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  “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.

  “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 rapidly 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

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

  The salon 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 pla
yed 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.

  The banquet dinner came to a close. Dare bowed over the hand of his chatty companion, then went to find Clara and Nicholas. He must banish the melancholy in his heart, and remember that he’d achieved his aims. Fame and fortune were securely in his grasp. He had everything he needed.

  Not everything, his soul whispered.

  He caught a flash of blonde hair. Clara. Dare pushed his way forward, his breath easing as he drew up in front of her.

  “Darien—are you well?” The smile on her face faded as she sought his gaze.

  She wore a gold and burgundy dress that flattered her figure, but beyond her physical beauty, Dare could see the light of her, shining from within.

  Her eyes were luminous, and he wanted to take her into a crushing embrace, there in the emperor’s formal banquet hall, consequences be damned. When had Clara become the most important part of his world?

  He did not know; but Nicholas was right behind her, and the duel was tomorrow. He reined in his emotions, and gave Clara a tight smile.