Sonata for a Scoundrel (30 page)

“Release me at once,” she said.

“Does Reynard’s pet composer know that his sister is having an affair? Ah, your eyes widen like a trapped doe. What is it worth to you, Miss Becker, to keep that knowledge from him? And what coin will you use to pay?”

His gaze dropped to her neck, then her breasts, covered only by her nightclothes and the thin satin dressing gown.

“I will pay you nothing,” she said. “And Master Reynard will defeat you.”

She brought the candle up, holding it beneath Varga’s wrist until, with a muffled yelp, he pulled his hand away. Before he could reach for her again, she whirled and wrenched her door open. Her last glimpse of him showed him scowling as the shadows descended once more.

Pulse pounding in her throat, Clara threw the lock. Then, to be safe, she dragged her trunk in front of the door as well. She would not be visiting Darien tonight after all, not with Varga menacing the hallways.

Sleep was elusive, then ragged when she finally slumbered, her dreams filled with the ashes of failure: a broken violin, Darien turning his face from her, a river weeping silently toward the sea.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Nobility from throughout Europe fill the hotels of Milano to bursting as the hour of the musical competition approaches. One cannot set foot inside the Palazzo Reale without tripping over a crown prince—though Master Reynard and Anton Varga have kept well to themselves, no doubt in preparation for the imminent duel…

-Il Pettegolo

“A
gain,” Dare said to Nicholas. “The passage is almost perfect.”

The music parlor they had taken over as a rehearsal space was filled with slanting sunshine and rich colors—indigo and burgundy and gold. Various musical instruments lay about the room: a harp, two old wooden flutes, a richly inlaid guitar, and, of course, a piano. The acoustics were muffled by the swags of draperies and layered carpets, but at least the piano was in tune.

Though Dare focused on the music, he was still—always—aware of Clara. She sat curled on the settee with her feet tucked beneath her, her shoes abandoned on the carpet before her. It was an endearing pose, made possible by the fact that the doors were locked, with just the three of them inside.

Nicholas, his face weary, lifted his hands to the keyboard. The introduction to the
Air in E minor
was strong. Taking a firm grip on his bow, Dare launched himself into the melody.

When they reached the second section, however, the piece faltered once more. Dare bit back a curse and lowered his violin. He was driving Nicholas too hard, but the competition was tomorrow.

In one day, all his dreams and fears would be poised, waiting on either side as he took the stage at La Scala. To his right, darkness and perdition. To his left, brilliant triumph. Which way would he fall?

He was not a man to entertain thoughts of failure, and yet…

“Enough,” he said.

“But—” Nicholas began.

Dare cut him off with a curt gesture. “I have said we are finished rehearsing. Tonight, there will be no carousing into the wee hours. I want you well rested, Nicholas.”

Clara looked up sharply at his words. “I believe we sought our beds before you did, Darien.”

“The fact did not escape my notice.”

Nor had the cold, empty sheets, when he retired less than an hour after Clara had departed the soiree. He’d waited in vain for her. Had even opened his door twice, thinking he heard a noise in the hall—for nothing. Resigning himself to her absence, he had respected it, believing she had been too weary, or too unsettled, to come to him.

She met his gaze, her silvery eyes clear. “I tried.”

“Tried what?” Nicholas asked.

“To shepherd you away at a reasonable hour,” she replied. “I agree with Darien. We must all retire early tonight.”

“Indeed.” Dare gave her a smile filled with private heat. “After the banquet, I expect everyone to seek their rooms.”

Nicholas rose and straightened the stack of music on the piano.

“Wait.” Dare strode forward and fanned the pages again. “Here—the
Viaggio
. We have been so busy rehearsing for the duel, we’ve not yet played the second movement. It will be a refreshing change of pace. Come, let us play it.”

They both needed to play for enjoyment, without the specter of the competition shadowing every note.

Nicholas’s shoulders slumped further. “I…”

“I’ll play it with you, if Nicholas agrees.” Clara slipped her feet into her shoes and came to stand beside the piano. “He deserves a rest.”

“And I do not?” Dare pressed back the smile he felt edging his lips.

He didn’t want to show his pleasure too much at the prospect of playing with Clara again. Not in front of Nicholas, not on the very cusp of the duel.

“Nicholas?” Clara touched his arm.

He passed one hand across his eyes. “Go ahead. Although, if you don’t mind too much, I will go back to my rooms.”

“Take care not to be seen,” Dare said.

At his request, Emperor Francis had provided this little-used salon for their rehearsal, sending a palace official to guide them along the servants’ corridors. Dare was determined to give no specifics away to curious fans—or Varga’s spies.

“Rest well,” Clara said.

Nicholas nodded, gave his sister a strained smile, and slipped out the side door leading to the maids’ passage.

Dare stared at the wall a moment, where the paneled door had closed. He wished he did not have to work his composer so hard. He wished the sheer musical brilliance on the page translated more fully into Nicholas’s fingers. And he especially wished to be free of the suspicions that had begun shadowing his mind whenever he thought of how well Clara performed her brother’s music.

She moved to the piano, her slender body concealed in a gown of pale green silk. Still, he could imagine her naked limbs in perfect detail: the sensitive hollows behind her knees, the small scar on her left arm from a childhood mishap, the sweet indentation of her waist.

“I missed you last night,” he said.

“Varga caught me in the hallway, coming to you.” She shivered.

Rage flashed through him, sudden and searing. “If he touched you, I’ll—”

“No. He questioned me, and I fled back to my rooms. He may suspect, but he has no proof.”

Dare cursed his own thoughtlessness for exposing her to danger.

“No more wandering the halls for you,” he said. “Tonight, I will visit your bed.”

Her eyes opened a shade wider. “You will risk it?”

“Of course.” The words revealed too much, uncovered a younger, eager part of himself he kept hidden from the world. Banishing it, he lifted his violin to his shoulder. “The second movement, if you please.”

Wearing a small, cautious smile, Clara set her hands to the keyboard and began to play. Instantly, Dare was swept into the music. In some indefinable way the notes reminded him of making love with Clara. Yearning spilled from the fluid arpeggios, the twists and turns of melody that spiraled up, nearly reached their goal, then fell short. His bow vibrated across the strings, pulling the music out, pulling the emotion from the depths of his soul.
Just once
, the notes whispered.
If only…

He leaned forward and played his heart into the music. Clara met him there, the piano sure and clear, her trust in him shining through the phrases. No matter what happened tomorrow, they had this—the pure, perfect music holding them in its center.

***

Dare rotated the stem of his wineglass between his fingers and endeavored to appear interested in his dinner companion’s listing of her lapdog’s attributes. At least it was better than the banquet the night before, when he’d been seated between a young lady struck mute by his fame and an older woman who would not cease setting her hand on his thigh beneath the cover of the tablecloth.

“My Poco does like to yap a bit, though he is so darling. I’m sure you understand.” The lady on his right smiled at him. Her brown hair was curled into a fair imitation of sausages.

“Undoubtedly,” Dare said.

The conversation lulled on their side of the table, and a woman’s laugh filled the quiet, the sound rich and sweet. He knew that laugh.

Searching across the wide table, past the candelabras and platters of flower-bedecked fruit, Dare finally spotted her, seated some distance to his left. Francesca Contini. Once the most celebrated opera singer in Italy.

She was still beautiful, though it was strange how the years had laid a veneer of unfamiliarity across her features. As if feeling his gaze, she lifted her head and met his eyes. A brief, sad smile crossed her features. Dare lifted his wineglass to her, then set his Chianti down untouched when she turned back to her dinner companion; her husband, Baron Antonio de Luca.

The man was handsome, in a stately way, but even more important to Francesca’s goals, he possessed both a steady income and a large villa outside Milano. Of course they would be at the palace. Dare should have anticipated it.

Seeing Francesca again stirred the ashes of his old sorrow, and the bittersweet strains of what might have been curled about his heart.

Years ago, when she began touring with him, Dare was certain his life was complete. He’d been young and full of brash confidence, certain that he had met the woman with whom he’d share the rest of his life. But within a handful of months his dreams had tarnished, then shattered.

After a performance that had not gone as well as it might, Francesca had paced the polished floors of their suite, her steps agitated.

“Darien,
tesoro mio
, I cannot continue.”

“What?” Throat tight with premonition, he tossed his cravat aside, then went to take her hands. “Do not worry about the concert tonight. Some performances go that way. Tomorrow will be better.”

“That is the problem—I do not want to have another performance tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that! I can find no lasting joy in it.”

Though he’d seen the signs of her discontent, he’d been confident they could overcome anything. He’d lifted her chin and searched her eyes, dark with unhappiness.

“Not even with me? Francesca, I
love
you!”

Inside him, the young boy who had craved a scrap of tenderness began to howl. He had at last let his guard down, only to feel the knife slip deep into his heart.

“No.” Her voice was low and anguished. “Not even with you. Remember, though we do not speak of it, that I am older than you and have already tasted of fame. This is not the life I want.”

“What
do
you want?” The knife was stabbing, over and over, bleeding his heart cold.

“I want things that would make you equally miserable. A quiet villa in the country, a few performances a year. A family, children.”

“I want that, too.” Just, not now—not for years in the future.

“Perhaps the family, but for the rest?” She shook her head sadly. “You are made for greater things, Darien. And I cannot follow you there.”

Words of entreaty dried in his throat. She was serious, and he knew, deep in his soul, that she was right, though his mind raged against the knowledge.

“If you leave, I shall have to cancel the rest of the tour.”

Although he could not afford to. His bank accounts already strained with the cost of producing his tours, but eventually the profits would pour in. If, that was, he continued to perform.

“You would disappoint your audiences so? You would let the other dogs yapping at your heels vie for the title of maestro, which you have only so recently won?” She pulled her hands free of his. “No, you must continue without me.”

A part of him cried that he could not.

“Francesca, this is the life I want. With you. On the stage.”

“You cannot have both, and I will not yoke you to misery all your days. You have made your path—it is clear beneath your feet.”

She spoke the truth. All his life he’d known he would have to fashion his future with his own hands. His only means of doing so was his talent on the violin. Even his drunkard of a father had recognized Dare’s gift, enough to find him a teacher during a rare sober period. And luckily Signor Ghiretti had been willing to provide lessons for no pay, when he heard Dare play. Once Dare had gained some prominence, he’d seen his old instructor rewarded.

But one could not build a secure existence by relying on luck and happenstance. Every accolade, every sold-out performance, came from his own hard work. He could not abandon what he had wrought over years of struggle, and she was not asking him to. No, she was only leaving him. Forever.

“Why must I lose you?” The words grated against his throat.

“Because you cannot have everything, love.” She set her hand to his cheek. “Some day, perhaps, you will find the woman who can match you in every way—but I am not that woman.”

She left the tour the next morning, and he had been alone ever since.

Plenty of willing women had warmed his bed, but he had learned not to give too much of himself. His music could not coexist with love. The final proof of that had been hearing of Francesca’s marriage, six months later, to the Baron de Luca. Apparently she had three children, performed four times a year around Lombardy, and was happy.