped, her brow wrinkling. “Unless. . . do you think it possible the hiring agency deceived you?”

  “Someone certainly has.”

  His aunt pursed her lips. “You must send her away.”

  “I can hardly send her packing in the middle of the night, can I ma’am?”

  “I suppose not,” she said, grudgingly. “But you must do so first thing tomorrow.”

  Stacy raised his eyebrows at his aunt’s strident tone and she flushed under his silent stare and looked away.

  Although his aunt had raised him from infancy, she’d always accepted he was master of both himself and Whitethorn Manor. Stacy couldn’t recall the last time she’d told him what he must or mustn’t do. She must be far more agitated than she appeared.

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “There’s nothing to worry about, Aunt Frances. I shall take care of everything in the morning.” He took out his watch and glanced at it.

  His aunt saw the gesture and stood. “I beg your pardon, my dear, I shall leave you to your port.”

  Stacy met her at the dining room door and opened it for her. “I’ll join you shortly,” he promised before shutting the door behind her.

  He extinguished all but one candle and poured himself a larger than average glass of port, taking a sip of the tawny liquid before removing his dark spectacles. The bridge of his nose ached from a day of wearing glasses and he absently massaged it while staring at the dining room ceiling, on which sly cherubs lolled and cavorted on clouds, avidly viewing human folly from a safe distance.

  He supposed he should have expected something like this. Not that a woman would show up, of course, but that it would be impossible to engage a musician of Stefani’s caliber with such ease. When the employment agency wrote to tell him the famous pianist was seeking a teaching position, Stacy had wondered if it might be some sort of mistake.

  Apparently it had been.

  He couldn’t believe the reputable and well-regarded Stark agency would have lied about Ivo Stefani applying for the position. No, it must have been Mrs. Stefani.

  Stacy shook his head. What manner of woman would embark on a long journey under such false pretenses? A bold one? A confident one? A desperate one?

  He snorted; certainly a dishonest one.

  Stacy could guess why she’d deceived him—no doubt she believed he would not engage a woman. He swirled his glass and stared into its warm depths. Would he? His lips twisted at the thought. No, he would not hire a female, although not for the reasons she might suspect.

  While men might gawk and stare at him, they tended to overcome their curiosity—eventually. Women, on the other hand . . . Well, let’s just say he’d learned the hard way that women were not so forgiving—especially when it came to his eyes.

  Stacy could do nothing about their reactions, but he could minimize his exposure to their fear or scorn. Other than his tenants’ wives, a few women in the village, and his female servants, he managed to avoid most women. Well, except for the women he visited in Plymouth; those women he generously compensated to ignore his appearance.

  It said something about the state of his life that he’d so anticipated the arrival of a music teacher. Perhaps this debacle was a way of telling him his hobby was a foolish waste of time? God knew he had plenty on his plate managing his estates and businesses. But was his life to be devoid of any personal pleasure? He’d already accepted that he could never marry and have a family. Must he also give up playing the piano—one of the few things he loved—just because of his freakish appearance? Was he asking too much to engage a music teacher without fuss and bother? People did it all the time. True, it was usually for their children, but why should that matter?

  Stacy put down his glass with more force than necessary, and the crystal clattered on the polished burl wood surface. The more he thought about the woman’s deception, the angrier he became. How dare this female muck up what was supposed to be a simple business transaction? His aunt had been correct. Stacy should have summoned the woman before him, no matter how exhausted she was, and called her to account for her outrageous deception.

  Thinking about his aunt made him realize it had been unkind to send her away when she was only concerned for his welfare—no matter how unnecessary her concern might be. She worried about him as if he were still a little boy rather than a man of five-and-thirty. Frances Tate was his only relative and had been mother and father to him, burying herself in the country and devoting her life to raising him. She’d never been married or even had a beau, as far as Stacy knew. Not for the first time did he feel guilty that she’d built her life around him. Poor Frances, at slightly over six feet tall, she was almost as great a misfit as he was.

  Stacy pushed away his glass, picked up his spectacles, and stood. He would make up for his abrupt dismissal by playing for her—that always soothed her.

  The butler’s reaction to Portia’s arrival had been so comical she would have laughed if her future did not hang in the balance. Indeed, if Mr. Harrington’s horror was a fraction of his servant’s, Portia would have been out in the road with her bags right now—or standing in front of the local magistrate.

  Instead, she was in the middle of a luxurious suite comprised of a sitting room, a bedroom, and an enormous dressing room complete with a copper tub. The rooms we
re airy and spacious and decorated in a soothing combination of icy blue and warm chocolate brown. Portia sank into a wingback chair, took off her sturdy black ankle boots, and stretched her feet on the plush Aubusson carpet. Her body ached, she was dusty and gritty, and her brain was beyond sluggish. Thank God she didn’t have to face her prospective employer in this state.

  She’d been both stunned and grateful when Mr. Harrington decided to postpone their encounter until morning. Tonight she’d take advantage of her brief reprieve and forget about whatever the master of the house had planned for her; tonight she’d enjoy the luxurious comfort of these rooms.

  Portia had just opened her portmanteau and was searching for her nightgown when a maid entered with a large tray of food. The girl gave her a shy smile before carrying the tray to the sitting room and arranging the dishes on a table. She bobbed a curtsey when she’d finished, her large brown eyes brimming with curiosity.

  “Mr. Soames said I should help you unpack or ask if you wished for a bath, ma’am.”

  Portia had the good grace to blush; dinner in her room and an offer of a hot bath? Mr. Harrington was treating her with kindness and courtesy despite her deception.

  There was no point unpacking but Portia couldn’t turn down a chance to bathe in the beautiful copper tub.

  She smiled at the young woman. “I am Signora Stefani. What is your name?”

  “Daisy, ma’am.”

  “I shan’t need any help unpacking, Daisy, but I would love a bath after my meal.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” She dropped another curtsey and left, closing the sitting room door behind her.

  The smell of food made her mouth water and Portia hastened to examine what the maid had brought: roasted fowl, whipped parsnips, fresh bread and butter, a carafe of wine, and clotted cream with fresh berries. It was the perfect meal for a weary, hungry traveler and she descended on it like a ravenous beast.

  She had just popped the last berry into her mouth when Daisy opened the door.

  “Your bath is ready, ma’am.”

  Portia followed her to the copper tub, which was full of steaming water. Beside it was a marble-topped table with a stack of fluffy towels and several crystal decanters.