If I Fall (49 page)

“Miss Forrester, I am afraid there has been a terrible misunderstanding. You see, I did write this letter, yes, but Vincenzo—Signor Carpenini, that is—is in the middle of a composition. And when he’s composing, he does not take on stude—”

But Miss Forrester was not listening to him. Instead her face had taken on a dreamy faraway look, and her fingers began to twitch in time to the music, as if playing imaginary keys.

The music
.

“Is that,” she finally asked, “the Signor? Is Carpenini here?”

Her face lit up with the possibility, and she took a few unconscious steps towards the door to the drawing room.

“Miss Forrester, please do not disturb him,” Oliver cried, and he reached out and grabbed her arm just as she reached the closed door.

“I won’t,” she replied, stilling beneath his touch. “I just wanted to hear better. Is that an A minor key?”

“I don’t know,” he began to say, and pulled her back a little. But, unfortunately, the damage had already been done.

It could have been the sound of voices in the hallway, especially female ones, that drew his attention. It could have been Oliver’s doing, speaking too loudly or too near the door. It could have been the gentle touch of Miss Forrester’s hand on the drawing room door latch. But in any case, the music abruptly stopped, footsteps sounded crossed the room, and the drawing room door was flung open from the inside.

“What the hell is going on out here? Don’t you realize I’m composing?” the grouchy bear who emerged from the drawing room said in grunting Italian.

“Signor Carpenini,” Miss Forrester breathed.

Oliver straightened, and kept his hand on Miss Forrester’s arm. Then, his mind remembering better manners than he’d known he had, he turned to the girl at his side. “Miss Forrester, this is Signor Vincenzo Carpenini. Vincenzo, this is Miss Forrester.”

Miss Forrester—and the woman with her, whom Oliver had to guess was her maid—dropped to a curtsy. He still kept his hand on her arm—for some unknown reason, he knew that touch was the only thing keeping her from flying away—and he could feel her shaking.

“Signor, this is a great honor,” she began, but was cut off by Carpenini crossing the room and grabbing her under the chin.

“Vincenzo!” Oliver cried, drawing Miss Forrester away.

“English, eh?” his friend said, his dark eyes going cold. And then, in his own English, he turned to Oliver. “If you are going to import a whore for me, Oliver, at least make sure she is real woman. This one is too small to be of any use.”

And with that, the great composer stepped back into the drawing room and slammed the door, rattling the dusty chandelier in the foyer.

“I am so sorry; he’s a bit—” but as Oliver looked down into Miss Forrester’s face, he knew his apologies would be for naught. She was utterly and completely shattered.

“Molly,” her voice shook. “We should go.”

The maid—Molly—nodded, and before he knew it, she had whisked Miss Forrester out the door to the street.

“Miss Forrester, wait!” he cried, jolting out of his shock. He ran after them, into the street, heedless of his lack of shoes. “At least let me see you home—this is no city for a lady alone!”

But it was too late. Miss Forrester and Molly moved quickly from the alley into the main street, disappearing into the crowds of pedestrians going about their day.

“Damn it all,” Oliver breathed, as he walked tentatively on his bare feet back to his house.
No
, he thought, his vision going red.
Not damn it all. Damn Vincenzo Carpenini.

He walked straight into the drawing room, any tentativeness about disturbing his friend gone.

“Vincenzo, you bastard!” he growled, and his friend looked up from the score on the pianoforte. “Do you have any idea who that was?”

“No,” the composer blinked at him. “Should I care?”