by Darcy Burke
But now…
He traced her lower lip with his thumb, keeping his thoughts concealed. There would be time after the musical duel to explore Clara’s hidden depths to their fullest. Time then to think of promises. And futures.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Maestro Reynard Dazzles!
Despite claims to the contrary from certain disreputable sources, Darien Reynard is in fine form as the musical competition in Milano draws nigh. The compositions of Mr. Becker are lush and splendid, and one must pity those poor listeners who cannot discern the genius of his music.
-Viva Venezia
Clara would have adored Venice under other circumstances. The canals gilded with sunlight, the graceful opulence of the buildings, the liquid syllables of Italian sifting through the air; all this was enough to fill her senses with delight.
But Nicholas was crumbling.
Although their concerts in Venice met with acclaim, Darien drove Nicholas in unrelenting rehearsals that left them both sharp-edged with frustration. Despite Clara’s efforts to keep her brother and the bottle separated, Nicholas blunted his misery with alcohol. Short of locking him in his room—which he would not tolerate—there was little she could do. Her pleas were received with stony silence.
While Darien… A flush heated her body as she glanced at him across the breakfast table. He spent his frustrations in passion. Every night since they’d departed Vienna, Darien had come to her, or she to him. The dark hours were filled with heady desire, leaving her languorous and exhausted, and her heart ever more vulnerable to this man she had no future with.
Her nights glowed with joy even as her days remained shadowed with despair.
She could not continue like this. Finishing Amore had been her only true solace, and now the piece was complete. She had shown it to Nicholas under the title of Viaggio, voyage. The composition exemplified everything Varga belittled. She knew it, but she could not change it. Silently, Nicholas had scanned the music, then handed the pages back to her, his expression bleak.
“Three more days,” Peter Widmere said, pushing his plate away. “The luggage is loaded and the coach is ready to depart when you are. Milan awaits.”
“Yes.” Darien set down his coffee cup and glanced at Nicholas. “We’ll rehearse for an hour or two before leaving.”
“I… I’ve completed a new piece,” Nicholas said.
He did not look at her, though the tips of his ears were pink. The last bits of breakfast on his plate seemed of intense interest to him.
“You have?” There was a hint of disbelief in Darien’s voice, as if he could not comprehend how such a morose fellow could continue to write new music.
After a too-strained silence, Peter cleared his throat. “A new piece—what excellent news.”
Darien’s agent affected a cheerful tone, but the furrow between his brows showed he disliked the undercurrents swirling just beneath the surface.
Darien pushed back his chair and stood. “Then we shall hear it. Nicholas, I’ll meet you in my suite.”
Peter followed his employer from the table, and Henri quickly excused himself as well.
“Nicholas,” Clara said, once the two of them were alone, “it is only a few more days. You must—”
“Don’t tell me what I must do.” Nicholas threw his fork down with a clatter and met her gaze, his eyes red-rimmed and burning. “I am in hell, dear sister, and there is no escape. Not now, not in three days.”
“Once we return to England—”
“Do you think Master Reynard will let his tame composer slip the leash that easily?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I am nothing but a trained monkey, dancing to a tune not of my own devising.”
Clara swallowed. She’d removed all of the newspapers featuring Varga’s hateful words, but clearly Nicholas had seen the comparison of himself to a pet.
“I will…” In truth, she had no idea what to do, other than somehow help Nicholas through the next handful of days.
“I’ll tell you what you will do, sister mine. You will stop composing such overly romantic things as Viaggio! That bit of tripe will make me the laughingstock of Europe.”
“Lower your voice.” Anger iced her heart. “How dare you belittle the music? You and I both know its worth.”
Amore was the best piece she had ever written—full of fire and passion, darkness and delight.
“False gold.” Nicholas stood, his elbows stiff at his sides. “Excuse me. The master calls and I must obey.”
“Stop it. If you despise the composition so much, I will come in and play it for Darien.”
“So I may appear even worse by comparison? I don’t need any assistance from you, Clara. My own failings are more than adequate to make me worthless in his eyes.”
Her heart cracked. She rounded the table and took him by the shoulders. The muscles under her hands were tight with tension.
“Nicholas, no. He does not think you worthless. You are immensely talented, and have proven it time and again.”
His expression softened, swinging into the despair she so feared. “I can’t, Clara. I can’t go on like this. There are days when…” He averted his eyes, his next words coming low and shaky. “When I would rather not live.”
The words sent a knife through her, sharp and desolate. Even in his darkest hours in London, she did not think Nicholas had contemplated taking his own life.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. There was only one way to save them, to give Nicholas the strength to continue to Milan and play the way Darien needed him to. The solution had been there, crouching in the corner of her mind for weeks now, but she had been too selfish to bring it into the light.
“Then we will end this,” she said. “I… I will stop composing.” The words scraped her throat. Scraped her very soul, leaving her raw and bleeding. “After Milan, you may tell Darien your musical well has run dry, and we shall return to London.”
“Home.” His voice held so much yearning she swayed from the force of it. “Truly, you would do such a thing? Stop composing?”
It would be like cutting off a limb: an essential part of her removed, forever. But her brother was equally essential. She had to change her course to keep from driving him to the pit of melancholy, and beyond.
“I must,” she said. “Nicholas Becker will compose no more.”
At least she had finished with a brilliant piece of music. Amore would live on, though all else in her life would wither.
She could not bear the gratitude on her brother’s face.
“I must finish packing,” she said, whirling for the door. “You’ll have to rehearse without me.”
“I will.” Nicholas’s voice was clear, and stronger than she had heard it for weeks.
***
As the coach left Venice, Clara pretended to be riveted by the passing scenery. She had not missed Darien’s searching glances. He knew her well enough now to tell something was amiss. If she met his eyes, he would see too much; the signs of weeping she could not eradicate, the sorrow burdening her breath.
In marked contrast, Nicholas was giddily lighthearted.
“I can scarcely believe we’re on our way at last to Milan,” he said. “What a journey this has been.”
Henri raised an eyebrow. “Your practice session must have gone well.”
“Indeed.” Darien left off looking at her, and gave Nicholas a half smile. “Not only is Il Diavolo in hand, Nicholas shared the first movement of his new composition. And it is superb.”
The sun dimmed on Nicholas’s face, but Clara was the only one to notice.
“I’m pleased your musical association is bearing such fine fruit,” Peter said.
Clara recalled his doubts when he and Darien had first visited the Beckers in their drafty home in London. He had been right to fear, though not for the reasons he thought.
And his fears would soon come to pass. Nicholas Becker would have no more music in him.
She caught her lower lip between
her teeth and turned back to the window. It would not be so very dreadful for Darien, who would continue on his brilliant career after winning the duel. Nicholas would be saved, and no doubt make a successful return to teaching, his reputation bolstered by his association with the master. Their family would be comfortably well off, debts paid, a handsome house in which to live.
And as for her?
She could not cease writing music. She’d been a fool to think that. No, she would continue to compose in private, never revealing her music to anyone. Truly, her life would little different from what it had been before Darien entered it.
Perhaps one day, decades after her death, her compositions would be discovered. It was not a happy thought. Who wants to be famous after they are dead?
Clara closed her eyes, taking refuge in the darkness, trying to let the rocking of the coach lull her to sleep.
She napped, roused in time for lunch, then slept again, an unhappy, restless doze full of half-heard melodies and shadows. When she woke she had an ache in her neck, and Darien’s coat beneath her cheek as a pillow.
She shook it out as best she could, resisting the urge to bury her face in the fabric and inhale deeply of his scent.
“Thank you,” she said, handing him the rumpled coat.
“You did not look terribly comfortable,” he said, eyes glinting with concern.
She rubbed the side of her neck, and his gaze followed the motion to linger on her skin. Clara flushed and pulled her hand away. The last thing she needed was for Nicholas to realize she and Darien were carrying on an affair. Her brother must not discover it now, when she had finally pulled him back from the brink.
Three days. It would all be over in three days.
The curtains were drawn over the coach windows. Clara pulled one back to find that the gray blanket of dusk had fallen over the landscape. The lights of Milan glowed ahead, as if a thousand stars had come to ground.
“Ah,” Peter said, following her gaze, “Milano. We will be staying at the Palazzo Reale.”
Another palace, this one again the province of Emperor Francis. Clara let out a soundless sigh. She would not mention the name Varga, though doubtless Darien’s rival would be in residence.
She glanced at Darien. He met her gaze, green eyes smoldering with promises.
It was dangerous for them—doubly dangerous—to attempt to meet. Not only must she protect Nicholas from the knowledge of her affair, the palace itself would be a hotbed of scandalmongers. Varga and his supporters would use every weapon they could to unsettle Nicholas and ensure victory over Darien.
Her pulse pounded in her temples, echoed by the sound of cobblestones under the coach wheels as they entered the city. Milan—where triumph and defeat awaited her in equal measure.
A growing crowd clamored behind them as Darien’s distinctive black coach was recognized. At last, after traversing a tangle of winding streets, they arrived at the Palazzo. Peter disembarked, slipping out quickly and beckoning to the palace guards to hold back the onlookers.
Darien reached past Clara and twitched the curtain back over the window.
“You and Henri go first,” he said. “Then Nicholas. I’ll bring up the rear.”
She nodded. Darien would be mobbed the moment he set foot outside the coach, and whoever remained in the vehicle would be trapped there for some time.
“An excellent plan,” Henri said, swinging the vehicle’s door wide.
The noise outside rose a notch, then dimmed as the crowd realized he was not Darien. It sounded like the surging of the sea.
Clara glanced at her brother. Nicholas was pale, but he met her gaze without flinching. Three days. The knowledge was writ on his face, along with the silent promise he would persevere.
Henri leaned back into the coach.
“Allow me, mademoiselle,” he said, offering Clara his hand. “We shall not tarry. Peter will be waiting for us just inside the Palazzo.”
As soon as Clara stepped down from the vehicle, the crowd surged again. The attention was avid, and she did not envy Darien his fame. Grasping fingers reached, eyes flashed hungrily in the lantern light, and Clara was grateful for the stolid line of palace guards marking their path.
“Signorina! Signorina!”
“… la sorella…”
“… no, no, his mistress?”
“Baciami!” a stout, dark-eyed man called out. “A little kiss, per favore!”
Henri took her elbow and tugged her forward. “Pay them no heed.”
She quickened her pace, making for the gilt-edged doorway of the palace. When she stepped through, safely out of sight, the crowd let out a low sigh.
Peter waited, arms crossed, in the opulent palace entryway. His gaze measured her. Had he heard the crowd naming her Darien’s mistress? Heat flamed in her cheeks. Surely any woman traveling with the master would be labeled as such, would she not? Still, his eyes on her were too perceptive.
A roar from outside made her turn and look. Nicholas stood on the coach steps. He waved—actually waved!—to the crowd, then hurried up the pathway, ignoring the calls to either side.
The throng stirred, with a sense of anticipation so strong it made her neck prickle. All eyes were focused on the black coach.
Then Darien stepped forth and the crowd erupted. Women screamed his name, men cheered, and several loud explosions shattered the air.
“Is someone… shooting?” Nicholas asked, his eyes wide.
“No, no,” Henri said. “It is the firecrackers.”
Clara peered out the doorway to see Darien poised on the top step. He removed his hat and made a sweeping bow. The noise, which was already deafening, increased, waves of sound buffeting Clara and echoing from the Palazzo’s high walls.
Darien held up his hands and slowly the crowd quieted to a restless murmur.
“Grazie!” he called. “Thank you for the welcome. It is indeed a pleasure to be here at last in Milano.” The words prompted a quick cheer, but Darien was not finished. “In two days, you will be witness to a competition the likes of which the world has never seen. Ladies and gentlemen, we are actors on the broad stage of time, and together we will make history! Buona notte!”
His “good night” was lost in cacophony. Flashing a smile, Darien leaped from the steps and strode up the guard-edged walk. He ignored the outstretched hands, the flowers and perfumed kerchiefs flung in his path, the cries of “Maestro!” and “Ti amo!”
The guards were jostled mightily, but held their ground against the adulation, even when Darien paused outside the Palazzo doors and waved one last time to the crowd.
“Hurry it up, man,” Peter muttered. “I, for one, am ready to settle in to our rooms.”
“The price of fame,” Henri said with a wry smile.
Darien slipped inside and the palace attendants immediately shut the immense arched doors behind him. The noise outside muted to a dull roar.
“Will they all go home now?” Nicholas asked.
“No,” Darien said. “Until the hour of the duel, the streets will be full of nothing but merriment.”
“If you define merriment as argument, posturing, and drunken brawling,” Peter said. “Much as your supporters adore you, Dare, Varga’s love him as well. There are strong factions. It would be best for everyone to stay within the Palazzo’s walls for the next two days.”
Clara traded a glance with Nicholas. They had seen enough in Vienna to take the agent’s words to heart. Indeed, this type of behavior in the streets of London would be called a riot, and quelled by force.
“Come,” Peter said. “Our staterooms await.”
The party followed one of the attendants, though clearly Darien, his agent, and Henri were all familiar with the palace. They spared not a glance for the long hallways glittering with chandeliers, the opulent art gracing the walls, or the intricately patterned marble floors.
Clara hung back until she was beside Nicholas.
“Are you well?” she asked in a low voice.
>
“Well enough. You?”
She nodded, giving him a false smile. Words would betray her, for she could not lie to him and keep her voice from shaking. He did not need her anguish to add to his own.
Their rooms were in a wing of the palace reserved for visiting dignitaries. The attendant ushered Darien to his suite, with Nicholas housed next door and Peter across the corridor. Clara was disappointed to find she was relegated to the far end of the hallway, though her rooms were sumptuous. She counted five doors between herself and Darien.
Still, what was the length of a hallway when faced with the barren expanse of decades without him?
First, though, there was a formal banquet, then a musicale that spanned several drawing rooms. Varga moved like a hawk through the throng, but Clara found him easy to avoid, since he was constantly surrounded by admirers. As was Darien.
One raven-tressed signora in particular clung far too frequently to his arm. She was clad in apricot satin that accented her voluptuous curves, and her smiles and laughter were full of delight at being so close to Master Reynard.
Clara tried not to watch, tried not to imagine who would take her place once she was gone from Darien’s life.
As if feeling her gaze, Darien lifted his head and scanned the partygoers. His moss-green eyes met hers, held, and the heat in them scorched her down to her embroidered slippers. He raised one brow, and she nodded, ever so faintly.
Tonight she would go to him.
The knowledge eased her heart enough that she could breathe. Though she could not laugh, nor even smile.
Nicholas extricated himself from a nearby eddy of Italian nobility and made his way over to her. He held a glass that was nearly empty, and Clara tried not to look too closely at it. One glass of brandy—surely she could not begrudge her brother that. If, indeed, it had only been the one.
Extravagantly dressed ladies and gentlemen swirled about them, but she felt as though she and Nicholas stood in a pool of shadow. Music drifted from two different directions, jarring and discordant. The air was too warm, and yet she was chilled.