Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (10 page)

“I had heard that you did not have any students—male or female,” Klein stated blandly.

Vincenzo had to hand it to him; the man was smarter than he looked. But instead of letting his ire show, he simply smiled.

“If that’s the case, then you will win the challenge quite easily.” He laughed, and the crowd laughed with him. Including the Marchese, he noted victoriously.

“But how will one student be judged against the other?” Klein said. “Music is a subjective art. One person’s perfection is another banality.”

Vincenzo knew in that moment that he had him in the trap. Now, to get him to agree to the terms.

“Excellent question. I would submit that there be one judge. And there is only one person in all of Venice qualified to do so. Marchese?”

The Marchese gave a serene smile as all eyes in the room turned to him.

“An interesting challenge. Can a woman play with the same intensity, the emotional depth of feeling, as a man? It would be my pleasure to serve as judge.”

Applause lit the room. Vincenzo’s face broke into a wide grin.

“But”—the Marchese raised his hands to quiet the room—“what are the terms, gentlemen?”

“The terms . . .” Vincenzo thought a moment. “Each student plays his or her best piece.”

“No,” Klein spoke up. “They must play the same piece. If his student plays ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’ and mine plays the Waldstein, one can assume one will play better than the other. Then again, perhaps not.”

A titter went up from the crowd again. Vincenzo felt his smile cool. “I am perfectly fine with playing the same piece. As long as it is the Marchese who chooses it.”

Klein seemed to think this over. “I agree to those terms.”

“When shall the competition be?”

Everyone looked around the room, speculating a good date. Vincenzo heard “One week?” from someone murmuring in the crowd, and felt himself pale. It was a very tricky moment—he had to make certain that he got his way on this point.

“Marchese, tomorrow marks the beginning of Lent—and it would not do to have a fete in a time of penance.” Vincenzo then looked to Klein, who seemed to be chewing on this information. “Also, in deference to you, Gustav, I would not want you to be distracted by this while you are trying to put on an opera. Thus, shall we say, mid-May? Just before you retire to the country for the summer, if I recall correctly, Marchese.”

Everyone held their breath as the Marchese took this information in and, after a heart-stopping breath of time, nodded firmly.

The room went up in a cheer. People began speculating what the festivities would hold, which students would be performing, what musical piece would be selected. Vincenzo even saw one masked attendant running gleefully from the room, likely to tell everyone else at the ball what had just transpired in the music room.

As a finale to the show they had just performed, Vincenzo gave Klein a deep bow. And Klein was forced to return it.

“I don’t know what you expect to come of this, Vincenzo,” Klein said through gritted teeth.

“I expect to send you back to Vienna, Gustav,” he replied, his smile going cold.

He left Klein’s side and was immediately enveloped by the crowd. The crowd that loved him and his theatrics. He would rule them again; he would be hoisted on their loving shoulders some day soon. Shaking hands, accepting flirtatious touches from women, he cut his way to where the Marchese stood next to Antonia.

“Oh, Vincenzo, what fun!” Antonia cried, latching herself onto his arm and planting a hearty kiss on his cheek. “It’s like a musical duel! And I’m so happy that you have a female student you feel worthy of this challenge.”

“Yes,” the Marchese drawled. “But the challenge is not solely about male versus female, my dear. It is about who is the better teacher. And, consequently, the better musician. Am I not correct, Vincenzo?”

Vincenzo simply shrugged one shoulder. “If the better student brings light upon the better teacher, certainly facility with music must have something to do with that.”

The Marchese’s small smile remained frozen on his features, as inscrutable as the masks they all had been wearing not hours before. “But the unasked and unanswered question is what shall the winner have as prize.”

“Prize?” Vincenzo blinked innocently. “I thought only to entertain and inform, Marchese. After all, you did say that it has been too dull around here of late.”

“Quite true.” The Marchese raised an eyebrow. “Your costume may be that of a fool—let us hope your actions do not prove you to be one.”

And with that, the Marchese smirked at him and took his daughter off Vincenzo’s arm as they moved away from him. Antonia blew a kiss back at him as she and her father went to stand beside . . .

Klein.

Vincenzo watched as the Marchese stood next to Klein, on the stage in front of the whole crowd, and bowed to Klein, much to the delight of the crowd. As they feted and cheered the Marchese’s newest protégé, Vincenzo felt his smile slip from his face.

The Marchese was publicly backing the horse he had already chosen. And as much as the crowd enjoyed Vincenzo’s antics, they worshipped at the feet of the Marchese.

Just as Vincenzo felt all the blood in his body draining to the floor, a hand clapped him hard on the shoulder, holding him there. He turned and looked into the unsmiling countenance of Oliver Merrick.

“What the hell have you gotten us into now?”

Seven

“T
HIS
is a mis
take.”

Oliver paced the length of the entryway of the Hotel Cortile, grinding his heels into the carpet on the turns. It had taken less time than he had hoped for Vincenzo to locate where Miss Bridget Forrester was staying. After all, there were only a certain number of places in the city where a young British lady of good family and comfortable means would feel at home. The Hotel Cortile was one of the many buildings that were near the Grand Canal that had, once upon a time, been the home of a great Venetian family. But like so much of Venice, the fall of the Republic had forced change upon it, and now its beautifully appointed rooms were used to board a full house of mostly British and Austrian visitors.

At least the proprietor, a Signor Zinni, told them that it
had
been full, up until the end of Carnival, two days ago. Now their only remaining guests were a family of ladies, the Forresters, who had somehow managed to requisition the entire second floor.

“I doubt they will stay much longer, however,” Zinni had said with visible relief. “They have all of Italy still to see.”

Then, at the faint sound of a bell, the little man had run up the stairs to the second floor with such speed that it left Oliver and Vincenzo blinking, wondering at Zinni’s obvious fear of the Forresters.

Well, Vincenzo probably wondered. Oliver was too busy running over in his mind just what they were doing there in the first place.

“You know I have no other options,” Vincenzo replied in his smooth Italian. He leaned lazily back in his chair in the empty foyer of the hotel. “The Marchese and Klein have let it be known to all of the lovely young female musicians in the city that I am in need of a student—none of them would even let me leave a card.”

Oliver grunted. “I would place faith in your reasoning—if only I hadn’t the suspicion that appealing to Miss Forrester had been your plan all along.” He shot the only other occupant of the room a reproachful look. Vincenzo simply leaned back even farther, tilting the chair back on its rear legs. As the back of the chair bumped against the wall, Vincenzo gave a loud, long yawn.

A yawn. He
yawned
. Oliver stopped pacing. Perhaps Vincenzo was not overly concerned with why Zinni was so fearfully attentive to the Forresters. Perhaps he was not concerned about any bloody thing.

“How can you be so easy with the mess you’ve created?” Oliver rounded on him. “You remain undisturbed by the gauntlet you threw down to Klein; you have no fear about what will happen if you lose. You don’t even seem to care about using Miss Forrester to your aim—that is, if you can persuade her to do so, given that you called her a little prostitute less than a week ago.”

“I did not think she was a little prostitute. I assumed she was a whole prostitute, with no equivocation.” Vincenzo chuckled at his own joke. “Who else would come to the street door?” But seeing that Oliver was not smiling, he sobered, letting his chair drop to all four legs with a thud that echoed across the empty foyer.

“I am not concerned about persuading the girl to become my student because she traveled across the Continent with that intention. I’m sure an apology will erase the previous misunderstanding.” Vincenzo began studying his fingers, the picture of a collected individual. “Besides, if she is still unhappy with me, I’m certain I can find a way to . . . change her mind. A young, impressionable thing like her.”

Oliver felt all the blood in his body rage through his veins. He knew what that meant. Vincenzo thought to persuade Miss Forrester the same way he had
persuaded
Antonia Galetti to forgive him. Suddenly, green eyes flashed through his mind. As green as the lagoon at dawn. Wide, nervous.

Adoring.

A knife twisted in his gut.

“Miss Forrester is a young English lady,” he warned, his voice coming out cold as ice. “She is not like these Venetian girls, who know the rules to those games.”

“Then she will be all the easier to win over.” Vincenzo waved his hand dismissively. “Come, come, this is all a debate about the thinnest of possibilities. Of course she will want to be taught by me; I have no worries about the girl.”

“No worries whatsoever?” Oliver’s eyebrow rose skeptically. “What if she can’t play?”

Vincenzo met his eye, deadly calm.

“You are the one who told me she could.”

Oliver could not debate that point.

“Oliver!” Vincenzo called, breaking the silence that had fallen. “You said the girl could play.”

“Yes, I did, but—”

“And we both know I have no other options.”

“For students, but—”

“Then that is all there is to it,” Vincenzo stated with finality.

Oliver was on the cusp of vehemently disagreeing, as there was very much more to the matter, but before he could, the sound of a throat clearing brought their attention to the staircase, where Zinni stood, his back straight with propriety.

“Signora Forrester will see you now.”

What were they doing here?

Bridget stood frozen at the door of their sitting room in the Hotel Cortile, her eye glued to the keyhole. Normally, she did not spy. She was far more likely to burst into a room and confront than stay behind curtains and listen.

Amanda, however, was far more accustomed to pressing her ear to walls.

“See!” her sister whispered excitedly. “I told you! Now aren’t you glad you came out of your room?”

In the week since they arrived in Venice, Bridget had kept to her room as much as possible. Her brief and disappointing interview with Carpenini had crushed her spirits so thoroughly, Lady Forrester had wondered if she had caught some sort of wasting disease from the travel. Luckily, Molly the maid had managed to keep their excursion to themselves, and Bridget had not been missed in the half hour they had been gone, so when she had said she was simply overwhelmed by the crowds of Carnival, it was taken at face value.

But when Carnival ended and the Forrester ladies had an entire floor to themselves (which somehow, Lady Forrester had managed to overtake
before
all the other guests had vacated, persuading the gentlemen to give over and bunk two to a room to accommodate them), Bridget was still uninspired to go out, which made Lady Forrester call the doctor.

But when the doctor pronounced Bridget healthy, it made her throw up her hands.

“We rush here to Venice, and now you don’t want to see it?” Lady Forrester twitched about the room in frustration. “You don’t even want to send your note to Mr. Merrick? Bridget, you always were a fickle child, but I do not know what has come over you of late!”

Didn’t they realize she was in the deepest mourning? For the hope that she had for greatness? For her lost illusions? Venice, the most beautiful city in Europe, had no color for her now! Its canals held no charm, merely inconvenience. Its buildings were no longer masterful works of architecture, they were instead overdecorated boxes falling to ruins. Food had lost its flavor. Music, its melody.

Carpenini had taken one look at her and dismissed her. Like everyone else did.

Well, no, not like everyone else did. He was far more base.

When she confided this in Molly, the only one who knew the true depths of her sadness, she was rewarded with a roll of the eyes and a request that she vacate the room for at least a half hour, so Molly could change the sheets.

But now Signor Carpenini, the master himself, was taking tea and biscuits in their hotel. With her mother!

“What is he saying?” Bridget whispered to Amanda. “I can’t hear anything.”

“Try this,” Amanda replied, handing her a drinking glass. Bridget turned it over in her hand, unsure of what to do, until Amanda rolled her eyes and took it back, and showed her how to place it between the door and her ear.

“. . . studies . . . pianoforte . . . biscuit? . . .” Words came through muffled, and out of place.

“I still can’t understand.” Bridget handed the glass back to Amanda.

Amanda sighed. “Well, there is only one thing more to do.”

“What?”

And with the meanest possible little-sister smile, Amanda reached past her, opened the sitting room door, and let Bridget tumble through.

All eyes fell on Bridget. Her mother’s. Mr. Merrick’s. And . . .

There he was, smiling at her. Vincenzo Carpenini. His face lighting up for her, and only her.

She felt for certain that she had stopped breathing.

“Ah, there you are Bridget,” her mother said blithely, as both men rose to their feet to make their bows. “I have some interesting news. Signor Carpenini has offered to become your teacher.”

Oliver watched as the wide green eyes of the girl in front of them came to land on Carpenini and stay there. Her face paled, making the freckles that covered her skin stand out in stark contrast. There was little doubt that the young lady was surprised to see them—but what worried him more was the awestruck quality that had taken Miss Forrester over.

“I am sure you must be very surprised to see Signor Carpenini, and Mr. Merrick,” Lady Forrester continued, squinting at her daughter slightly. “Especially considering that we had not yet gotten around to leaving a card with either of them.”

Miss Forrester—Bridget—seated herself tentatively next to her mother on the settee, her gaze suddenly shifting from Carpenini’s face to Oliver’s.

“I . . . I am sorry, Mother,” Bridget began, stumbling over the words in a soft voice. And suddenly, Oliver knew that his suspicion was right: Miss Forrester’s visit to them had been clandestine. And he felt the overwhelming need to protect her from her mother’s scrutiny.

“Miss Forrester did write a note,” he blurted out, surprising everyone in the room, including himself. “Just a note. It was very proper, I assure you. She . . . she said your family was in Venice and wondered if I might have Carpenini’s address, to apply to him about his offered lessons.” Oliver tamped down the flush that was threatening to rise to his face. This was not a lie, he told himself. It was simply . . . an improvisation of his lines. “I thought it might be a nice surprise to bring you Carpenini instead.”

“Bridget, is this true?” her mother asked.

“Ah . . . it is as Mr. Merrick says,” Bridget replied hesitantly. Then, latching on to the fiction they were spinning around themselves, “Of course, you are Mr. Merrick. I recognize you . . . from when you came to visit us in Portsmouth.”

“And I you,” Oliver smiled at her. A smile that he hoped conveyed what he meant to say.
Do not worry. It is safe. I will protect
you.

“And I recognize you as well,” Carpenini interjected smoothly. “How could I not recognize the girl who played so beautifully all those years ago? Of course, you are no longer a young girl.” At this last, his face broke into a beatific smile.

That delightful blush that had captivated Oliver when he’d last seen Miss Forrester again spread across her cheeks. Its effect this time was no less potent. But this blush’s cause set Oliver a bit on edge.

He knew that most women’s reactions to a man of Carpenini’s fame and talent were admiring. And that admiration usually bought the man a certain amount of forgiveness. But a girl who would cross a continent on a single letter . . . she would be in far more danger.

“I was so pleased to discover you were in Venice, Miss Forrester,” Carpenini was saying. “Indeed, I was just saying to Oliver that I wished for a student of true talent, and it was so unfortunate that my business keeps me here, when such a student is in England!”

“What luck,” Lady Forrester replied, as she poured herself another cup of tea. “I’m certain Bridget would very much enjoy—and benefit from—your instruction while we spend the next few weeks in the city. What do you think, Bridget?”

The younger lady opened her mouth to speak, but Carpenini interrupted.

“Signora, I am afraid that I would want to instruct the Signorina for more than a few weeks. Now that I have the opportunity . . .”

“But we are on a tour of the Italian peninsula,” Lady Forrester replied smoothly. Almost as if she were negotiating. “Confining ourselves to Venice would be criminal.”