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  “We will find him, Clara.”

  In the corridor outside she heard men calling her brother’s name, and then the splinter and crack of wood. They truly were breaking Nicholas’s door. She hoped the emperor would not be too displeased.

  A few moments later, Peter re-entered the parlor.

  “Not there,” he said, his brows creased in a worried furrow. “It appears his bed was not slept in, either. Perhaps he… found other accommodations for the night.”

  He shot a glance at Clara, his meaning clear.

  “No.” She was certain of this, at least. “Even if he had, my brother would not be so remiss in his absence. Not on this day, of all days.”

  Peter folded his arms. “Might he have left the palace and encountered some trouble? Varga’s faction is none too gentle.”

  “They would not stoop to foul play,” Darien said. “They believe their champion is the best, that Varga needs no assistance to win the duel on his own merits. Harming Nicholas wouldn’t serve their ends.”

  “What shall we do?” She felt cold, all the way through.

  “I’ll speak to the emperor immediately,” Darien said. “There will be no duel until Nicholas is found.”

  “Varga will not like that,” Peter said.

  “He will have to stomach it, if he wants a competition.” Darien squeezed Clara’s hands, then released her. “Stay with Peter and Henri in my rooms until I return.”

  She was a string tightened to the point of snapping. She could not sit, she could not stand still. At last Henri brought her a cup of tea and made her settle into a chair. The warmth did little to ease her and the beverage was bitter in her mouth.

  After an eternity, Darien strode back into the room. He shut the door, then turned to face them.

  “Emperor Francis has sent his men to search the city,” he said. “And he has agreed to postpone the musical competition for twenty-four hours.”

  “But what if Nicholas is not found before then?” Henri asked.

  Clara clutched her teacup tightly. They would find her brother within a day. They must.

  Darien paced to the settee and gripped the back, his hands betraying his tension.

  “Then either I choose to compete without Nicholas, or I forfeit the duel.”

  “We could find you another accompanist,” Peter said. “It’s short notice, but—”

  “Varga was there, with the emperor.” Darien’s mouth twisted. “He said that he would be happy to perform solo, without any accompaniment obscuring his genius on the violin, and challenged me to do the same.”

  Henri steepled his hands beneath his chin. “He has thrown down the gauntlet. I do not like this.”

  “We must pray that Nicholas is found,” Clara said, her voice catching on the words.

  Darien had spent all his time recently on Becker’s compositions. Although he was the maestro, she did not think he had three solo pieces prepared to perform at a moment’s notice. Certainly none that would showcase his musical genius as Il Diavolo did.

  She set her half-full teacup on the side table and rose.

  “Where are you going?” Darien asked.

  “I must join the search for my brother.”

  “No.” Darien’s eyes were dark on hers. “We have already misplaced one Becker. You will remain here, in the palace. I will join the search.”

  “Monsieur.” Henri’s eyes widened. “You cannot be thinking of looking for him yourself. The streets are dangerous.”

  “Nicholas is out there somewhere,” Darien said. “I cannot abandon him.”

  The words stabbed through Clara. After all the strife and difficulty between Darien and Nicholas, Darien was still willing to risk himself to look for her brother. A muffled sob escaped her lips.

  “No.” Peter folded his arms. “Don’t be an idiot—you can’t go.”

  Stubborn lines formed around Darien’s mouth, and Clara moved to his side. She set her hand on his tense forearm.

  “Please,” she said.

  She could not bear to lose him, too.

  No, she refused to let such thoughts lodge within her ribs, icing her lungs and seizing her blood. Nicholas would be found, safe and well.

  Darien regarded her for a long moment. Then his lips eased from their tight line.

  “You are right. I will not leave the palace.”

  Peter blew out a breath of relief. “I’ll go, and send word with any news.”

  Darien gave a short nod, then turned to his valet. “Henri, please escort Clara to her rooms and stay with her while she rests.”

  “I don’t—” she began, but Darien cut her off.

  “You will rest. I’ll come fetch you for dinner, but until then remain in your rooms.”

  She wanted to suggest she help him rehearse, but she could not play with such dread coiling about her fingers. Besides, Varga had made it plain there were to be no substitutions.

  “I will send word the moment we hear anything,” Darien said.

  Despite the fact that the others were watching, he brushed a kiss against her cheek. She leaned into his warmth and solidity, wishing she could curl up against him and stay there until the sun burned out and the moon ruled the sky, until the seas ran dry. Until her brother was found, safe and whole.

  Instead she straightened and, Henri behind her, made for the cold protection of her rooms.

  ***

  The banquet hall of the palace was full of visiting nobility, but unlike dinner the night before, the gathering was subdued. Buzzing whispers filled the air, and Clara tried not to overhear the speculation about what might have happened to Nicholas.

  Candlelight glimmered, hundreds of tiny stars illuminating satins and silks, sparking against jewels, and shining off the fine china and silver gracing the emperor’s table. The meal was extravagant. Ever-attentive servants delivered course upon course of delicacies and circulated with carafes of wine, keeping the diners’ goblets full.

  Clara had no appetite, but Darien, who insisted on being seated beside her, kept sliding morsels onto her plate.

  “You must eat,” he said.

  Clara lifted her fork and poked at a slice of partridge breast. He was right. If… no, when, they found Nicholas, her brother would need her to be strong.

  She chewed and swallowed, tasting nothing.

  “Good.” Darien set a baked apple on her plate, followed by a neatly curled prawn.

  She turned to him. “I am perfectly capable of selecting my own food.”

  “Then stop shaking your head in refusal when the servants offer, or I’ll keep feeding you.”

  He gave her a teasing smile, though the concern in his eyes contradicted the effect. They both understood that arguing over something as trivial as dinner was only a distraction from the looming absence of Nicholas.

  “You are insufferably overbearing,” she said.

  “It’s part of my charm.”

  Beneath the table his leg pressed hers, not in a suggestive way, but a simple confirmation of his presence. Had it not caused talk, she would have leaned against him. But already she could see the avid eyes noting his solicitousness of her. The gossips would fasten upon it.

  But it did not matter. She had no future at Darien’s side.

  After dinner, the emperor stood and invited his guests to repair to the public parlors for more music and celebration. Clara did not think she could bear it.

  “I’ll escort you back to your suite,” Darien said, clearly reading her mood.

  She took his arm and let him lead her from the overly warm banquet room. In the relative quiet and cool of the hallway outside, Clara drew in a deep breath. There was so much she wanted to say to Darien, but the words were tangled in her heart, with no hope of unraveling.

  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 perf
ect 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

  Clara 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.”