Let It Be Me

Six

THE Marchese di Garibaldi was not a man who did things by halves. It was an instinct bred by the generations of wealth and power that preceded him, the family name having been in the Golden Book for centuries before that document of Venice was forsaken. The Palazzo Garibaldi was evidence of that commitment to luxury. Built in the seventeenth century, designed by that god of Baroque architecture, Baldassarre Longhena, its three stories of white marble facade faced the Grand Canal. Lined with double colonnades, scrollwork, and flourishes, it spoke of greater wealth than anyone from the ancient lineage of the Merricks of East Sussex could dream of.

And that was just the outside.

The Marchese di Garibaldi was also one to hold to traditions. And as a product of the previous century, his version of Carnival was an echo of the old spectacle—bullfights in the streets, acrobats crowding the Piazza San Marco, and lavish, lavish parties that lasted from noon until dawn.

Even though the Austrians now controlled the city and so many of the old names had faded away, the Marchese liked to do what he could to keep the past alive.

“This is madness,” Oliver breathed, making the close air under his mask hot and humid. The Palazzo Garibaldi was lit by a thousand torches, making it as bright as day, a beacon calling to all the boats on the Grand Canal. Long lines of gondolas stretched all the way back to the Rialto Bridge.

“This is Venice, my friend.” Vincenzo clapped him on the shoulder, as they disembarked at the front steps of the palazzo. Oliver had to hold up his trouser legs up to keep them from dropping onto the wet stones.

They were each dressed in the only costumes the Teatro la Fenice had available, taken from her dusty attics. They were clowns, in the traditional commedia dell’arte style. Vincenzo had grudgingly taken the bright, diamond-patterned Harlequin with his cloak, cane, and nimble antics, while Oliver wore the loose white costume of the Pedrolino, with stiff ruffled collar and cone-shaped hat. However, they forwent the painted faces, instead wearing bautas, the traditional male Venetian Carnival mask.

With the dust and moths pounded out of the clown costumes and the bautas firmly in place, they looked as mysterious and anonymous as the next guest. But still—regarding the hulking guards at the door who silently took their invitation, a degree of caution was pragmatic.

Once they crossed the threshold, Oliver let out a small sigh of relief but refused to let his guard down for long.

The inside of the palazzo was no less opulent than the outside and would have been even without the festooned draperies and the trapeze artists hanging from the ceiling. Tintorettos lined the entryway; marble coated every surface. Unlike many of the palazzos that lined the Grand Canal, which had seen better days before the fall of the Republic, the Palazzo Garibaldi was still proud, still in its full flush of beauty.

And currently filled to the brim with a complete crush of men and women in seventeenth – and eighteenth-century costumes, drinking and dancing the last night of amusement away before they became penitent in the morning.

“Do you see the Marchese?” Oliver asked in Italian, scanning the room from behind his mask. “Or his daughter?”

“Hmm?” Vincenzo replied, distracted. “Oh, he will be found eventually. I would not worry so.”

“The whole point of this endeavor is for you to play your new piece for him, and to show him you and Antonia have mended fences.”

“Yes, yes.” Vincenzo waved his hand in the air. “But we should not attack the man the minute we are through the door. He will be much more relaxed later on into the evening.”

That made complete sense, of course, and Oliver nodded in agreement. But there was something about the way Vincenzo dismissed the notion with a wave and the barest quaver in his voice. It set alarms off in Oliver’s head.

“How is it, by the by?” he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

“How is what?”

“The piece. The symphony, the sonata, or whatever it turned out to be. I’ve been out of the house, trying to give you space to work, so I haven’t heard you play it yet.”

“Oh. The piece. It is marvelous, a triumph. Do not worry, all will be well.”

Beneath the mask, Vincenzo was beginning to sweat. Oliver knew it like he knew the back of his hand.

“Damn and blast,” he swore, and pulled Vincenzo to a stop. “You haven’t written anything, have you?”

“Of course I’ve written . . .” Vincenzo blustered.

“Hum it.”

“Hum it?”

“Hum the tune. What have you come up with?”

After a moment, Vincenzo began to hum, so softly that with the crowds and the mask, he was almost inaudible.

Well, at least one of those circumstances could be remedied.

Quicker than Carpenini could blink, Oliver reached out and ruthlessly pulled off his mask. Black eyes blinked back at him.

“Hum the tune, Vincenzo.”

Instead of pretending, Vincenzo threw up his hands. “Fine! I have nothing. Are you happy now that I have confessed it? I have slit my wrists and bled onto the keys and yet the muse gives me nothing. I cannot find the theme for the piece; I know I could grow it into something beautiful if I had a theme, but I will not play something for the Marchese that is less than perfection.”

Oliver shook his head. “You have nothing? Then what, pray tell, have you been doing for the last two days, locked in my house with your piano?”

“Vincenzo! Darling!” came a melodic voice, trilling high above the raucousness of the crowd. “You naughty boy—masks are not meant to come off until morning.”

Both Vincenzo and Oliver turned and caught sight of Antonia di Garibaldi—now Antonia Galetti—floating toward them. There was no doubt it was her. Only the spoiled daughter of the Marchese would be able to get away with such a costume. A wig in the style of the previous century, so tall that Oliver wondered how she kept her balance, was pinned through with stuffed birds, which had unceremoniously had their eyes replaced with fine jewels. Her dress was equally bejeweled—except, that is, for her bosom, which was unadorned and pushed up alluringly, catching the eyes of every guest, male and female alike, who marveled at her bodice for the cantilevered feat of engineering it was.

“But then how would you have been able to find me, my sweet?” Vincenzo replied in equally enthusiastic tones.

Antonia was wearing only a half mask, and thus she was not burdened at all when she leaned forward and gave Vincenzo a lingering kiss on the mouth. Then she pulled his mask back into place.

“Now, keep this on, at least until midnight. Oliver was out for days trying to get you this costume; the least you could do is wear it longer than ten minutes.”

“Well, then he should have done better than a clown suit,” Vincenzo grumbled, with a dark look at Oliver.

But Antonia saved him from any rebuttal by saying, “I quite like it, actually.”

“You do?” Vincenzo asked, a smile playing on his lips.

“Yes, usually you are so overpowering, so forceful. It makes me quite nervous. But no one can be nervous in a circus, with a clown.”

Whatever Vincenzo thought about being emasculated by a clown suit he kept to himself, while Oliver had to choke back his laughter. But as Antonia flashed a naughty smile at him and held out her hand to be kissed (although with the masks, it was more of a bend over than a kiss), Oliver suddenly knew what Vincenzo had been doing in the drawing room for the past two afternoons—and it had nothing to do with composition.

When the muse left him, Carpenini found trouble.

And Antonia Galetti had been trouble for him before.

Antonia was one of Venice’s finest creations—a dark-eyed beauty who was married at the age of twenty to a man four decades her senior. It was inevitable that she would take a lover; in fact, Oliver wouldn’t have been surprised if that expectation had been written into the marriage contract. The only difficulty was, should that lover ever break with the girl, they had to face the wrath of not only Antonia but also her indomitable father.

“Antonia, my dear, introduce me to your friends.”

Who, as it turned out, was right behind them.

“Father, I do not believe any introduction is needed,” Antonia tittered, as she placed a far more chaste peck on her father’s cheek.

The Marchese di Garibaldi had no need of a costume. He would have owned the attention of everyone in the room even in full masquerade, so why bother with fancy dress? Instead, he watched over the festivities like some sort of demigod, unafraid to show his face to the anonymous masses. Indeed, his lack of a costume only made it easier for everyone in attendance to bow and scrape before him.

A man about the age of his daughter’s husband, the Marchese wore his age well. His frame was tall and strong, without an ounce of the weight that normally comes with a lifetime of excess. His face, tanned from living on the Adriatic, contrasted sharply with his silver hair. All in all his physical appearance was as imposing as his reputation, as one of the last standing members of the old guard of Venetian aristocracy.

Of course, the Marchese di Garibaldi’s shrewdness with money and a well-timed third marriage to a German countess contributed to his survival. But not nearly as much as his reputation for supporting and fostering all the musical talent to be had in Venice.

“Marchese,” Vincenzo said, as he bowed low. “It is wonderful to see you again. Thank you for inviting us back into your home.”

The Marchese leveled his gaze at Vincenzo, then Oliver. “Mr. Merrick,” he finally said, his face splitting into a calculated smile. “I enjoyed that little comedy you had a hand in at La Fenice last season. You, are of course, welcome here.” Then he turned to the still somewhat bowed Vincenzo. “Signor Carpenini. The Great Master.” His words dripped with sarcasm, as if they could turn their recipient into the lowest form of vermin simply by hearing them. “My daughter told me she was inviting you. And I admit to discouraging it—if only to spare her another heartbreak.”

“I assure you, Marchese, I have no intention of causing your daughter any more pain. Indeed, I found my heart hurting far more than I realized without her gracious presence in my life.”

“See, Father, I told you.” Antonia hung on her father’s arm. “Now, can’t you say something pleasant to him?”

“It has been less lively of late, I grant you. I even had to go to Vienna over the New Year to alleviate my boredom,” the older gentleman admitted grudgingly.

“I am only too happy to do what I can to enliven things for you, Marchese. And for your beautiful daughter.”

The Marchese gave a small smile, while his daughter giggled on his arm. Then, while the father and daughter turned away briefly to greet another newly arrived guest, Oliver leaned into Vincenzo’s ear.

“Doing it a bit thick, aren’t you?” he muttered.

“Shh! If this plays out as I hope, I won’t need to have a new piece for the Marchese. Showering his daughter with the love she deserves will be enough to earn back my place,” Vincenzo whispered. “Hell, he practically admitted to missing me!”

“‘The love she deserves?’ A consideration she should have had before she found you in bed with her maid.”

But Vincenzo waved that away. “Just you watch. I will be at his daughter’s side all night. And then I will engage him in conversation, which will naturally turn to music, and I’ll have my place back before the night is over.”

“What will happen before the night is over?” Antonia asked, her attention returned to her lover.

“Ah—wouldn’t you like to know, my little pet,” Vincenzo replied. Antonia giggled. Oliver rolled his eyes beneath the mask.

“Oh, Vincenzo,” the Marchese said, breaking the focused concentration of the overly happy couple, “have you heard of a composer named Gustav Klein?”

Vincenzo perked up, obviously pleased to have conversation brought around to something musical. Perhaps his plan would take less time than imagined. “Indeed I have, Marchese—he composed variations on one of my concertos. He is young, but well regarded in Vienna, I believe.”

“He’s not in Vienna anymore.” The Marchese smiled like a serpent and gestured to the newly arrived member of their circle, a blond masked man with a short, terse bow. “Gustav, this is Carpenini. Carpenini, this is Gustav Klein—my new protégé. Come listen to him play later; I would enjoy learning your opinion of him.”





Vincenzo Carpenini was a self-made man. His mother gone before he reached the tender age of four, raised by a kind but absentminded grandmother, Vincenzo learned early on that if you wanted something, you could not wait for it to be given to you. You couldn’t hope it would land in your lap after you had been very, very good and worked very, very hard. You had to take it. By any means necessary.

Once he had achieved a certain level of fame, he had hoped to be able to enjoy that status. And for a time, he did. His music was his life, his soul, and sacrificing a part of his attention to scrambling for recognition made him weary. Even when he had toured the Continent and England, being feted as a master everywhere he went (his last opera, The Virgin and the Chrysanthemum, had been particularly artful, he knew without conceit), that feeling of always having to scrounge, always being chased by someone younger, smarter, better, would not leave him be.

Accepting the Marchese’s patronage five years ago had freed him of the scrambling that came when you knew your work was brilliant but no one else did. With the Marchese beside him, everyone knew. His works were given a stage and performed for the world to see. He was the composer who defined Italian music of the age.

For almost three years, he had sat down and composed. It allowed him to be generous—Oliver had been a recipient of that generosity, ending up on the stage of La Fenice, of all things. But more than anything, it had allowed Vincenzo to enjoy the life he had earned.

And enjoy he did. He enjoyed the fine wines and dances. He enjoyed the women who admired him, the salons and the people who had no greater task than to think all day about abstract things like beauty, art, and the truth about love. People who had never had to trick the butcher into giving a growing boy an extra cut of meat, people who took for granted that life had always been this way and always would.

And then . . . he began to take it for granted, too.

His compositions, while still strong, began to drop off in frequency. Music was no longer what drove him; it was no longer his savior. It was his occupation.

When the Marchese noted at one of his infamous musical gatherings that Carpenini should sit out performing, as it was likely he did not have anything new from the past few months, it was taken by all assembled as a rebuke. As he was about to slink away, acid churning in his stomach, a reprieve came. The Marchese’s newly married (and unhappy) daughter, Antonia, with her sparkling brown eyes, had taken up his cause, saying that anyone who had written such a masterpiece as The Virgin and the Chrysanthemum could not be rushed in composing his next.

And she had looked at him with such sweet intention, how could he help but fall into bed with the girl?

But unfortunately, his instincts for self-preservation abandoned him when he overindulged on wine, especially around Antonia’s luscious little maid.

That was why, tonight, at the Marchese’s Carnival ball, with Antonia back on his arm, her dark eyes twinkling at him from beneath her mask, he was not even risking a sip of wine. No, he needed to be sober; he needed his wits. The wits on which he had survived in his youth would now earn him back his place by the Marchese’s side.

But damned if he knew how.

“I heard that your last opera was enjoyed, Gustav,” Carpenini said drolly, by way of conversation. “Where was it performed again? Linz?”

The party had waged on. He danced endlessly with Antonia, greeting people gaily, all while he gritted his teeth beneath the mask. Now, in the early hours of the morning, he steered Antonia into the music room, where those who mattered gravitated.

Gioachino Rossini, visiting from Paris, was at the far side of the room, waxing rhapsodic about some new opera. He wasn’t much of a composer, Carpenini scoffed, but he tried. Caroline Unger, the young contralto, was down from Vienna and had her wig off, and was laughing with a masked man on a settee. Oliver leaned against the wall, listening to a hired harpist pluck away at her strings, giving the room a practiced air of lightness and formality, when it was anything but. At this point in the evening the masks were left off for the hot pretenses that they were, so Vincenzo felt justified in discarding his.

And in the center, holding court, was the Marchese. With young, pale-faced Gustav Klein at his side.

In that moment, Carpenini knew what he had to do. He had to, God help him, play nice.

Separating the Marchese from his new protégé was simple. Antonia simply flitted to her father’s side and naturally drew his adoring attention. Leaving Klein to Carpenini.

“Not Linz. Vienna.” Klein answered, his Italian clipped by his Austrian accent. He frowned in the direction of the Marchese’s daughter, his scowl disapproving. “In the Theater an dur Wien—and yes, it was well received. In fact, the manager at the opera house told me he had not heard such applause since your Virgin and the Chrysanthemum.”

“Yes, those were a marvelous four weeks that The Virgin played there.”

“Only four? Mine played for six.”

If Klein had said that with any trace of a smile, Carpenini would have been able to respect him, as it would be acknowledging another player in the same game. But the man was so terse, so humorless, that it was as if he did not even see Carpenini standing there. As if he were nothing.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to crush this interloper—this child, this copyist, who had first gained attention by writing variations on his work!—like the bug he was.

“Well, the Vienna opera house has nothing on the acoustics of La Fenice. The sound floats to the ceiling and permeates the air.”

“I look forward to finding out how my work sounds there. The Marchese is sponsoring a performance there next month.”

His eyes shot to Oliver across the room. Had Oliver mentioned that La Fenice was preparing a new opera? If he had, surely he would have mentioned that it was one sponsored by the Marchese, and by this upstart Klein.

The Marchese had brought Klein all the way from Vienna. And now he was staging his latest opera. The situation was becoming more dire by the minute.

“Well, I confess I look forward to hearing it. In fact, I have no idea what this opera is about. What style is it in?”

Klein lifted a brow, then shrugged with decided Germanic stiffness. “It is an old tale. The Odyssey. Greek heroes long at war, one a secret king, lost at sea,” he began, but Vincenzo waved him silent.

“No, no, what would be better than to hear it. I’m sure we would all love to hear what brought the house down in Vienna!” He declared this last sentence so loudly, the entire room could not help but turn and listen to him. Even the unnecessary harpist stopped plucking.

“Come, come, Gustav. You can play the ballet at least? The theme?” he smiled, challenging. “A stanza?”

Gustav’s eyes flitted to where the Marchese stood with Antonia. The room had gone still, waiting. Then the Marchese gave a slight nod and held out his hand toward the pianoforte, inviting Klein to play.

As Klein stepped to the beautiful golden pianoforte that dominated a stage on the far side of the room, all eyes turned to him. And Vincenzo made his way to stand beside the Marchese.

“Dare I ask if you will be gracing us with a new work tonight?” the Marchese asked in a low voice as Klein put his fingers to the keys, the first graceful bars floating over the guests, perking them up and out of their dissipation.

“No?” the Marchese continued, when Vincenzo did not answer directly. “I did not think so. Vincenzo, I am happy to let my daughter be foolish with you, if you can afford her, but that doesn’t mean I have to be. I would have kept you on if you had written anything worth performing while under my roof. But alas, you proved less than worthy.”

Vincenzo could feel the blood rushing to his face, a fury of hate and self-loathing covering his skin like tar. But he could not let this man see. Thus, he schooled his features into passivity and pretended to listen to Klein play.

“Perhaps I did,” he admitted, pressing a hand to his breast. “Although I am currently working on a piece that might prove more so. Tell me, what do you think this Klein will prove?”

And with that enigmatic statement, he bowed and left the Marchese to listen to the music.

Taking two steps back, he found himself against the wall, next to Oliver, who listened intently to the music.

“He’s very good.” Oliver whispered to him after a time.

“Hmph,” was all that Vincenzo could reply. But secretly, that pit of worry that had settled into his stomach upon meeting Klein had begun to grow and churn since he put his fingers to the keys. Klein was good. Very, very good. His fingering was graceful, impeccable. He pulled down on the keys instead of striking them, making the sound less jarring and more of an element of the space they occupied.

The section of his composition that he had chosen to play was powerful, angry. Vincenzo could imagine the wind beating against the Greek sails as rain poured down violently on stage in a depiction of those tragic Greek sailors lost at sea. And then, suddenly, the mood of the music changed—calming, like the storm passing. Klein told a story with his music . . . and he held the attention of every person in the room.

It was a complete disaster.

Damn it all—if only he had known about Klein before!

“Oliver.” Vincenzo turned to his friend, accusation unhidden in his voice. “Why did you not tell me about Klein’s opera being staged at La Fenice? And that the Marchese is financing it?”

“Because I didn’t know. I resigned from the theatre months ago. Remember?”

Oh yes. Oliver’s thwarted departure. Those few weeks Oliver had thought he was headed home had a lasting impact. He had never understood the hold Oliver’s family had on him. Perhaps it was one of the effects of having been raised by one. To his mind, Oliver and his father did not even get along—if they had, why would he have run to Venice at the first opportunity? So why Oliver should jump up to come home when called was beyond him. Family had its uses, Vincenzo supposed—gave one something to lean on when times were tough. But guilt and sacrifice were its pitfalls, and they just got in the way.

“But you still talk to some of the girls, the director,” Vincenzo replied.

“Yes, well, perhaps the director refrained from mentioning the Marchese since he knows the topic is delicate for you. And the girls . . .” Oliver shrugged. “When they talk to me about the opera, it is only to gripe about the lack of female roles.”

Vincenzo looked up, confused. “But doesn’t The Odyssey have a wife, and a daughter? There are a number of women in the story.”

“Yes, but Klein cut them all out of the libretto. Penelope, the wife, is mentioned but never seen. Even the role of Calypso is minor. Our friend Veronica barely has three stanzas to sing. The entire story is all about Odysseus and his men, longing to come home.”

Just then, something began to ferment in Vincenzo’s mind. It was barely more than an inkling, but he had been observing Klein as much as possible that evening, and there was more to his general rigidity than simply being Austrian. There was something almost puritan about his attitude. He regarded the partygoers—especially the ladies, with their soft forms and high-pitched laughter—with disdain.

And now, he writes an opera with almost no parts for women?

“Oh hell, what is it?” Oliver asked, peering at him closely. “I know that look. You are planning something, aren’t you?”

“Not planning, no. I am very much making this up as I go along.” Vincenzo replied, his face breaking into a smile. His first honest smile all evening.

“Vincenzo, I’m warning you. Don’t do anything rash. If the Marchese expels you from his home again, there is no possibility you’ll ever—”

“Stop acting like a grandmother,” Vincenzo whispered vehemently. “Do not worry. I am simply going to test a theory.”

Luckily, Klein finished playing then, lifting his fingers off the keys, allowing the notes to float over the room. Vincenzo made certain his applause was the first, and the loudest.

In his Harlequin costume, he was well positioned to put on a show.

“Bravo! Bravo!” he cried, as he moved through the crowd efficiently, coming to stand next to Klein at the pianoforte. “That was marvelous, Gustav, simply marvelous. I cannot wait to see the production at La Fenice. What an excellent selection you chose to play for us. Showcasing the two sides of nature.”

“Thank you, Signor Carpenini.” Klein gave another one of his short bows. “I am gratified by your compliments.”

“Indeed, the beginning so forceful and powerful, and the calming of the storm so delicate, and . . . feminine.”

The word struck home. Vincenzo could barely hold back his triumph as pure malice flashed over Klein’s face.

“Feminine? Perhaps I did not understand you correctly. My Italian . . .” Klein said by way of excuse, stiff politeness in his voice.

“Feminine? Of the female nature? Although I suppose the angry crashing of the beginning could be described as feminine as well. We’ve all known a woman who is a force of nature.” He found Antonia in the audience and winked at her. She blushed as the crowd tittered, knowingly.

“My work is not feminine,” Klein ground out, his entire being shifting uncomfortably, trying to decide between deferment and engagement.

“What is wrong with feminine?” Vincenzo asked innocently. “Here in Venice, we have the tradition of the Ospedale della Pietà—female foundlings trained in music and regarded as angels. Feminine music is not an insult. Women are the more expressive sex—indeed, some might say it lends them to music and art far more than men.”

Gustav Klein threw back his head and laughed at that. “Women are useful, I’ll grant you. They can reach the higher notes, they can inspire men’s work—but no woman has the education, the deep understanding of music that men have.”

Vincenzo glanced at the Marchese. He had hoped that Klein’s sentiments might earn him a blacker outlook, but the Marchese did not look angry. The man did not express more than mild interest in this sparring for his favor.

Clearly, Vincenzo needed to guide this confrontation through one more turn.

“I am sorry, Gustav, but that is simply not the case. I have female students who far outstrip my male ones.”

“Your male students perhaps, Vincenzo. Not mine.”

And there it was. The way to what he wanted. And Vincenzo would seize it like a man aflame.

“I accept your challenge.” He smiled at Klein graciously.

“What challenge?”

“The challenge you just laid out, my dear fellow. One of my female students against a male one of yours.” Vincenzo knew that every eye in the room was on him as he chanced a glance at the Marchese. The corner of the man’s mouth had lifted ever so slightly. A thrill of triumph went through him.

“I made no such—” Klein began, but then he, too, chanced a look at the Marchese. He saw the same thing Vincenzo had. Quickly, he changed tactic.

“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?”