Sonata for a Scoundrel (33 page)

They traversed the corridors in silence. Months ago she would have been overawed at the abundance of gold leaf, the rich carpets beneath their feet, the sparkling crystal sconces and rich oil paintings lining the walls. Now the opulence was merely a blur. She would be glad to never see such splendor again, as long as Nicholas was returned to her, whole and well.

Darien ushered her into her suite and followed her in, closing the door firmly behind him. Without a word, she went to him, and he folded her into his arms. The tears she had been choking back all day fell freely, and she shook in his embrace.

He held her, one hand stroking her hair, until her misery had spent itself, then offered his kerchief. Clara wiped the scrim of tears from her cheeks.

“Come, lie down,” he said, leading her to the bedroom.

The tall bed was neatly made, the dark blue coverlet and mass of pillows inviting her to rest. Aching and tear-stained, she perched on the side of the mattress and let Darien remove her slippers. His touch was comforting, and though she felt the strength and heat of him, he did not demand her affections or press her for more than she could offer.

Instead, he held up her dressing gown and helped her don it, then pulled back the sheets.

“Stay with me,” she said. She could not bear to be alone with her thoughts, her regrets.

“I will.”

While Darien slipped off his shoes and shrugged out of his coat, she slid across the soft white sheets to make a place for him. The bed gave under his weight, and she gratefully rolled against him, coming to rest with her ear pressed against his chest. He pulled her even closer, one arm circling her waist. His heartbeat was steady, an even rhythm she matched her breath to.

“Sleep.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

Embraced in his warmth, Clara took a long, shuddering breath. Exhaustion crashed upon her, the weight of fear and worry heavy as iron. She closed her eyes, and fell into the blessed relief of slumber.

***

When she awoke the next morning, Darien was gone. Unlike the morning before, the sheets where he’d lain still held the warmth and scent of him. Clara burrowed into them, inhaling deeply. But there was no escaping the day.

Throwing off the covers, she rang for the maid. She would face whatever came, and hold fast to her hope.

After dressing and taking a small breakfast in her rooms, Clara went in search of Darien. He was pacing like a caged panther in his parlor. At the sight of her, his expression lightened.

“I trust you slept well?” he asked, the secret between them gleaming in his eyes.

“I did, thank you.” She glanced at Peter, who sprawled, rumpled and weary, in a nearby chair. “Any news?”

“No, and I was up half the night helping with the search.”

“Get some sleep,” Darien said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “I will need my agent in a better state than you are now when we go to La Scala this evening.”

Peter hoisted himself from the chair and scrubbed one hand over his face. “We’ll depart promptly at seven.”

The musical competition was scheduled to commence at eight o’clock. Less than twelve hours. Clara folded her arms across her ribs.
Oh, Nicholas, where are you?

“We’ll be ready.” Darien swept up his violin case and tipped his head at her. “Clara, come assist me. I must warm up and run through the pieces. With a piano. Nicholas will appear in time.” He sounded so confident.

“But…” She could scarcely bring herself to say the words. “What if he does not?”

“Then I need your musician’s ear to help me arrange the pieces for solo violin.” He gestured at the door. “After you.”

She was grateful for the distraction. For a few hours she would be able to lose herself in the solace of music—pour her grief and worry out, into the notes. It would be a welcome respite from the heaviness weighing every breath, the constant mist across her eyes.

In the corridor, Darien took her arm and led them through the circuitous route to the practice parlor. The room was empty, a certain peace in the wan light slanting through the windows, far removed from the bustle at the heart of the palace.

Darien unpacked his violin and Clara slid onto the polished mahogany piano bench. She sounded an A, clear and sweet in the still air, and Darien matched it.

“Let us begin with the
Air in E minor
,” he said.

Clara nodded. She made no pretense of needing the music. Setting her fingers to the keys, she began the introduction.

***

Dare watched Clara play, the notes dancing beneath her fingertips. Even burdened with sorrow, she was truly a gifted musician.

Nicholas and Clara reminded him of another brother and sister he’d encountered in the musical world: Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn. Both were talented pianists, though the brother was the one known as the composer. Still, it had come to light, in a bit of scandal involving royalty, that Felix had lent his name to some of Fanny’s compositions. The man had been impeccably honest about it, to the point of jeopardizing his own career.

For some time now, Dare had suspected Clara of being a composer. She knew too much about the music allegedly written by her brother; played it from the depths of her being as Nicholas never had. Was every note he touched, every composition hailed by audiences and critics, written by her—but claimed by her brother?

If a famously lauded composer like Mendelssohn faced disgrace from such an admission, how much worse would it be for a complete unknown? If his suspicions were correct, the Beckers should have told him the truth from the beginning.

Oh, certainly
, his inner voice mocked.
Expose their most vulnerable secrets to the maestro, risking scandal and ruin, simply because of his so-called genius?

Not at first—but it burned that Clara had not confided in him. And it explained so very, very much.

He pressed his bow to the strings, playing his frustration out into the open, taking the swooping melodic lines of the
Air
and turning them angular and jagged. Clara tried to match him, but the chords were too sweet for his mood.

“Enough.” Dare tucked his violin beneath his elbow, the bow dangling from one finger.

“I’m sorry,” Clara said, folding her hands in her lap.

“It’s not you.” Although in so many ways, it was. “Let us try
Il Diavolo
instead.”

As the sun slowly tracked across the carpet they dismantled the composition, section by section. Two hours later they had pieced it back together for solo violin. Dare made Clara abandon the unyielding wood of the piano bench and sit instead on the comfortable sofa while he performed the new version for her.

He launched into the piece, fingers and bow flying. It was still a brilliant work, despite the now-missing accompaniment.

The last notes sprayed into silence, and Clara leapt to her feet, applauding wildly. For a moment the despair lifted from her expression.

“That was magnificent! Varga has no chance.”

Dare did not reply, only swooped in to steal a kiss from the sweet curve of her lips.

He had his doubts. Not about
Il Diavolo
, but the other pieces, which did not lend themselves nearly as well to solo work. With every passing hour, his hopes for Nicholas’s safe return dimmed.

To keep Clara distracted, he kissed her again. Of a certainty, now was not the time for lovemaking, but she softened in his arms.

After a long, delightful moment, she sighed and pulled back.

“Hush,” he said when she opened her mouth to speak. “We have one more piece of music to play today.”

“We do?”

“The final movement of
Viaggio
. Play it with me, Clara. For your brother’s sake.”

“Yes.” She all but whispered the word. “Darien. That is not the true title of the piece.”

“No?” Somehow he was not surprised.

“It is called
Amore
.”

Love. The word sent a jolt through him. Of course. He searched her eyes, begging her to reveal herself, but she pulled away. Wordlessly, she went to the piano and sorted through the pages, then handed him the violin part.

Her music spoke her entire soul and, at last, he could hear it.

He lifted his violin. “Count us in.”

They hit the downbeat together in perfect unison and the music unfurled like a silken banner, snapping and dancing in the breeze. Despite the glorious melody, Clara played with a melancholy lilt Dare could not help but echo. The triumph of the piece swerved into lament, an aching elegy for her missing brother.

When they finished, Clara sat immobile at the keyboard. A line of tears shone on her cheek.

“Ah, love,” he said. “Your brother will return to us. Have faith.”

“I cannot.” Her words were choked.

Dare drew her into his embrace, holding her as if he could absorb all her sorrow. He wiped her tears with the back of his fingers.

“The
Amore
is a masterwork,” he said. “You must be very proud.”

Her silvery eyes went wide and she stilled in his arms.
Tell me
, he thought fiercely.
Tell me it is your composition
. She held his gaze for one heartbeat. Two.

Then she flushed and looked away, and Dare swallowed a curse. He could not force her to trust him, though he wanted to take her by the shoulders and stare into her eyes until she confessed.

“Is it yours?” he asked, his voice rough.

Still not looking at him, she shook her head.

“Clara—”

“I cannot speak to you of this!”

She wrenched away and, before he could stop her, flung the door open and fled the room.

Damnation.

It was a bitter start to what would no doubt be the most difficult evening of his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The city is abuzz over the disappearance of Nicholas Becker. Did he fall victim to foul play, or has he, in a rash of madness, fled the country? Search parties comb all of Milano, but there is no sign of the composer—and Master Reynard’s odds of winning the grand competition are plummeting rapidly. Place your bets while there is still time!

-Il Pettegolo

C
lara hid in her rooms for the remainder of the day. She alternately paced, cried, and tried to write a letter to Darien—none of which eased her mind or spirit in any way.

“Miss Becker?” Peter’s voice accompanied a knock at her door. “We’ll be departing for La Scala in an hour.”

Hoping her eyes were not too reddened from weeping, she undid the lock and opened the door a crack.

“Please send the maid to assist me,” she said.

“I will.” His expression was unreadable.

He made no mention of Nicholas—not that she expected him to. Had her brother been found, they would have notified her immediately.

She nodded and shut the door in Peter’s face.

When he returned for her, she was ready, though she pulled up the velvet hood of her cloak and did not meet anyone’s gaze. Especially Darien’s. She was gowned in silver tissue embroidered with pearls and sequins, a truly extravagant creation that, again, was Henri’s fault. He had said she looked luminous as the moon, bedecked with stars, but tonight Clara was grateful for her black cloak to shroud that brilliance.

She said nothing during the carriage ride, though Darien’s regard lay heavy upon her. This was supposed to be his night of triumph, and instead she felt as if they were traveling to an execution.

La Scala was lit against the night, the building’s façade pale and lovely against the dark sky. Lines of carriages clogged the streets, and the air hummed with excitement and speculation. Darien and his party disembarked from the black coach, and for once the crowd showed restraint. A few voices cried out encouragement as Peter led them to the back entrance.

Clara drew in a deep breath, scented with dust and perfume, as they entered the theater. The audience up front sounded like the surging of a wild sea, a contained turbulence ready to break into storm at any moment. Darien paced to his dressing room, nearly as elemental in that small space as the crowd in the theater. Clara could not bear to be near him.

Instead, she took a seat on the divan at the far end of the hall. She could wait in Nicholas’s dressing room, but being surrounded by his absence would be even worse.

She slipped her hand into her beaded reticule and fingered the envelope waiting there. During the eternal hours of the day, she’d composed a letter to Darien. Each word had been a drop of her heart’s blood. And although her original plan with Nicholas—to depart for London this very night—was in tatters, she knew the hour would come.

Oh, Nicholas
. Her heart was rent in two.

She could not return home and face Papa without her brother. It had been her responsibility to protect him, and she had failed miserably.

“Ten minutes!” the director called, poking his head out of his office.

Anton Varga stepped from his own dressing room. He caught sight of Clara sitting in the hallway, and smiled unpleasantly.

“Miss Becker.” He sauntered forward, his bearing full of arrogant confidence. “Are you certain you don’t want to take the wiser course and desert the maestro as your brother did? Reynard faces nothing but ignominy tonight.”