Sonata for a Scoundrel (29 page)

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.

“Don’t frown so fiercely,” Nicholas said.

“I’m not frowning.” She made an effort to smooth her expression, but could not keep her gaze from flicking to his brandy glass.

“And I am not drinking.” He held up his tumbler. “If I don’t carry this about, people will insist on pressing drinks upon me. But I’m weary, and you look to be, as well. Shall we retire for the evening?”

“Yes—though I rather suspect it is morning by now.”

If Nicholas were leaving, there was no reason to stay, beyond watching beautiful women flirt with Darien, and she had no stomach for that. He would notice she was gone soon, and judging by his smoldering look, would welcome a visit to his bedchamber. At least she could lose herself in his bed, in him—plunge into passion and leave her worries behind.

Her brother consulted his pocket watch. “Indeed, it’s past time for me to seek my bed, especially as Darien wants to spend much of tomorrow rehearsing. Clara—will you attend the rehearsals? Your insights always make the music better.”

“I…”

“We need you,” he said, the pleading in his eyes eroding her will.

Nicholas was right. She must do everything within her power to help Darien win the duel.

“Very well.” Though it would be as painful as swallowing razors.

***

Clara undressed with the assistance of the same palace maid who had gowned her for the soiree, then sent the girl away. She paced restlessly before the dim coals in the hearth, her dressing gown swishing with each turn. The ornate clock on the mantel ticked the minutes away too slowly, but she had resolved to wait a solid hour before going to Darien.

The melody of
Amore
twined through her thoughts, a bright flame of music to keep her company. To warm her once she was no longer by his side.

At last the hour hand fell heavily upon the three. Clara took up the flickering candle by her bed, then stood beside the door, listening. There had been no noise or movement in the hallway outside for some time. Carefully, she lifted the latch and peered out.

Darkness veiled the hall, though her candle flame picked out glints of gold from the wall hangings. The palace slept, the air heavy with dreams. She closed the door behind her and softly made her way down the corridor. Past one door, then two.

“Well, well.” The low, sinister voice came out of the darkness.

She bit back a shriek, her candle trembling violently. Shadows skittered along the walls.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice high and quick from fright.

A figure appeared, the light revealing the mocking features of Anton Varga. Clara darted a glance down the hall, but all the doors remained firmly shut. She took a step back toward her rooms.

“It seems the Beckers are a restless lot,” Varga said. “I saw your brother slipping out some minutes ago. And now it is your turn. Where, I must ask, is the pretty sister going?”

“I simply—”

“An assignation, of course.” His lips twisted into a smile, though his eyes were untouched by mirth. They fastened on her, dark and knowing. “With whom, I wonder?”

He stepped forward and Clara moved back again, their movements parodying a dance. Only one door lay between her and the safety of her rooms. If she turned and bolted would she reach the threshold? Or would Varga spring upon her the moment she turned her back? A cold shiver prickled her skin. She did not want to find out.

“I was in search of fresh air,” she said. “How unfortunate that the hallway bears such a stench.”

“Don’t pretend to insult me,” he said.

In two long strides he was upon her. Clara pulled back, but he took her chin in a strong grip. There was a wild look in his eyes, malice and triumph twined together. He bent his face close to hers, and she smelled wine and onions on his breath.