Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (25 page)

Oliver looked down at her, her small dark head resting on his chest. “You describe it exactly. Except that working at La Fenice is no longer my ambition. It has not been in some time.”

“No?” she asked, confused.

“Can I . . . May I show you something?” he asked, hesitation in his voice. Her head came up, turned to meet his eyes.

“Of course.”

“Frederico.” He spoke as he turned, to find his manservant’s eyes resolutely on the water in front of him. “Take us to the Teatro Michelina!”

Bridget’s brow creased in confusion, so as Frederico steered sharply to his left, down a different canal, Oliver endeavored to explain.

“When I left La Fenice, it was to come home to England—although that did not happen as planned, as you know. But when they—indeed, no house in Venice—could take me on in their companies, I decided to follow a long-held ambition . . . and create my own.” A strange sense of excitement, of nervous anticipation, began to churn through him, as it always did when he spoke of his teatro.

“While I began as a performer, I know well that I do not have what it takes to make a life out of performing. Those who don’t have enough talent have to have naked ambition to carve out a life there. I may have had some talent, but I had only enough to recognize those who had greater talent. Like Carpenini, and like you.”

“Like Veronica,” Bridget interjected.

Oliver blinked at her in surprise, then smiled. “Is that what she told you? What else did you girls talk about while she transformed you into a boy?”

“Oh, that is for me to know. And you are getting off the subject.”

“Right—well . . .” Oliver ran a hand through his hair as he spoke. “It was pointed out to me that I would be well served if I put this particular talent to good use.”

Frederico steered them up a smaller, side canal and finally backstroked to counter them to a stop. Oliver pointed in the direction of one of the darkened buildings. It was a tall, flat structure, with a few high windows and a landing that led to barricaded, arched doorways. They pulled up to the moorings and let Frederico hold them there.

“This is my theatre, the Teatro Michelina,” Oliver said. “I purchased it.”

“You have your own theatre,” Bridget intoned. “You want to be an impresario?”

“Well, as Carpenini pointed out, when I did not go back to La Fenice, I did not have a place to stage his composition. So I acquired one. You should see the inside—it is a true beauty. Or at least it will be, once all the dust and decay is cleared away. It is a warehouse now, but it still has the bones of a theatre,” he replied, his voice lighting with excitement. “It has been closed since just after the fall of the republic, some twenty years ago. It’s a smaller venue, more intimate—it could seat five hundred souls, all come to listen to music, and not distract themselves with the seeing and being seen of the larger opera houses. This would be for true musicians.”

“Can I?” she asked. “See the inside, that is.”

Oliver frowned for a moment, but then said, “I don’t see why not.”

He carefully stood and disembarked. He wobbled a bit, but Frederico caught a post at the last moment, keeping Oliver from splashing into the water. Then he took Bridget’s hand and helped her out. Hand in hand, they walked up to the dusty, dark teatro, where Oliver lifted the heavy wood beam barring the door and carefully poked his head inside.

“I’ll just wait here, shall I?” Frederico called after them—he could not be bothered to hide his bored disdain. Which was fine, as Oliver could not be bothered overly much to care.

Once he ascertained everything was all right, Bridget followed him inside.

The dark space was piled high with crates. And the parts that were not piled high with crates were piled high with dust. But the stage at the far end was uncovered, lit by moonlight from high windows that lined the backstage.

Oliver pulled Bridget up onto the stage. He held out his hand, as if painting on the air, seeing in his mind’s eye what could be, overlaying what was there. “Now you have to use your imagination, but over there, the wall behind those crates will be painted a cerulean blue, with white cornices and a marble-walled entryway. Four rows of boxes, curving around, like a horseshoe. Do you see how close the performers would be to their audience? And this stage will be polished, the curtain—well, it will have to be beaten of dust by a brigade of washerwomen. Then the whole place will be lit by brass lamps, so not a moment is missed.”

“Yes,” she replied dreamily, her voice echoing in the theatre. “I can see it all. But how did you purchase it?”

“Contrary to how I live, I do have some money.” He shrugged, answering as honestly as he could. “My father is very generous; he pays me well to stay away. I could live much higher than I do, but between the allowance that I never spend and the funds I earned at La Fenice . . .”

Of course, saving funds had become far more difficult when he took on Vincenzo as a destitute roommate—money that would have gone into savings seemed to flow elsewhere. Hence he did not quite have the funds for the renovation he saw in his head. But once the Marchese took Vincenzo back . . . perhaps, just perhaps, the Marchese would be interested in investing in Oliver’s theatre. Perhaps.

“Vincenzo says that he’ll give me his next work to stage—if he ever gets through writing it. And it seems as if—thanks to working with you daily—he’s actually making some progress on it.”

She blushed dutifully. “I don’t know if it’s my doing.”

“I disagree. Work begets work. Music begets music. And your hard work has influenced him more than you realize.”

Bridget blushed again, and fidgeted in his embrace.

“Are you embarrassed?” he asked suddenly. “By what? Praise?”

“No,” she cried. “Well, it just seems so strange, the idea that I could have influence over anyone.”

“You have great influence on the lives that you touch. And you should not be so surprised by praise. You are going to receive a lot of it in your life. Much like flowers.” He nodded toward the dark, closed theatre. “Especially when I put you on this stage.”

But she shook her head adamantly. “No, you will not.”

“Of course I will—once the competition is over, you will be in great demand—”

“But it is a demand I will decline,” she replied calmly, nimbly negotiating her way down the steps to the main floor. “I do not desire the stage.”

He stood up straight, confused. “You do not? If this is about your stage fright—”

“It is not.” She smiled up at him, a bright spot in the dark maze of boxes and dust. “Believe it or not. I may not like to exhibit, nor do I desire the life of a performer.”

“Then what do you want?” he asked gently.

“The same things other young ladies of my station want. A husband and children, running up and down stairs willy-nilly. A home of my own.”

“Then why agree to the competition?”

“A dozen reasons,” she replied, her voice becoming thicker with emotion. “I may want the traditional things in life, but I want this one thing first. To be able to look back and say to my children that I had, at one point, done something brave. That I wasn’t just one forgotten debutante in a season of hundreds. That I might have been something special.”

“You are special, Bridget,” Oliver said, following her down the stairs, finding her in the mess of boxes, and taking her face in his hands. “Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She leaned her cheek into his hand, accepting the devotion he gave, the adoration.

And suddenly, Oliver didn’t care that they were in a dusty theatre-cum-warehouse in the middle of the night. He did not care that Frederico was outside, waiting for them. He only cared about the look in her dewy green eyes, and that she was there, in his arms.

This time, there was no warning, no chance for her to tense or to decide. He swooped down and took her mouth with his, letting the dark warmth of her cloak envelop them both. He pressed her to him, letting his hands thread beneath that dark layer, find skin at the back of her neck, at the edges of her sleeves and the low neckline of her gown.

She pressed back, burrowing under his jacket, clutching at his shirtwaist, pulling at the fabric in a desperate need for something she could not define. But Oliver knew what it was, and it burned through him the same way it burned through her.

He wanted contact, so he took it. He took the liberty of finding the buttons at her back and loosening them. Perhaps he was a little too eager. Perhaps he felt one or two buttons pop off the back of the dress, clattering to the floor of the theatre, but he didn’t care. And from the way she lost herself in the sensation of his skin against hers, neither did she.

He wanted . . . wanted so desperately. But what he wanted, and what she wanted . . . was it possible?

Beyond the immediate needs. But for the future. He wanted the woman in front of him, but did it supersede the want for the building next to him?

. . . Did it have to?

In the haze of lips on lips, skin on skin, Oliver realized that two lives could meld into one.

And it scared the hell out of him.

“Bridget—” he whispered hoarsely, trying to tear his mouth away from hers, but being lured back like a magnet. “Bridget, we must . . .”

“Yes, Oliver?” Her voice came so sweetly, so hopefully. His name fell from her lips like a prayer, and it nearly broke the little will he had managed to dredge up.

Oh to hell with it!
To hell with Frederico waiting for them, to hell with the theatre falling down around them. To hell with anything other than Bridget and him and—

He saw it a split second before it happened. A hand shooting out, setting the tallest stack of boxes to wobbling. Oliver reacted quickly, spinning Bridget around right before the—

CRASH!
Oliver immediately covered Bridget with his body, protecting hers with his own. A crate had fallen to the ground, its weak wood splintering on impact, spilling out its contents of cheap ceramic pots, which also shattered.

Correction: A crate had been pushed. And if it had landed as intended . . .

“Are you all right?” he gasped, searching her face.

“I . . . I think so,” she said, bewildered. “What on earth happened?”

Oliver quickly scanned the surroundings. It was too dark in the theatre to see far . . . but Oliver would swear on a stack of Bibles that he saw something—some flash of something light-colored—move quickly from the top of one stack of crates to another. Then there were footsteps, running quickly away, out the door. Oliver zoomed his gaze to the front door as light from the outside flooded and gave their assailant a silhouette.

He couldn’t be certain—he could not trust his eyes—but even at that distance, Oliver could swear that he saw a man with light blond hair running away into the night.

Twenty

“I
T
was
Klein,” Oliver said sharply in Italian. “I know it.”

Carpenini looked up from his keyboard, rolling his eyes. It was Sunday, and they were without the distraction of Bridget’s lessons for once. Although she was the only thing on Oliver’s mind.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver replied to Carpenini’s eye roll. “But perhaps you do not appreciate the very great danger that your student was in.”

“Perhaps you do not appreciate the very great danger you placed my student in,” Carpenini replied, his words staccato with emphasis.

Oliver burned with the truth of it. He should not have had Bridget Forrester out in the middle of the night—if she had been safely tucked into bed, she would not have been endangered. Nor should he have allowed himself to become so distracted.

“This is a disaster. And we are so close! What were you thinking?” Carpenini ground out. “Never mind, I know you were not thinking anything at all.”

Frederico had seen no one go into the theatre, but when he had been alerted by the crash of the crates, he was about to disembark to come help when he saw the blond man run out. His fervent description of his features only further convinced Oliver it was Klein who had tried to hurt them.

No. He had tried to hurt Bridget.

In the madness that followed the encounter with the crates, Oliver had wasted no time in getting Bridget back to the hotel. He was loath to leave her but knew it was the best possible place for her in that moment. When he handed her out of the gondola, she was pale and shaking, clutching her cloak about her. At first Oliver thought it was because the popped buttons of her dress had made her appearance unseemly, but then he felt her hands. They were ice cold. She was scared.

And that had been exactly Klein’s intention.

“And if I recall correctly, you were the one to warn me against involving the affections of a proper English miss,” Carpenini was musing, breaking into Oliver’s thoughts.

“A warning that I did not think you heard, let alone heeded,” Oliver retorted coldly, his ire rising.

“I did not. But mostly because I did not care. And I do not care now about what you do with the girl. I only care that she can play in the competition.”

“Regardless,” Oliver replied through gritted teeth, “your protestations and Antonia’s warning were correct—Klein will stop at nothing to win, and that includes pushing a crate on top of your protégée!” Carpenini slammed his fingers against the keys, and Oliver knew he finally had the man’s attention away from his compositions. “How can we protect her? She lives in a hotel—people can come and go as they please. And if we inform her mother of the danger, she’ll be on the next ship back to England before the tide is even in!”

“I do not know,” Carpenini replied. “But I do know that if she had not practiced at home, if she had not been out and about and in front of Klein, none of this would have happened. There are only a few weeks left; all we had to do was keep her hidden and we could have triumphed, could have shocked Klein to his knees with her playing. But it did not happen, and now we have to contend with him.”

Oliver paused—felt like the breath was knocked out of him by an idea. “You’re right,” he said, inspiration dawning. “We need to keep her hidden away.”

But if Carpenini had heard him, he did not make it known; instead he was mulling something over in his own mind. “Perhaps I can apply to the Marchese, make him see what a scoundrel Klein is. That would do more for taking me back than anything . . .”

“No, Vincenzo,” Oliver broke in, determined. “That will not work. The Marchese will only laugh at you. The best thing—the only thing we can do—is
hide Bridget away
.”

“Where?” Carpenini asked suspiciously. “Where in Venice can she go that Klein cannot find her?”

“Not in Venice. I can take her outside the city. Now, listen to me before you fly into high temper,” Oliver said seriously. “If Bridget and her family decamp from Venice, it will be seen as a triumph to Klein. He will think that he successfully scared the girl away, and therefore he will not have to pursue her beyond that. You will stay here, and make it seem as if you have been abandoned. Meanwhile, I will make sure Bridget and her family are safe elsewhere, and bring her back in time for the competition.”

Carpenini seemed to consider it for a moment. Finally, he replied with a shake of his head. “She has lessons. I must teach her.”

“She knows the Number Twenty-three backward and forward. She could play it in her sleep. Can you honestly say that three more weeks of rehearsing, of ridicule, of her thinking Klein is lurking over her shoulder, will do any good?”

“She still doesn’t have the emotion of Beethoven. She has parts of it, but not the whole.” Carpenini shook his head.

“Then I will take her somewhere that she can learn it.” Oliver’s eyes lit up. “And how better for her to learn how Beethoven is meant to be played than to hear him played in Vienna?”

Carpenini’s gaze shot to Oliver. “You . . . you mean to take her to Vienna?” he cried.

“Beethoven is premiering his new piece there in a little more than a se’nnight.”

“It will take you a se’night to get to Vienna!” his brother expostulated. “Then the same to get back, and little more than a few days for Signorina Forrester to prepare herself for the competition. It’s madness.”

“It’s the best idea we have. It’s the only way I can think of to protect her from Klein at this point.”

Carpenini looked unsure. “It will give me time to finish my composition,” he hedged, finally. Then his eyes shot up from his lap, shining with excitement. “The Marchese will love it—and you will love it, Oliver—it has such strong themes, such beauty. It will premiere in your new theatre to thunderous applause!”

“Fine,” Oliver replied, waving his hand dismissively. “But right now, let us get through the next few weeks intact, and then we shall hear your piece.”

Carpenini was silent for a moment, his expression its usual inscrutable self. But if Oliver did not know better, he would have said that there was the slightest shift in Carpenini’s manner. It was almost as if he were . . . hurt.

But that was just nonsense.

“Just promise me you will get her to a pianoforte in Vienna,” Carpenini grumbled, his eyes hard and unfeeling once again. “She will still need to practice.”

Oliver grinned, relieved to have a plan in place. “All right, brother. I promise.”

Six days later

At last
, Bridget thought, her mind and soul completely awake,
Vienna
.

As they pulled in through the streets, her eyes drawn to the beautifully structured classic buildings, lining the curving cobblestone streets that marked the city apart from the small towns and villages that surrounded it, she could not help feeling wholly relieved to have made it to that beautiful city. But no one in the whole of humanity could have been more relieved than Oliver Merrick.

Oliver had made an excellent impression with the ladies Forrester when he met them at the Hotel Cortile with a beautiful boat, larger and far more stable than a gondola, with every comfort provided to make the short trip to the mainland as painless as possible, knowing Lady Forrester’s learned dislike of water travel. He made an even greater impression when he handed the ladies up into a spacious and lovely carriage—which Bridget knew must have eaten desperately into Oliver’s savings for his theatre. She wanted to demur, to say that it was all too much. But when she saw the hopeful look on his face, the obvious nervous desire to please, she had no choice but to keep mum.

The ride home after their night in the empty theatre had been a blur of shock. And the rest of the night passed sleeplessly. Bridget was torn between the thrill of her own newly discovered boldness and the sense of guilt she felt for having been so reckless as to have put herself in a position of danger. But all too quickly, as she tossed and turned, a new feeling took over—an uneasy sense of dread. She could have been hurt! She vacillated wildly between anger and fear, and anger was winning out—so much so, that when Oliver came on Sunday afternoon and presented his plan for going to Vienna, she had balked.

“You want me to flee? To run and hide?” she said low, under her breath. She did not want to have her mother overhear. Of course, to Lady Forrester and to Amanda, the idea of going to Vienna was presented as a golden opportunity to hear Beethoven in concert. There was no mention of the night before, not only to keep their rendezvous a secret but also to not spread worry about Bridget’s safety to her mother, who would take her away in a heartbeat.

“No,” Oliver had said, his voice equally low but more mischievous. “Removing you from Venice allows us to trick Klein into thinking you have run away.”

As Oliver explained his plans, Bridget felt something new—something that had abandoned her in the past day.

A sense of relief. In that moment, Bridget had understood why she had felt so strongly, why fear and anger had begun to rule her actions. Because she had not felt safe. And with one idea, with one touch of the hand, Oliver had restored her sense of safety. Just as he always did.

But after six days of anticipation and being cooped up—however comfortably—in a carriage with her mother, her sister, and Oliver, even that good gentleman’s calm and happy reserve had frayed to the point of tenuousness.

It was Bridget’s mother’s fault.

Apparently, her mother’s learned dislike of sea travel had transferred into a newfound dislike of road travel. For a woman who made the journey from Portsmouth to London several times a year, this was discouraging. Every little bump caused a groan to erupt from her mother’s lips—and when you have to traverse the foothills of the Alps, there are more than little bumps to contend with.

Amanda was better, but she did not have a guidebook for Vienna with her—and the only ones available for purchase in Venice were written in Italian; thus she had no means by which to obtain the answers to the hundreds of questions she had, other than to ask them.

And as Oliver was the only one of them who had been to Vienna, he was the one to whom they were directed.

“But what about the Schönbrunn Palace? Will we have time to go there? Doesn’t it have marvelous gardens?” Amanda rambled, unending. “I don’t know where I read that—or perhaps Father said it . . .”

“Perhaps,” Bridget said sternly, cutting into her sister’s stream of words. “But right now we must adjourn to our lodgings, before the concert tonight.”

“Our lodgings?” Amanda asked, confused.

“Yes. We have made it to Vienna, Amanda.”

“Thank heavens,” groaned Lady Forrester, her eyes firmly shut as they rumbled across the cobblestones.

“Oh!” Amanda cried, and she thrust back the curtains of the carriage and stuck nearly her whole head out the window.

Bridget and Oliver shared a look. They had shared many of these looks over the past week. But unfortunately, looking was all that they could do. Even when they stopped at various inns for the evening, Bridget was flanked by her mother and sister. Finding a moment alone to exchange a word, or even a touch, was nearly impossible.

So it had been days and days of looks. Of unspoken communication. Of Bridget’s skin being on fire with the sensation of being untouched.

“Where are we staying, Mr. Merrick?” Amanda asked, bringing her head in from the window.

“Please say it’s close,” her mother added weakly.

“I have arranged for us to stay at a friend’s town house,” Oliver answered. “And yes, Lady Forrester, it is quite close.”

It was quite close. They were at the front door of a beautifully kept town house in less than a half hour. A good thing, too—as the sun was getting low in the sky, and they would have to leave soon enough for the concert.

Bridget was excited to hear this new work—a new symphony, Oliver had told her. Beethoven himself was rumored to be there, even though the rumor was that he was so ill and so deaf now that he could not even hear his own music.

But that did not stop the man from writing it.

Bridget was musing over melodies and intonations, whether he would use brass or strings or woodwinds, as she hurriedly dressed for supper. She had been installed in a room a bit down the hall from her mother and sisters, and a wing away from Oliver, as was proper. A maid who spoke only German was assisting her, as they had left Molly back in Venice. Which was well enough, because if she had been forced to make small talk as her hair was put up and her gown buttoned, she might go mad.

Because Bridget was again overcome with the feeling that had begun to take shape whenever she looked at Oliver. That this—this concert, this night—was important.

He was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, checking a pocket watch and dressed in his evening clothes. He glanced up at her briefly, and then, as if struck, his eyes flew back up and held as she came down the staircase.

“What is it?” she asked, suddenly nervous. She touched the row of pearls at her throat, then inspected her mint green silk gown, with the satin bodice and trim of a slightly darker shade. She had chosen it knowing it would bring out her eyes, but there was also the fear it would not travel well. Her German maid had shaken out all of the creases from five days in a trunk—could she have missed some?

“You are beautiful,” he breathed.

And for once, she believed it.

Relaxing, she took his offered arm and gave him a small smile. But he did not smile back at her. Instead he held her gaze intently. By the look on his face and the way his hand warmly encompassed her own, Bridget began to get a strange feeling: that perhaps, just perhaps, this was important for him, too.

They walked into the dining room of the comfortable house arm in arm, only to find Lady Forrester and Amanda already seated. Her mother was looking just about as pale as she had on the whole ride, Bridget thought absently as she seated herself.

“Look who I found in the parlor,” Oliver said cheerily, masking the intensity of just a moment hence. “And just in time, too; we shall have a bite to eat and then we will have to be off. The Kärntnertortheater is a mile or two away, and the streets will be crowded with other music enthusiasts. We could easily spend an hour in the carriage.”