by Darcy Burke
Concertgoers of Europe! Will you acclaim the mawkish melodies offered by the second-rate composer Nicholas Becker? Or will you stand up and proudly applaud the true musical masters of our time? Consider well, as the course of history is in your hands!
-Varga Virtuoso (a street handbill)
The coach slowed through the crowded streets of Vienna. Clara watched out the window as tall, ornate buildings scrolled past, interspersed with gardens and statues. People wore heavy coats and thick pelisses against the chilly air, and there were far fewer umbrellas than in London during the spring.
“Worried that we’ll be in another cold, provincial hotel?” Darien asked. “Never fear. We’re staying at the Hofburg—the imperial palace.”
Nicholas lifted his head. He had said little during the three-day journey from Prussia, spending much of the trip in reading. It had given Clara far too much leisure to think about Darien. Their gazes had tangled time and again, unsettling her until she had taken refuge in the corner of the carriage and closed her eyes.
Under pretense of napping, she replayed every touch, every caress of their nights together. Now a new melody was singing through her, clear and passionate. Her fingers itched to set it to paper. In her heart she called the piece Amore, though she could never reveal its truth to her brother. No, she must come up with a more innocent title.
“I thought Emperor Francis was a supporter of Varga.” Nicholas closed his book of poetry and gave Darien a questioning look.
“That doesn’t mean he will stint us his hospitality,” Darien said. He stretched his arms along the seat. “Perhaps we can win him over. After some serious rehearsing, of course.”
“Of course,” her brother said, his voice thin.
Clara’s breath tightened with worry. The last two rehearsals had been painful to overhear. Darien unrelentingly pushed Nicholas, which only served to make her brother more withdrawn and anxious.
She understood, though. Only too well.
Darien pressed Nicholas because of the night Clara had accompanied him. He heard the echo of what the music could be, but Nicholas could not, quite, give it, and so the rehearsals disintegrated into swamps of sullen notes and sticky passages. There was no lightness to the music—and that way lay failure. For all of them. Ten days until the duel. She tasted lead at the thought.
Still, they were in Austria now. Perhaps things would improve at the palace.
***
Dare set his violin case down and surveyed his suite. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains at the windows, the décor in the green and gilt rooms elegantly understated. Servants bustled in with his luggage, while others hurried to set the table in the sitting area with tea, coffee, and an assortment of pastries.
“It is comfortable,” Henri said with a glance at the furnishings. “At least the Viennese understand good taste. Unlike that English Pavilion.”
He gave an exaggerated shudder. Clearly his French sensibilities had been forever offended by the excesses in Brighton.
Dare noted the rich aroma drifting from the table. “Not to mention the Viennese coffee. Later we’ll visit the Café Frauenhuber. I think Nicholas might like to take a cup of schwarzer alongside the ghosts of Mozart and Beethoven.”
He hoped an outing just for pleasure would help ease matters. Their recent rehearsals had been fraught with frustration, and the music had suffered. Indeed, he ought to be less hard on Nicholas. After all, Dare had experienced one of the most transcendent musical evenings of his life because the man had been too indisposed to play. But even that could not excuse the composer’s highly unprofessional behavior that night.
As for his own behavior… Dare tugged at his cravat, ignoring Henri’s look of annoyance as he mussed the perfectly tied knot. He had not been able to resist Clara. He had not even tried. Their physical union had been a natural extension of their one night of perfect music—twining notes yielding to twining bodies, the two of them striving together and making something glorious.
Every night he wanted her there, between the sheets of his bed. Whether that bed was at an inn or a palace, it didn’t matter. He burned for her.
But he craved more than physical passion with Clara. What had passed between them as they performed, their musical connection, had marked him. Marked them both.
He had asked her to accompany him again, and she’d adamantly refused, saying it would be a terrible blow to Nicholas if she usurped his place at the piano. Fear had flashed through her lovely, pale eyes, and he had not pressed her. Yet.
Dare blew out a breath. He must forgive Nicholas. To do any less would be the worst hypocrisy, after making illicit, passionate love to Clara.
“Monsieur.” Henri gestured to the table. “It would be a crime to let these pastries languish. And even worse, the coffee is growing cold. I beg you, let me fetch the Beckers.”
“Do so.”
It had not escaped Dare’s notice that their suite was just across the hall. Clara would be sleeping in her silken nightdress only a few stealthy paces away. Those lush lips and rosy-tipped breasts, the waterfall of her hair waiting to be unbraided and loosened, a spill of pale gold across her naked back…
“He is here!” Nicholas burst through the door, his eyes wide.
Clara and Henri crowded close behind, looking as unsettled as the composer.
“Who?” Dare asked, though he suspected he knew.
“Varga.” Henri spat the name. “We spotted him just now, at the end of the hallway.”
“Blast.” Dare bunched his hands into fists and strode to the door, but there was no sign of his rival. “Paris, I can understand, but this—it’s intolerable. He must be staying in the Hofburg, too. The emperor would insist on it.”
“Varga is sly and devious, monsieur,” Henri said. “We are so close to the duel, it does not surprise me that he would arrange things to give you the most discomfort.”
Dare shot a glance at Nicholas, who looked pale. Another complication he could ill afford, another strain upon his already fragile composer. The possibility of failure insinuated itself, a clammy hand upon the back of his neck.
He shook it off. Self-doubt would only make matters worse. And he was the master, after all. Varga stood little chance of proving otherwise.
“We shall give him no satisfaction,” Dare said.
He closed the door, then gestured them to the table, although the delectable Austrian pastries would now taste like dust in his mouth.
Varga, in Vienna. Nothing good could come of it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Café Frauenhuber was crowded, in a companionable manner. Dare took a deep breath redolent of coffee and smoke. Conversation filled the high-ceilinged room, a comfortable buzz of German, with a smattering of Italian and French.
“This way, Master Reynard, Mr. Becker.” The white-coated waiter bowed, then led them across the parquet floor to a cozy alcove table. “May I bring you coffee?”
“Yes, two schwarzer.”
Dare had sipped many cups in his travels, from the brown water the English served to the thick Turkish brew he’d savored in Morocco. But nothing rivaled the smooth, dark coffee of the Viennese coffeehouse.
Nicholas glanced about curiously. Dare followed his attention as it moved from a table of boisterous university boys to a lone man garbed in black, scribbling furiously in a notebook.
“Look.” Nicholas’s voice was thoughtful. “That might be another Beethoven, composing in obscurity.”
“I think the next Beethoven is here,” Dare said, then half smiled as his composer stared harder at the fellow. “No, not that gentleman over there. The next Beethoven may well be sitting across the table from me.”
Nicholas jerked his gaze back to Dare. “Oh—I wouldn’t say that!”
“Some are.”
The waiter brought their coffee, two neat white cups each on their own silver tray, accompanied by a glass of water and a spoon.
Nicholas picked up the spoon and turned it between his
fingers. “That’s not all people are saying about the compositions. I try not to listen, but—”
“Then don’t. Your worth is not measured by what people say, Nicholas, but by the music you write, which is magnificent. Don’t allow them to judge you. Let your pieces speak for themselves.”
Dare, too, had heard the criticism, which largely echoed what Varga had said in Paris—that Becker’s compositions used overly emotional techniques to mask the fact the composer was a second-rate talent. Varga’s supporters had taken to parroting his opinions, claiming the music was too sentimental, too lushly romantic.
Dare knew it was those very qualities of emotion that would make Becker’s music live on and touch the hearts of listeners for centuries to come.
“I will try.” Nicholas sounded unconvinced.
Dare drank his coffee, letting his mouth fill with the poignant flavor before swallowing. “What are you working on now?”
“Ah. A new piece.”
“Have you a title for it?”
Nicholas dropped his gaze to the table. “Not yet, no.”
“Our recent… troubles haven’t impaired your composing, have they?” If the man had lost his muse, it would be ruinous.
“Of course not!” Fingers tight around his cup, Nicholas took a sip. “It’s just… it’s still in process. The newest work. But coming along well, I assure you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
And would be more relieved still to actually hear the composition. Perhaps at one of their upcoming rehearsals, though he did not like the idea of working on new music anywhere Varga could eavesdrop.
Varga. As if thinking of the man had summoned him, Darien’s rival strode into the coffeehouse. The waiter hurried up to him, but Varga brushed him aside. His dark eyes went unerringly to the corner where Dare and Nicholas sat.
“Hold fast,” Dare murmured. “Varga’s approaching.”
Nicholas paled and carefully placed his cup on the table.
“Ah. Reynard. So, you are in Vienna.” Varga’s tone was overly hearty as he came to stand directly in front of their table. He gave a smile more akin to a sneer, then glanced at Nicholas. “And the little composer. Hoping for inspiration? You will need it. But where is the sister? Left behind to amuse herself at the palace, is it? I’m certain she will find many amusements there. The footmen are all quite handsome.”
“You black-hearted knave!” Nicholas scraped his chair back and stood, his hands lifted into fists. “How dare you speak such insults? I demand satisfaction.”
“Do you?” Varga smiled like a cat with a mouse under its paw.
“Easy now,” Dare said, keeping his voice smooth, though anger flared through him. He rose and laid one hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “We’ve a duel already scheduled—and I assure you Varga will be the loser.”
“Bold words, Reynard.” Varga turned to him, hatred flaring in his eyes. “A pity your pet here isn’t man enough to take matters into his own hands.”
Dare felt Nicholas tense. Damn, the boy was about to do something rash.
“Nicholas.” He weighted his words with warning. “Don’t—”
Too late. The composer seized his glass of water and flung it in Varga’s face.
“That should cool your evil tongue,” he cried.
“Ahh!” Varga spluttered. He drew one arm across his cheeks. “You puppy! I should take you outside right now.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Nicholas was breathing heavily, a wild look in his eyes.
The coffeehouse fell silent as the patrons noticed the confrontation. Even the scribbler set his pen down. Anticipation hung in the air, and Dare swallowed a curse. No matter how this played out, it would end badly.
Varga preened, despite the water dripping from his hair. It was the kind of scene he reveled in creating. Dare had seen it often enough.
Varga gestured to the door. “I would hate to keep you waiting.”
Dare tightened his grip on his composer’s shoulder and the silence in the air sharpened, a knife pointed directly at them. He saw Nicholas’s throat move as he swallowed, but the composer remained still.
“No?” Varga raised one eyebrow. “Well then, perhaps I shall go to the palace and renew my acquaintance with your sister. She did not seem particularly amiable when we met, but I will no doubt find a remedy.”
Dare moved first. He released Nicholas and took a fistful of Varga’s coat. Twisting it, he pulled his rival closer.
“Stay. Away. From her,” he said, his voice low.
Varga’s eyes widened. Clearly he had not been expecting the master to join the fight so quickly.
“Release me,” Varga hissed. “I am not alone here.”
Dare gave him little shake, then glanced behind his rival to see two brawny men hovering in the doorway. They looked as tough and scarred as professional brawlers, which they likely were. Of course Varga had come prepared for a fight.
“We will aid you, Master Reynard!” A fair-haired young man sprang up from a nearby table, gesturing to his companions to do the same. “Have no fear of Herr Varga or his minions.”
“I don’t think—oof!”
Varga had taken advantage of Dare’s distraction to jab a surprisingly painful hand into his stomach. As Dare tried to catch his breath, his rival slithered free.
“Snake!” Nicholas yelled, and swung at Varga.
The henchmen pushed into the coffeehouse, and the earnest Austrian boys knocked their table over in their enthusiasm to join the fight. China and glassware clattered to the floor, and the café erupted with motion.
“Out! Out!” A man with large whiskers—presumably the proprietor—gestured urgently, desperate to move the conflict outside his walls.
The white-coated waiters did their best to contain the rapidly spreading fight and push the combatants out the door. Coffee splashed and another glass crashed to the floor. The entire establishment had taken sides—some for Varga, the rest for Dare.
The frustration and worry that had been building up inside Dare suddenly burst free like a dammed-up river released, pouring out of his fists and feet. Fierce glee filled him. He dodged around the university boys, only to meet one of Varga’s brawlers. Quick as thought, Dare slammed his fist into the man’s face. His knuckles burned, but it was his bowing hand—it could take a little damage.
The smell of coffee strong in his nose, he squinted, looking for Varga. There—darting out the door.
Nicholas lingered near their table, facing off against Varga’s hired man. Dare winced as the composer threw a punch that connected squarely with the man’s ribs. The brawler seemed unaffected, but Nicholas shook out his hand, a look of pain on his face.
“Nicholas, hurry,” Dare called. “Varga’s escaping.”
He gave a swift elbow to the brawler. Leaving the man gasping for breath, Dare grabbed Nicholas by the shoulder and pulled him to the door.
They burst out of the coffeehouse to find the street knotted with men fighting. Word of the clash between the rival musicians had spread quickly. Chants of “Varga! Varga!” were met with “Reynard—Master Reynard!”
Dare bared his teeth in a grin, squared his shoulders, and waded in.
“Darien!” Nicholas dodged blows and tugged at his arm. “I don’t see Varga anywhere. We must return to the palace—Clara is alone. What if he…”
Varga’s taunts were designed to goad Nicholas, and Dare doubted there was anything of substance behind the words. Clara had Henri and a palace full of guards and servants to look after her. Still, it was wise not to underestimate his rival.
“Yes, let us see how your sister fares,” Dare said, blocking a fist swinging too near his ribs.
He and Nicholas ducked into a quiet side street, away from the wild energy of the fight and back toward the high walls of the palace.
***
Clara hurried into Darien’s sitting room, then halted in surprise.
“Gracious! The maid said I’d best come quic
kly, but whatever have the two of you been doing? Is Vienna such a rough city?”
Nicholas sported a bruise on one cheek and his cravat had come undone. He was holding his right hand awkwardly near his body, but when he saw her looking he straightened his arm. Still, she knew the guilty shadow in his expression that meant he was hiding something.
And Darien… When their eyes met, a jolt of sensation flew through her, hot and delicious. His hair was rakishly disheveled and he’d removed his coat. For a scorching moment she recalled the feel of his skin against hers, his strong arms around her.
His mouth curved into a devilish smile, as though he could tell what she was thinking. “Vienna is not usually dangerous. Unless one has made enemies.”
“Varga attacked us,” Nicholas said, his voice unsteady. He sank into one of the chairs. “There was a tremendous brawl at the coffeehouse.”
“Yes.” Darien grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s spread to half the city by now.”
“Why would it?” Clara asked.
“Because the musical duel is in less than a fortnight, and people love having a cause to champion. And fight over.”
Nicholas scowled. “I cannot believe anyone supports that snake, when you are so clearly the better man. And musician.”
“The rivalry is what makes it exciting,” Darien said. “And will make my victory all the sweeter when I defeat him. Which, to that end, calls for more rehearsal. Tidy up, Nicholas, and I’ll meet you in the parlor. Perhaps the temper of the afternoon will aid us in besting Il Diavolo.”
“Yes, master.” Nicholas rose and, shoulders slumped, left the sitting room.
“Well,” Clara said, “as long as you are both unharmed, that is the important thing.”
She threaded her fingers together to keep from running her hands over his body to make sure he had taken no injury.
“Clara.” Darien’s voice was low.
He took a step toward her, and she backed away from his enticing heat.
Their nights of passion in Prussia must not be repeated. The duel was approaching so quickly, and if Nicholas found out, it would be a disaster. She must keep a proper distance from Darien, and try to erase the yearnings of her body. But she could not deny how every moment her blood sang with the notes of his name.
