Sonata for a Scoundrel (32 page)

They lost the beat, found it again, then lost it. Clara leaned forward. Before she could say a word, he wrapped himself about her and rolled them over.

He smiled down at her, that devilish grin she loved so well.

“Delightful as it was having you over me,” he said, “you were driving me to distraction. We can practice it again, another time.”

There would be no more times.

“Take me,” she said, grasping his shoulders.

His gaze holding hers, he began moving over her, sure and strong. The feel of his shaft sliding in and out made her breath speed. Heat built in her center, that delicious tension of need and desire winding through her.

No more thoughts, no more sadness. Only the plunge and pull of two bodies striving together, the mad dance to unheard music. The sweet pounding pleasure that surged over them both, a wave breaking, and breaking again.

She wrapped her arms around him as he stilled, and held on tight. The aftermath of fulfillment pulsed through her, each beat quieter than the last.

Then the last trembling echo of bliss slipped from her body, and was gone.
Darien
, her heart whispered,
I love you.
But her lips remained silent.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Milano hums with excitement as the city prepares for the much-anticipated Grand Duel between Maestro Reynard and Signor Varga. Betting is heavy in the streets, with the odds slightly in Reynard’s favor. Florist shops have been denuded of their blossoms, and coveted tickets to the event are selling at several times their face value. Tonight there will be fireworks!

-Il Pettegolo

C
lara woke, alone—as she would always wake. The cold sheets beside her held only the faintest scent of Darien, dissipating even as she clutched the pillows against her face. She rolled over and sought the soft darkness of sleep once more, unwilling to open her eyes and let the day fully begin.

Two hours later, head foggy with wisps of dreaming, she woke again. It was no use staying in bed any longer; she must rise and face what the future brought.

The maid fetched her a cup of morning chocolate and a light breakfast of pastries and fruit. Clara had little appetite. The food was tasteless in her mouth, but she made herself eat. She would not be able to support Nicholas, or keep up a façade for Darien, if she felt light headed with hunger.

After she was dressed, she went and rapped on her brother’s door. There was no answer—likely he was already working with Darien. She nearly turned her steps to the maze of servant’s passages leading to their rehearsal room, but she did not think she would be able to watch him play without giving in to the tears pressing, hot and uncomfortable, against her chest.

Instead, she returned to her rooms and tried to compose a letter to him. She sat at the writing desk and stared at the cloud-flecked sky outside her window. The room was quiet, but for the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantel.

Pen in hand, she considered the creamy sheet of vellum, trying to think what to write as the ink dried on the nib. No words would come—but music would. A sweet, elegiac melody moved through her. With a heavy breath, she bent her head and began to scribe the notes of her farewell.

A half hour later, someone rapped loudly on her door.

“Clara?” Darien’s voice sounded through the thick wood.

“One moment!”

She shoved the composition under the other loose sheets of paper on the desk, smearing her most recently inked notes, then went and opened the door to Darien.

“Is Nicholas here?” he asked.

“I thought you were rehearsing.” The first whisper of worry coiled about her heart.

“He was supposed to meet me over an hour ago to run through the pieces for the competition.” Darien ran his hand through his dark hair, disheveling it. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

“He’s not in his rooms?” She stepped into the hallway, making for her brother’s suite.

Oh, Nicholas, not again. Please
. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.

“If he’s there, he’s not answering,” Darien said, following her. “And the door is locked.”

Clara tapped on her brother’s door and called his name. When he did not reply, she knocked harder. There was no response. She beat her fist against his door, refusing to give way to her rising panic.

“Stop.” Darien took her hand and frowned at her reddened knuckles.

“But—”

“Come.” Without releasing her hand, he led her down to his rooms.

As they entered his parlor, Peter Widmere left off pacing the ivory-hued carpet. She glimpsed Henri in the bedroom, brushing out one of Darien’s coats.

“Did you find Nicholas?” Peter asked.

“No. Fetch the palace guards to break down his door.” Darien’s voice was tight.

Clara felt dizzy with fear. Where was her brother?

“Is that really necessary?” Peter frowned.

“Yes.” There was no arguing with Darien’s tone. Without another word his agent left the room.

“I…” Clara swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “I don’t think Nicholas has done himself harm.”

She prayed the words were true.

“Perhaps not willingly,” Darien said, “but we’ve both seen what your brother is capable of.”

Tears pricked the corner of her eyes. “No. He would not have… He swore to me he had stopped drinking.”

Had her brother faltered and fallen, on the very eve of the duel? She had trusted him, believed in the strength of their bargain. Had Nicholas seen the truth—that she was desperately in love with Darien Reynard?

Darien had not released her hand. His clasp was warm over her chilled fingers.

“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.