Sonata for a Scoundrel (10 page)

“Beg pardon,” the liveried servant said, clearing a path in front of them. “Excuse us. Master Reynard must prepare.”

Clara felt the weight of curious stares as they proceeded toward the shining piano at the far side of the room. Her feet sank into the plush carpet, and for a guilty moment she was relieved to be only the composer’s sister. Nothing was expected of her but to turn pages for Nicholas.

In contrast, Master Reynard seemed completely at ease as he made his way to the back of the room, acknowledging greetings as he went. His dark coat was a welcome patch of calm amidst the excess, his serenity lending her strength. Clara kept her eyes fixed on his back, glad when they fetched up at the reassuring solidity of the grand piano. The keyboard was a bulwark between them and the crowd. She glanced at Nicholas, seeing near-panic in his expression.

Nothing could erase the terrifying fact that the king himself would soon grace them with his presence.
The king.
Her newest composition was about to be debuted for royalty. The thought held equal parts fright and elation.

Nicholas slid onto the piano bench, his shoulders stiff. Clara drew up a chair upholstered in Chinese silk and positioned it so she could easily stand and turn pages for her brother. The air was stifling, and she found it impossible to sit calmly. Her fingers twisted around and around, like the carved serpents twining about the nearby columns.

Master Reynard removed his violin from its case, tightened his bow, and shook his hair back from his face with a toss of his head.

“An
A
, please.”

Nicholas played the note for the master to match, the ordinary act of tuning up lending a veneer of normalcy to the proceedings. Master Reynard played a run of notes, liquid and clear, and Clara closed her eyes, letting the sound briefly soothe her. Hopefully Nicholas felt the same effect. He was very pale, his lips pressed tightly together. She prayed he would not be ill.

At Darien Reynard’s first notes, the crowd moved to the chairs facing the piano. A richly dressed fellow who seemed to be the master of ceremonies stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! His Royal Majesty, King William the Fourth. Her Majesty, Queen Consort Adelaide.”

Everyone rose and turned to the doors at the back of the room. Clara and her brother hastily stood, and Master Reynard tucked his violin under his elbow.

In the hush following the announcement, the king entered, his wife on his arm. He was stately looking, his white hair carefully styled, his features still strong above the collar of his heavily brocaded coat. The queen was rather younger, and reserved in her manner.

As the monarchs progressed into the room the lords bowed and the ladies sank into deep, reverent curtsies. Clara spread her skirts, the fabric rustling, and hoped her curtsy would not offer insult to the ruler of the British Empire. Gaze fixed on the figured carpet, she was certain the sound of her heart knocking in her throat must be audible to the entire room. At last, after an interminable length, the master of ceremonies spoke again.

“Please, be seated.” After the rustles and whispers subsided, he continued. “It is with great pleasure that we present this evening’s entertainment. Playing for your delight, the world-renowned violinist, Master Darien Reynard.”

Vigorous applause followed his pronouncement, and the master stepped in front of the piano. They had decided yesterday he would begin with a solo piece, to give Nicholas a chance to hear the acoustics and ready himself.

Master Reynard swept another bow to the king, lifted his violin, and began. The Telemann
Fantasia No. 7
was a perfect choice, Clara thought as the ornate melody filled the room. It curled, notes swirling and opulent, the music perfectly fitting the surroundings.

From her place beside the piano she had an excellent view of the audience. And while Darien Reynard was compelling from any angle, she found herself watching the crowd as they watched him. Most of the ladies in attendance, and a fair number of the gentlemen, looked, in a word, smitten. Some regarded him avidly, as if he were a particularly appetizing dish; others gazed with dreamy expressions. She located the young man of the autograph sitting beside his Margaret near the front. They were surreptitiously holding hands, the intimacy nearly concealed by her wide skirts.

The king nodded as he listened to the master play. The queen leaned forward, a wistful look on her face. A few scattered listeners had their eyes closed, but they did not sleep. All were enthralled by this single man playing a solo violin—so simple an act, and yet so stunningly complex. Darien Reynard held the king and the assembled court in the palm of his hand with an ease she found breathtaking.

The piece finished, too soon. The master waited for the applause to subside, then swept one hand toward the piano.

“Your Majesty, members of the court, it gives me great pleasure to introduce a tremendously talented new composer—Mr. Nicholas Becker.”

Nicholas rose from the bench and made a stiff bow to the royal couple. His hands shook as he resumed his seat.

Master Reynard nodded at Nicholas, then turned back to the king. “We will play for you his newest work, the
Air in E minor
, never before performed. It is a true honor to premiere it in such company.”

He brought his violin to his shoulder and waited for Nicholas to begin the first chord.

And waited.

The silence stretched while Nicholas sat, frozen, at the piano. Clara dug her nails into her palms, as the expectation centered on Nicholas grew more focused by the moment.
Oh, please, play.
Above, the glittering stares of the dragons turned malevolent. Her stomach tightened as if she had swallowed a stone. What would happen to them if Nicholas were unable to perform?

It simply did not bear thinking of. He would play. He must.

She leaned forward and set her hand on his shoulder, then spoke the word their father used when commanding them to play.

“Commence.” She strove to imitate Papa’s severe inflection.

The echo of the music master’s voice penetrated Nicholas’s fear. He let out a shaky breath, then spread his fingers over the keys. The first chord rang out, and Clara leaned back in her seat, her palms damp inside her gloves.

The first few measures were not as clear and confident as they had been in rehearsal, but at least he was playing. The violin joined in, the melody soaring and spiraling up to the gilded ceiling, and the tight line of Nicholas’s shoulders eased. The
Air
was launched, and Clara could breathe again.

After the first page-turn she ventured a glance across the room. She could not say for certain, but it seemed the king was pleased. Yet even the King of England could not hold her attention long, not while Darien Reynard stood, splendid in his dark coat, and performed her music. He played all the yearning she had written into the
Air
, infusing it with depth and passion.

Last night he had played it ably, stopping to work out passages and discuss with Nicholas the phrasing and dynamics. She’d had to bite her tongue to keep from answering, but Nicholas had done well enough in her stead. That morning they’d spent two more hours shaping, polishing, and it was a revelation to Clara to hear Master Reynard take the notes and make them his.

He colored her music with his own hopes and hungers—invisible and unknown, but audible in the sing and pulse of his violin. It was enthralling. She barely remembered in time to turn the last page for Nicholas.

The piece finished, and there was silence. Clara held perfectly still, breath bottled up in her throat. Then the king rose, clapping loudly, and the rest of the court followed suit, their approval free and genuine. Clara exhaled, as Darien Reynard strode to the piano. Taking Nicholas by the elbow, the master drew him forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Nicholas Becker!”

The applause redoubled, and the tips of her brother’s ears turned pink. Master Reynard clapped him on the back, then turned and met Clara’s gaze. She’d proven her worth; he had to admit as much. He nodded to her, acknowledgement in his moss-green eyes, and she flushed with warmth.

They had done it. Their first successful premiere. She grinned at Nicholas as he returned to the piano.

“Oh, nicely done! You played the
Air
very well.” No need to mention the uncertain start. “I’ve no doubt the king was pleased.”

The residue of nervousness lingered in her brother’s shaky smile.

“It was acceptable,” he said in a low voice. “The next concert should be easier at any rate. No kings in the audience.”

She patted the piano bench. “Master Reynard is commencing the finale.”

He had decided to conclude the performance with a solo piece by Handel; something well known and sure to please, in the unlikely event the
Air
was not well received.

By the end of the Handel, Clara had to blink herself back to earth, the notes still ringing through her. She shot a glance at her brother. To her relief, he seemed quite recovered.

Master Reynard took several bows, and gestured again for Nicholas to join him. At last the applause faded, and the audience stood as the king and queen exited the room. The master tucked his violin away in its case, then tipped his head to Nicholas.

“Now we repair to the gallery, where you may continue to accept the praise that is your due.”

Nicholas’s eyes met Clara’s in a quick, uneasy acknowledgement, then he nodded at the maestro. “Certainly.”

Clara trailed behind them into the white and gilt gallery, the colors soothing after the saturated intensity of the Music Room. She found an unoccupied settee in one corner, and Nicholas fetched her a cup of lemonade before the crowd closed in around him. Master Reynard, too, was swept away, and she could not help but notice how obviously the ladies vied for his attention. There was nothing left for her to do but to perch on the cushion and sip her lemonade. Alone.

For a moment Clara indulged in imagining that
she
was acknowledged as the composer, receiving the admiration and accolades. But how quickly it would turn to shock and condemnation. Worst of all would be the look on Darien Reynard’s face upon learning how they had lied to him. No. This was how it must be. Useless to try and imagine otherwise; their deception was too well begun.

She took another sip of lemonade, savoring the cool, tart sweetness, and looked about the room. The people were different even from the crowds in Mayfair. It was not every day she had the opportunity to observe the court at a close distance. Or any distance, for that matter.

They were dressed in the pinnacle of fashion, the men in proper long-tailed coats, the ladies in a bright array of puff-sleeved gowns and glittering jewelry. Queen Adelaide looked splendid, despite her sad eyes, in a blue velvet gown with gauzy lace sleeves. Diamond combs sparkled in her elaborately coiffed hair.

Clara’s own chignon was far too simple, though she had added ostrich plumes dyed to match the teal of her dress—and blessed Madame Lamond again for including them. Still, her coiffure was noticeably lacking compared to the profusion of rolls and curls so popular with the ladies of the court.

Darien Reynard laughed—how quickly she had come to recognize that sound—and she glanced over at him. She could make out a bit of his black coat, a gleam of light on his dark hair as he bent his head to answer yet another gorgeously gowned lady. Clara sighed and turned her now-empty cup of lemonade between her gloved palms. The air in the gallery was close and sticky, and she longed for the sharp sea wind. At least on the beach her solitude had felt like part of the greater whole.

That morning she’d risen early, finally free to follow the call of the ocean. All night the waves had hushed through her dreams, beckoned her to the shore. In the early light the water lay pale and lucent. The strand behind the hotel had been quiet but for a few people: a boy prodding at the pebble-littered beach with a stick while his mother looked on, a white-capped girl hurrying head-down, her cloak wrapped about her thin figure.

Small stones had clattered softly under Clara’s feet as she walked forward, directly to the water’s edge. A constantly changing edge, a fascinating edge, where the sea pulled and sucked at the land. Heedless of the foam at her feet, she had bent and dabbled her fingers, then brought them to her mouth. Salt. But not a simple brine, for there had been a wildness, a rough tang to the flavor. Her first taste of the sea had not disappointed.

Clara sighed and took a shallow breath of the cloying air, so far removed from the freshness of the shore. She leaned back, simply another inanimate pillow lumped on the settee, and studied the pattern of the carpet. The cross-hatched red and gold was obscured by a variety of splendid footwear, but she had managed to count forty-four repetitions when a well-modulated voice broke her concentration.

“What have we here? ’Tis a neglected diamond, left to shine in brilliant solitude.”

She glanced up to find a brown-haired gentleman beside her. His look was assessing, and for a moment she felt like a bird watched by a cat.

His companion, a fellow with a thin nose and richly brocaded waistcoat, nodded.

“Indeed, but her beauty has obviously blinded you. She is not so colorless as a diamond, not at all.” He raised a quizzing glass and surveyed her through it. “I declare her a rare sapphire.”

“Milady.” The first speaker went on one knee before her, in a decidedly theatrical gesture. “You must forgive our poor manners—it is only that we are struck by your air and must make your acquaintance. I am Lord Rawley, and this stiff fool is my friend, Viscount Tilson.”

“Not so foolish that I cannot spot a perfect jewel at twenty paces,” the viscount replied. He tucked his glass away and made her a very precise bow. “But please, tell us who you are before my friend perishes of curiosity at your feet.”

“I am Miss Clara Becker.” She could not help smiling at them in turn.

“Indeed.” Lord Rawley leaned closer and plucked the empty lemonade cup from her hands. “May I fetch you some more refreshment, Miss Becker? I declare, it would make my evening complete.”