Page 46 of The Music of Love

“You are very . . . resourceful, Portia.” Her voice held a mixture of reverence, respect, and fear.

“No, merely half Italian.” Portia laughed when she saw Frances’s confusion. “Stabbings were far too common in Rome. I was nine the first time I helped my father tend a victim. And of course I saw far worse in the hospitals.”

The door opened and the doctor entered. “Well, ladies, I hope you don’t decide to set up a surgery in my neighborhood or I shall go out of business.” He smiled at Portia and Frances, both of whom were liberally smeared with Stacy’s blood. “The wounds are fairly shallow and should heal quickly. He appeared much worse because of the blood loss from the neck wound. That was fast thinking on your part ma’am. Powell has a second laudanum draught for our patient if he needs it. Based on what I know of Mr. Harrington and his constitution, he’ll be up and about tomorrow. I’ll come and see him first thing.”

“Tomorrow?” Frances repeated. “Surely he should not be up tomorrow?”

“No.” The doctor laughed. “But I doubt you’ll be able to stop him. It won’t hurt him to get dressed and sit up, as long as he doesn’t try to resume his normal activities and rip his stitches. Just try to get him to rest, if you can—even if it’s just for a few days.”

Portia felt a grim, determined smile settle on her face. “Don’t worry, Doctor. He’ll rest.”

Portia would remember that promise often over the next few days.

The doctor had been correct, both when it came to Stacy’s injuries and his constitution. When Portia came down to breakfast the following morning Frances had just come from her nephew’s room.

“How is he?” Portia asked.

“Eating and complaining in equal amounts.”

Portia laughed. “I suppose that is promising.”

Frances shook her head, her expression one of frustration and despair. “He said he would stay in bed until Doctor Gates paid a visit.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Did he tell you what happened?”

Her expression shifted from frustrated to furious. “No, and when I asked him, both he and his valet could not stop laughing.”

“Laughing?”

“Laughing.”

What in the world could that be about?

“I spoke to Jewell,” Frances said, “but he wasn’t talking, either. He said Mr. Harrington should be the one to tell the story.”

The legend of what happened had plenty of time to grow before Stacy put everyone out of their misery. He told the story two days later at the dinner party France gave. In addition to the three of them, there were the vicar and his wife—Mr. and Mrs. Lawson—and their son Jeremy, who was a doctor in the neighboring town of Stratton. Jeremy was Stacy’s age and Portia had spoken to him several times after church. He was unmarried, attractive, and personable and she felt as if he’d been on the verge of asking her to go walking with him on more than one occasion. She was relieved things had never gone that far or it would have been awkward now. While she liked Jeremy Lawson well enough, he was not Stacy.

Portia wasn’t surprised that it was Jeremy—who was friendly, although not friends with Stacy—who demanded to know the truth.

“I say, Harrington,” Jeremy asked with a challenging grin, “won’t you give over already? We’re all dying to know what happened. There is an entire page devoted to the mystery in the book at the Castle.” He was referring to the betting book at the inn, which monitored anything interesting in Bude—and plenty that wasn’t.

Stacy looked as impeccable as ever. The cravat hid his neck wound and his deliciously snug pantaloons barely showed the surprisingly slim bandage on his leg. He looked at Portia and smiled, clearly enjoying the opportunity to keep them all—her in particular—on tenterhooks.

Portia crossed her arms. “I, for one, refuse to beg.”

She was loudly booed by everyone else at the table.

“Very well, very well,” she said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “Will you please tell us what happened, Mr. Harrington?”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Stefani?” Portia narrowed her eyes and Stacy laughed and raised one staying hand. “Very well, as you command. You all know it was highwaymen. We had four pistols to their three, and we also had something they never expected.” He smirked. “Me.”

Portia groaned. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“Me either,” Frances said.

But Stacy would not be stopped now that he’d started. “Jewell stopped the carriage and gave over his gun, Baker kept the other pistol hidden beneath his coat and so did Freddie. When the robbers demanded we open the carriage Jewell tried to persuade them they’d better not open the door. It was fortunate for us that the sun was almost completely gone.

“Finally, when the three men were threatening to start shooting if they weren’t allowed inside, I flung open the door and leapt out of the carriage. I had scruffed up my hair and made it as wild as possible and removed my glasses. The poor men did not have a chance. Our only miscalculation was that their fingers might spasm in fear.” He shrugged. “The closest man shot one of his companions by accident and the other two shot me.” Stacy took a drink of wine, his black lenses glinting in the candlelight. He didn’t notice, until it was too late, that the only one smiling with appreciation was the young doctor.