by Darcy Burke
The impulse to reveal everything rushed through her, hot and immediate. Oh, how she yearned for him to know she was the composer! There was a unique and wordless bond between them, if only he could see it. See her for who she truly was: the woman who wrote the music he loved.
“Yes,” she whispered. The edge of truth burned, but it was a welcome fire. Her pulse pounded, each beat striking through her, like a clock telling the hours. It was time. Time. “Darien, I—”
“Master Reynard?” a too-familiar voice called from the hallway.
Oh, God. Nicholas, knocking at the door. Darien standing too close, his hands on her shoulders.
“In here.” With one swift move he pivoted and thrust her into the wardrobe.
She caught her balance, then crouched between his coats. The wool rasped softly against her cheek as she fought to contain her breathing, the scent of him all around her. Her fingers trembled and she laced them tightly together. Darien pushed the wardrobe door closed, but the latch did not catch and she could see a slice of the room beyond.
“Nicholas. Come in.”
She heard her brother step into the dressing room. He cleared his throat.
“I wanted to thank you before we returned to London,” he said. “You’ve been exceedingly generous, not only to myself but to my family. It means a great deal to us.”
“You are very welcome.” There was a quiet note in Darien’s voice, as though he knew how important these thanks were. Perhaps, with Nicholas giving him almost the same words she had, he did understand. “It has been my pleasure. These last concerts have been excellent.”
“Yes.” Nicholas sounded glad. “I’ll always remember them.”
“You know…” The maestro moved into her line of sight and began unbuttoning his gold-embroidered waistcoat. “My agent informs me that audiences on the Continent are clamoring to hear your music. When I play your compositions to best Varga, the world will be at our feet. It would be good if you were there.”
“Ah. But I don’t have to be, for you to win. Do I?”
Darien hesitated a moment, then shrugged out of his waistcoat. “No. But it might help. Certainly, if you performed with me, your fame would be assured. As would a slew of publishing contracts.”
“Well, those could be sent to me in London.” There was a stubborn note in her brother’s voice that Clara knew all too well. Nothing would entice him to continue touring.
Darien nodded, as if he recognized pushing would only make Nicholas balk further. He turned his attention to his cuffs. “So. Home to London it is. Are you ready to return to the hotel?”
“Almost. I must go find Clara.”
“I’ll meet you at the carriage in fifteen minutes,” Darien said. He sounded remarkably calm at the thought of Nicholas looking for her.
She did not hear her brother leave, but a few moments later Darien swung open the wardrobe door. “It’s safe.”
Trying not to think of how rumpled her plum-colored gown must be, Clara took his hand and let him assist her out.
“You see,” she said. “I don’t think Nicholas can be convinced.”
“Perhaps.”
Darien looked thoughtful, and she suspected he would not let them go so easily. The thought worried and elated her all at once.
His expression cleared and he focused on her again. “But tell me. What were you about to say, earlier?”
Realization scratched against her heart, a sharp-edged knowledge she could not escape. She had been so close to ruining everything, to destroying Darien’s career with her selfish, unconsidered words. His entire future rested on the deception she and Nicholas had foisted upon him. The recognition the master deserved could only be his if she let the lie stand, and let the world continue to believe for all time that Nicholas Becker was the composer.
Her silence was the greatest gift she could give Darien. The only repayment she could ever make.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“Of course it does.” He drew her forward. “Clara—”
“No.”
She stepped into him, her skirts brushing his trouser legs, and slipped her hands up to his shoulder. No more questions. Tomorrow she must bid him farewell, but tonight she would kiss him. One final kiss, to remember. She tilted her face up and brushed her lips over his. He closed his eyes, his body suddenly taut, but he did not push her away, or even command her to stop.
Heat sparked through her, and a curious excitement born of her own boldness. She pressed closer, re-learning the shape of his lips, sipping the warmth of his breath. Her breasts, her whole body, tingled where she touched him, and she wanted to lean into him, push herself hard against his strength. But wanting and action were so often separated by caution, and so she continued the feather-light kiss, praying he would not move away.
“Clara.” Her name, whispered into her own mouth. As Darien finished the word, whatever spell bound him motionless broke.
With a sudden, nearly violent move, he brought his arms around her and pulled her against him. His lips opened over hers, hot and demanding. Her yearning spilled over, like a goblet of liqueur, sweet and fierce and obeying only the rule of gravity.
It was a kiss filled with near chances, hopes and regrets distilled into a single moment of desire. Clara closed her eyes against the prickle of tears. This kiss would be a bright, burning star for her to chart her life by, the only thing in a dark sea full of night. She would look up and navigate her future by its light, by the memory of Darien’s kiss. His body printed on hers, the heat of him enveloping her through the thin silk of her gown. His tongue delving into her willing, open mouth. His strong arms around her, inescapable, secure, the both of them leaning into one another, as though their hearts might—if only they pressed close enough—touch.
And then it was over, leaving her aching with unspoken words, unspent tears. The kiss was over, the tour was over, and tomorrow she would watch him go forward into his own life, while she stayed behind in hers. Holding the knowledge inside her, fragile as a fallen leaf, she stepped back and offered him a small curtsey.
“Farewell, Darien. And thank you.”
She could not meet his moss-green eyes, could not wait for a reply. She was breaking. The door was smooth under her hand as she left his dressing room, and he did not call her back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The merry pranksters of Cambridge were out in full force at Maestro Reynard’s recent concert. A number of young gentlemen appeared dressed in unrelieved black—down to the dying of their hair! Each one proceeded to court every nearby female with claims that they were the true Master. Darien Reynard took the jest with good grace, going so far as to insist that his imitators stand and take a bow at the end of his performance…
-The Courier
It was raining; a gray, dreary drizzle that shrouded the buildings of London like a widow’s veil. For once, Darien shared the coach with them. But then, he would have it to himself soon.
Clara could feel him watching her. Darting a look across the carriage, she found his expression brooding, a thin line etched between his dark brows. Their gazes met, then held as yearning trembled wildly inside her.
She was only grateful Nicholas did not notice. Her brother was in the grip of unusually high spirits, though as they penetrated deeper into London, his expression turned pensive.
“This looks rather like our old neighborhood,” he said with a glance out the window. “I thought we were going to Papa’s new house.”
Nicholas had directed Darien’s agent to send his pay directly to their father, and Clara had written Papa, urging him to find newer, better lodgings at once. Certainly they had sent enough for him to do so. There was no reason he should stay a minute more in that hovel they had once called their home.
Darien shifted. “We are going to the address Peter gave me—the place he has been delivering your money.”
“But…” The coach slowed and Nicholas leaned forward, shaking his head. “It is our old
neighborhood. Our old house, in fact.” His voice rose. “Darien! Are you certain my pay has been delivered as instructed?”
The footman opened the door, letting the cold, wet air seep in. Nicholas was right. There was the cracked walkway, the peeling front door, and waiting on the stoop—
“Papa!” Clara flew out of the carriage and dashed up the walk, into the quick comfort of his embrace. She would not cry. She would not.
“Clara,” he said. “It is so good to have you home. And Nicholas. Come, let me see you. Such the gentleman you look.” He nodded to Darien. “Master Reynard, we have much to thank you for.”
“What are you saying?” Nicholas pivoted, waving at the house. “Nothing has changed! Where is the money I sent?”
“Yes, Papa.” Clara kept a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Why are you still here? I thought you’d removed to better lodgings.”
The only thing that had prevented her emotions from crumbling during the return to London had been imagining Papa’s bright new home. She’d never anticipated coming back to this dreary place. Tears pricked the back of her throat. She and Nicholas had struggled so, and to what end?
Papa sighed. “Come in. Come in, all of you, and I will explain.”
The walls were closer together, the carpet dingier than she remembered, and Clara felt her spirits sink a bit more with each step. The same threadbare furniture in the parlor, the inescapably familiar smell of must and old cabbage. The taste of hopelessness. She tried not to breathe it in, but there was no other choice.
Her father sat, as though his bones pained him, and gave them a sober look.
“Well. I had hoped…” He cleared his throat and began again. “Your money came regularly, Nicholas. But it was not enough.”
“Not enough?” Nicholas began pacing. “How can a small fortune be not enough? Do you know what I had to—”
“Papa,” Clara cut in. “Please explain.”
She did not want Nicholas to spill his litany of grievances, his unhappiness with Darien, who stood silently just inside the doorway. The air was heavy enough without those words.
“We are too deeply in debt.” Her father bent over his cane, his voice rough. “When your mother was ill, we spent everything, and more, and more, and it was still not enough. I did not want you burdened with the knowledge, but if not for Master Reynard, it would have been debtor’s prison for me. Servitude for you both.”
“You should have told us!” Clara hurried to him and placed her hands over his gnarled ones where they gripped his cane. “We should have known.”
“It would have changed nothing.”
Darien stepped forward. “Now, however, I think it changes everything.”
It did. Clara’s thoughts whirled in a storm of implications, but one thing was as clear and sharp as lightning. They could not stop touring with Darien Reynard. She was no longer safe savoring the memory of his kisses. Not when they would still be together, when every day she would be close enough to touch him. Taste his scent on her tongue. Feel the heat of his leanly muscled body as she passed him in the hallway. She swallowed.
“No.” A note of disbelief rang in her brother’s denial. Nicholas’s pacing grew sharp and awkward. “We will remain in London. We must. You said there will be new publishing contracts for the compositions.” He halted in front of Darien.
“And there will be.” Darien’s voice was calm, though she detected an undercurrent of tension. “But not right away, and certainly not before I perform in Europe.”
He did not add with you. He did not need to.
“Surely there will be advances,” she said, her heart twisting for Nicholas.
He had managed, barely, to hold up under the strain of the last few weeks. Knowing the deception was coming to an end had strengthened her brother, even as it had sapped her.
“No,” Darien said. “Even for the most famous composers, publishers will only pay once they have the manuscript in hand.”
“We could borrow,” Nicholas said.
“No borrowing.” Papa shook his cane. “No debt, ever again. Nicholas, you and your sister fared well enough on this tour. You could do another.”
Clara glanced about the room, chilly despite the extra coals heaped on the grate. Cold winter air pressed inexorably through the thin walls, seeped through the rickety window frames. Soot sifted down onto her soul. She could not bear to live here again.
She could not bear to see her brother’s misery eat away at his soul.
“Nicholas…” She did not know what to say.
He ignored her outstretched hand and went to stand at the window, arms crossed. Papa only shook his head. His face was lined with cares and he looked older now. Though perhaps it was only their absence, and this new knowledge, that allowed Clara to see the struggle etched on his face.
“I will leave you to discuss your options,” Darien said. “And I remind you that my offer to tour the Continent stands. In fact, considering the extra distances and performances the tour will entail, I shall increase your salary. I’ll call again later this afternoon.”
He inclined his head and strode out, not waiting for a reply. The door closed hollowly behind him, and this time Clara did not watch as the black coach pulled away.
“Well.” Papa did not move from his seat, his gaze fixed on Nicholas. “It seems clear enough what you must do.”
It was eerily like the last time Darien had been here, but now there was no celebratory sense, no vast relief that their fortunes had changed. Things had become infinitely more tangled.
“Papa,” Clara said. “It has not been easy for Nicholas, you must understand that.”
“And returning to this would be?” He thumped his cane on the floor. “Look at you both, with your fine clothing, your cheeks no longer hollow from hunger. That is what I want for my children, not this life of poverty!”
“I could resume teaching.” Nicholas turned from the window and jammed his hands in his pockets. “My students would return, or I could find new ones. Touring with Master Reynard must surely have lent me enough prestige.”
“Perhaps,” their father said. “And perhaps not. You could try, yes. But what if it were not so? What if you gained only a meager number of students, or none at all? We would be as badly off as before. And it would be too late to mend, with Master Reynard long gone to the Continent.”
“If we went with him,” Clara said, “the money would be enough—”
“You said that last time!” Nicholas glared at her. “But it has not proven to be the case.”
“I did not make such promises,” she said. It had been Papa. But Nicholas would not turn on their father with such anger, and so Clara bore the brunt of it.
Papa heaved himself up from the chair and went to stand beside Nicholas at the window.
“Do not blame your sister,” he said. “If you go with the maestro to the Continent, it will be different. There will be greater exposure, more publishing contracts. Enough to build a secure foundation for our family.”
“I cannot.” Nicholas drew his shoulders in toward his chest.
“You have been,” Papa said. “The secret is still safe, yes? Our debts are nearly erased.”
Clara wrapped her arms about her waist. It was plain that she and Nicholas must continue on with Darien. And Darien needed them, as well, needed his “composer” with him to best Anton Varga. That was nearly as important as keeping their family from the hard London streets.
“I’m going upstairs,” her brother said.
Without meeting her eyes, without looking at Papa, he left the parlor. His footsteps sounded slow and heavy as he climbed the stairs.
“Ach.” Papa let out a sigh, melancholy as the wind that crept in through the chinks in the sill. “He will see the sense of it.”
Clara could only hope. And despair.
***
“This will do,” Dare said. “I’ll direct my agent to send a deposit immediately.”
He glanced with satisfaction
about the airy, marble-floored foyer of the town house. Not so grand as to be overwhelming, not in the very tip-top of neighborhoods, but with an easy gentility the Beckers would appreciate.
“And the furniture?” the hovering landlord asked.
“Leave it all for now. It’s suitable enough.” Far better than anything the family currently owned, with the exception of their piano.
Regardless of whether or not Nicholas and Clara agreed to come to the Continent, he would see the Beckers out of that hovel and into a better neighborhood. Common decency demanded as much. He could not leave his composer in such penury. Nor Clara, he had to admit. The expression on her face had been pinched and unhappy from the moment she’d set foot in the door of her old home, and it pleased him that he had the power to improve things for her and her family.
“A full year, sir?”
“Yes.” By that time, the Beckers’ situation should be stable, no matter what choice they made.
“Very good. Let me draw up the paperwork and give you the keys.” The man hurried off.
Dare turned, glancing down the hallway and into the spacious drawing room. The house would do quite well, indeed. Now he had the pleasurable task of informing the Beckers they had a new home.
Less than an hour later, his carriage drew up in front of the Beckers’ current dwelling. It looked even more pitiful in comparison to the comfortable town house. Dare stepped down from the carriage and hurried to the front door.
Clara answered his knock. “Master Reynard. We did not look for you quite so soon.”
Despite the reluctance in her words, her smile was genuine.
“I have news,” Dare said. “I’ve let a house for you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her smile slowly faded. “We need no charity from you, sir.”
“It’s not charity.” Damn it, she wasn’t taking this the right way at all. Her expression, instead of glowing with gratitude, was guarded.
“Is it not?” she asked. “You have not spoken to us much of your own path out of poverty. Did you gladly take handouts along the way?”