Page 2 of The Music of Love

“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 wife 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.”