by Darcy Burke
Nothing could be allowed to stand in his way.
CHAPTER TEN
Rumors Confirmed! We have it on utmost authority that Master Darien Reynard is touring with a new composer—the handsome young Mr. Nicholas Becker. Two gentlemen for the price of one, ladies!
-The Bath Gazetteer
Despite the luxurious bed, Clara slept fitfully. She woke frequently and peeked through the curtains to see if it was still safely dark, or if morning had broken, hard and unforgiving.
At length, the sky transformed from ink to paper. Exhaustion and sorrow weighing heavily on her shoulders, she pushed the rich coverlet back, and rose. The carpet was thick beneath her toes, and the well-banked coals in the hearth still sent out tendrils of heat. She shivered at the thought of returning to the cold, bare rooms of their house in London.
No. She must convince Nicholas to remain with Master Reynard.
Before the maids came to pack her few pitiful belongings, Clara dug her notebook from beneath the pile of pillows and slipped it into her reticule. She gave a longing look to the trunks that had arrived yesterday, full of resplendent gowns. Such expense and haste, to make clothing she would never wear.
With a low sigh, Clara opened her battered valise and donned her mended gray dress. It would help remind Nicholas of how very much they were giving up.
She heard him stirring in the sitting room—the thud of his door closing, the thump of his case hitting the carpet. When she pushed open her bedroom door, she saw him pacing beside the fireplace, his face tight, his blond hair mussed.
“Good morning,” he said as she entered the sitting room. “Are you ready to depart? I have arranged our transportation back to London.”
“No. Nicholas, we can’t leave the tour.”
“We cannot stay! Clara, if Papa knew, if he had seen, last night…” Nicholas bunched his hands into fists. “We must leave. It is the right thing, the only thing to do.”
Swallowing back her impatience, she moved to her brother’s side and set a hand on his arm.
“Don’t you also remember what he said, when we agreed to this scheme? This is your chance to restore our family, Nicholas. You are the only one who can do so. Master Reynard’s attentions…” Her voice trembled, and she drew in a steadying breath. “They meant nothing—to me, and most certainly not to him.”
“He embraced you.”
She forced a laugh. “Nicholas, do you truly think Darien Reynard finds me compelling, when he could have the pick of any lady in the country?”
The words scoured her soul as she uttered them, for of course she spoke the truth. Whatever had passed last night between herself and Darien, there had been nothing of verity in it. For either of them. She loved his musicality, was dazzled by his fame, but she knew very little of the man himself. And he knew even less of her. Their kiss had been a lie.
Nicholas frowned at her. “Then why?”
“Perhaps he had too much brandy. I assure you, had he been in possession of his senses, he would never have touched me.”
“It does not change, nor excuse, what happened. And we are still leaving.”
“I know you feel you must defend my honor. But are you truly willing to do so at the expense of our family’s future? And speaking of honor, what of the deception we are perpetrating upon Master Reynard?”
His expression grew pained. “Clara, I—”
A rap at the door interrupted him.
“Who is it?” Nicholas strode to the door and yanked it open.
“Bonjour,” Henri Dubois said. “I come with a message from Master Reynard.”
“Then he can deliver it himself.” Nicholas blocked the opening, keeping Mr. Dubois standing in the hallway.
“But he cannot deliver it himself, for last night he rode ahead to Southampton, leaving the coach at your disposal. Please, may I come in?”
“No.”
“Oh, Nicholas.” Clara took his arm, drawing him away from the threshold so that Mr. Dubois could enter. Once the valet was inside, Nicholas shut the door rather too loudly.
“What does your master wish us to know?” Nicholas demanded.
Mr. Dubois held out a letter, sealed with crimson wax and imprinted with the stamp of a violin.
Nicholas took it and broke the seal, the wax crumbling like bits of dried blood onto the carpet. Watching his expression, Clara saw the moment of hesitation, the turmoil of his emotions. Her brother wanted to do what was right, but the path was not so clear.
“What does it say?” she asked softly.
“He wants me to take you back to London, then continue on the tour.”
“Of course.” It made perfect sense, if one did not know that Clara was the true composer.
“For an additional salary,” Mr. Dubois added. “Also, he tenders his sincerest apology.”
She set her fingers to her mouth, resisting the urge to nibble at her fingernails. What a tangle this was. Darien had given Nicholas reason to continue on the tour. Remove the problem—herself—and pay him more. His solution did little to address the smirch to her honor, but that only strengthened her claim that the kiss had meant nothing.
Nicholas held the letter before him, long enough to re-read it several times over. She could feel him teetering on the decision point.
“Take me back to London and continue with Master Reynard,” she said. “I will correspond with you regularly.”
They could not speak openly, not with Mr. Dubois watching with his bright, intelligent eyes. Clara pulled her worn shawl about her shoulders, and Nicholas looked at her for a fraught moment. The shadow of their poverty dimmed the lavish sitting room and her throat tightened with misery. She could not bear to return to that chilly, dark existence—but she would do it, as long as Nicholas went on.
“No.” Nicholas lowered the letter.
“Mr. Becker,” the valet said, “I must entreat you. Have you heard of the grand musical competition that is to be held in Milan this spring?”
“The London papers mentioned it,” Nicholas said. “A duel between musicians, featuring Darien Reynard, yes?”
Clara had read the notice as well, but had not dwelt overmuch on it. Milan was worlds removed from their existence, and whatever transpired there had no bearing upon their lives.
Ah, how things had changed.
Mr. Dubois nodded. “The master would not say as much to you, but he believes he can only win the competition by playing one of your pieces, sir. To part company with him now, and in such a manner… I feel it would be a great blow to his genius. In fact, it might damage his career beyond repair.”
Clara took a quick breath. Foolish as it was, if Darien believed he could not win without playing one of her compositions, it would be true.
“Master Reynard does not seem so fragile to me,” Nicholas said. “There is a vast amount of music for him to perform.”
“One can argue with the artistic temperament,” Mr. Dubois said, “but the greater the talent, the more difficult the man. You must believe me that, should you abandon Master Reynard at this juncture, the consequences could be dire.”
Clara caught her lower lip between her teeth, and glanced at her brother. If he destroyed the master’s career, he would never be able to live with the burden. Already he carried too much melancholy inside his soul.
“Nicholas,” she said. “Please. For all our sakes.”
His mouth twisted. With a sharp gesture, he balled up the letter and threw it into the hearth. It blazed brightly for a single moment, before the flames consumed the fine paper.
“Very well,” Nicholas said, in a voice as colorless as the ashes of the letter. “We shall not waste time in returning to London. Clara and I will remain with the tour.”
Mr. Dubois’s eyebrows lifted and he glanced from Nicholas to Clara. She met his gaze calmly, despite the sudden relief rushing through her.
“I have every confidence that nothing like last night’s… episode will ever occur again,” she said. “I will remain
with the tour. With Nicholas.”
“And keep out of Master Reynard’s way,” her brother said.
“Of a surety.” She fingered the worn skirts of her gown. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I am going to change into a more suitable traveling dress.”
She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her, shutting out her hopelessly romantic imaginings of Darien Reynard.
There could never be anything between them. If she were wise, she would erase the memory of that kiss from her mind; crush it like glass beneath the heel of reality until it was nothing but glittering dust, borne away by the wind.
***
Clara sat at the cherry-wood writing desk and gazed out the window of her enormous suite in Carlton Towers; the grand country home of the Earl of Surrey, where Master Reynard and his party were being housed prior to their performances in Leeds and York. The earl and his countess were not currently in residence, for which Clara was grateful. She did not think she would ever feel at ease among the nobility.
The misty landscape outside provided no inspiration. It was too soft, too undefined. She returned her attention to the paper before her and, compressing her lips together, crossed out the lines she had written moments before. The discarded page took its place with a dozen other failed attempts on the desk beside her.
It was a shocking waste of paper, but Darien Reynard could afford it. What he could not afford, however, was to have no more compositions by Becker. She tugged at a loose strand of hair and closed her eyes, her mind chasing after any elusive hint of melody. She would not fail in this.
“Clara?” Nicholas rapped at her door, then opened it without waiting for her response. “How’s the newest piece coming?”
She fixed a smile on her lips. “A bit slowly, but well enough.”
She closed her hand around her stick of graphite.
“Inspiration is everywhere, or so you’ve told me.” Nicholas tilted his head at her, concern shading his eyes. “Your two sea pieces turned out admirably.”
“Yes.”
She’d been able to complete the melodies that had come to her in Brighton. But she had finished those compositions ten days ago, and nothing since had inspired. Rather the opposite. Everything was difficult now, and the joy and excitement she had felt on the early days of the tour had quickly soured.
“How did your rehearsal go?” she asked, attempting to deflect her brother’s attention.
She had paused in the hall earlier, listening, but relations between Nicholas and Darien were strained enough without her presence adding to the tension.
Somehow, while performing, both men were able to lay aside their differences and work together in service to the music. The rest of the time, however, Darien Reynard avoided them, continuing his habit of taking a horse ahead to the next town at the end of each series of concerts.
Nicholas shrugged. “Adequately. He’s asking for the new composition. I’m glad it’s going well, as I can’t put him off much longer. It’s hard enough working with him as it is.” A note of resentment entered his voice. “I still wish I could have—”
“What, fought with him like two brawlers in the alley? Let it go, Nicholas. Nursing your anger at Darien Reynard won’t make things easier.”
Though perhaps it did make things simpler for her brother. He hid behind that screen of emotion, used it to deflect the maestro’s curiosity. She wished she had something, anything, to distract herself from thoughts of Darien.
Despite her resolution not to think of him, every night behind her closed lids she remembered the intensity of his expression, the light in his mossy green eyes as he lowered his face to hers. The sensation of being in Darien’s arms was printed on her skin, pressed into her body so clearly that she could not forget.
Even as she wanted to. Even as he had so obviously put that kiss, and her, from his mind.
Her fingers tightened so firmly about the graphite that it snapped.
“Clara!” Nicholas gave her a startled look. “I thought the composition was going well. What’s troubling you?”
“What’s troubling me?” She opened her hand and let the broken lead drop to the table. “What could possibly be marring the happiness of my days? Hm, let us think on that a moment. Could it be that I’m trapped with two impossible men, dragged the length of England like a useless puppet—”
“If anyone ought to complain of being a puppet, it’s me.” Nicholas crossed his arms, his voice sharp and unhappy. “At least you have a talent. I’m only pretending. It’s not easy for me either. And add to that the fact I have to work with that reprehensible man…” He flung himself down in a nearby chair.
“Darien Reynard is not reprehensible.” She hated how prim her voice sounded. “How many times do I have to tell you? He has not looked at me once since that night, and not spoken above seven words to me, either.” She had been counting.
“He might simply be biding his time. Be careful, Clara.”
Oh, if only she thought that were true. But it was clear she was completely forgotten.
“I am careful. Now go away. I have music to compose.”
Nicholas shoved back his chair. “Best you finish it soon.”
“I shall.”
Although how she was to finish something she could not even start… Clara shook her head and took up the longer half of the graphite.
As soon as Nicholas closed the door behind him, she set her lead down again. Blast. She picked up the page sporting her last effort and stared at the handful of notes she had sketched there. Aimless. Useless. She crumpled the paper into a tight ball. Then the next. The next, until she had a row of expensive rubbish lining the desk.
The fire burned sweetly on the hearth, the coals sending out a shimmering warmth that did not match Clara’s mood at all. She stood, swept up the balls of paper, and dropped them into the fire.
Flames leapt up, the paper uncurling and dancing like souls consumed, hot and bright and angry. Like a spurned woman, like a deceitful man, like stubborn pride and fury and desperation. Dancing in the flames, while the devil watched.
Yes. Yes! At last she heard it—the quick staccato beat of the piano, rapping notes out while the violin played with the fury of a fallen angel. Fire and passion and wickedness all coiled together in a mad rush of melody.
She rushed back to the desk, grabbed a new sheet of paper, and began to write furiously.
***
From her vantage point in the hallway outside the half-open door to the music room, Clara could see Darien Reynard’s lifted brow as he accepted the pages from Nicholas. She rested her fingertips on the elaborate gilt doorframe and leaned closer, straining her ears to catch their conversation.
“Il Diavolo?” Darien asked. “Do I dare ask what inspired this piece?”
Nicholas tapped his fingers nervously against his trouser leg.
“It’s a composite,” he finally said. “Drawn from a number of experiences.”
“I see.” Darien flipped to the second page and studied the notes scribed there. “This is a bit more… technically ambitious than your previous works. You plan to put me through my paces.”
Oh, yes. Wait until he attempted the cadenza. Clara swallowed back a sharp, bitter laugh. Her composition served him right enough; served them both. She might be invisible, but there was no denying her presence. Not when she was the one quite literally calling the tune.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Anton Varga Takes Roma by Storm…
The musician’s recent concerts have proven his unmatched genius on the violin, and there is no doubt he will dethrone Darien Reynard in Milan this spring. Audiences shall be in for a spectacle as the two men clash in competition, and a new master is crowned!
-La Forza
“Damn.” Dare pulled his horse up and peered through the sheeting rain at the bridge spanning the river ahead.
Or what was left of the bridge. The torrential downpour had swollen the river, and part of the wooden structure had been torn away. The far bank
was unreachable, the remains of the bridge sticking only partway into the grey, turbulent water. There would be no crossing here.
No one would be out to make repairs, not this afternoon. Indeed, the rain-filled sky was dim enough to presage an early twilight, and it was a long, muddy road behind him. At least the coach would not have to backtrack quite as far. The heavy vehicle was slow and unwieldy, the driver hard-pressed to keep them from foundering.
Shaking his head at the impassable river, Dare wheeled his mount back the way he had come. His greatcoat was sodden, his hat wet through and no obstacle to the cold droplets sliding off the brim. Since reaching Northumberland, the weather had been miserable. It had nearly been enough to drive him back into the coach. Nearly, but not quite. Even riding in the insidious rain was better than spending time with the Beckers.
Nicholas was as prickly as ever—and blast him for his latest composition. Il Diavolo was an incredibly demanding work. Dare had spent hours working out the fingering for the difficult passages, cursing Becker with every other breath. And praising him with the rest, though Nicholas seldom took his words of approbation well.
To be fair, the composer had written an equally challenging piano part for himself. In rehearsal, they stumbled and swore and halted every few measures, but Dare could hear the infernal brilliance of the piece. The music would be stunning, if both of them survived the task of making the impossible thing come together.
It was good to have the distraction, something to keep his thoughts from Clara Becker. Not that he was always successful. Christ, not that he was successful at all, with her luminously pretty face watching him every time he turned around.
It had been a surprise to find that Nicholas had not deposited Clara in London before catching up with Dare in Southampton. He supposed the composer needed his sister’s support to buoy him up before performances. In truth, her presence in Brighton had been essential.