Sonata for a Scoundrel (14 page)

“We’re very near the border,” Dare said. “Peter arranges the tour with just these types of delays in mind. It shouldn’t be a problem, though we’ll be short on rehearsal time.”

“Rehearsal, is it?” The landlady bustled to their table, carrying a tray laden with bowls of stew and fragrant loaves. “Do you play? Why, we’ve a fortepiano in the private parlor. After supper you’re welcome to it, though it hasn’t been played in…” She paused, a bowl of stew in one hand. “Nigh on five years, I’d say. Elsie Simmons used to nip over and give us a tune, but she married a Yorkshire man and has gone since. More ale?”

Nicholas nodded, and the woman fetched an extra glass as Mr. Dubois joined them.

“Monsieur, you are well?” The valet took the place beside Clara and peered over at Dare. “It is not healthy, riding about in the rain. I cannot recommend it. An ague may take you.”

“Henri, I keep you on as my valet, not my nursemaid. I assure you, I am in excellent health.”

“Mr. Dubois has a point,” Clara said, giving him a direct look. “What would we do if you were to fall ill? Has that ever happened?”

“As a matter of fact, it has.” Dare took a bite of stew.

“Really? What did you do?” Nicholas leaned forward, a light of interest in his eyes that Dare had missed seeing the past few weeks.

“It was in Sweden, last winter. I had agreed to play for the queen’s birthday celebrations. The day before there was a huge feast, and, well, I don’t suppose you have ever tried aquavit?”

Both Nicholas and his sister shook their heads, and Henri rolled his eyes. “Vile stuff, monsieur. You learned your lesson there.”

“Were you poisoned?” Clara asked.

“Only in my judgment. Do you know, the Swedes have a curious custom. They go naked into an overheated box until they can stand it no more, then run out and roll in the snow.” He darted a quick look across the table, to see Clara’s cheeks flush with embarrassment at the topic.

“It sounds most unpleasant,” Nicholas said.

“Not at all. It’s quite invigorating.”

Henri gave a snort. “Until you caught the terrible chill. Not so invigorating then.”

“No. And when I was shaking so hard I could barely hold my violin, it was horrible. Still, I was determined to perform.”

“What happened?” Nicholas asked.

“I could not disappoint the queen—though that is the only time in my life I expect to play reclining on a chair. I managed the piece, and then had to be carried out.”

Clara clasped her hands tightly together. “How dreadful for you!”

“Ah,” Henri said. “That was not the worst of it. No, the worst was that… that
weasel
continued the concert and claimed your place of honor.”

“He saw his chance, and he took it.” Dare lifted his glass and let the ale soothe the sour taste from his mouth.

“Who?” Nicholas asked.

“Anton Varga.” Henri spat the words. “The most ungrateful, slime-dwelling—”

“Enough. We don’t need to descend to his level.” Tempting though it might be.

“Varga?” Nicholas tilted his head. “He’s a famous violinist in his own right, isn’t he?”

The valet made a face. “Upstart. He wants to be
the
most famous, and takes every chance to try and unseat Master Reynard. And after all you taught him!”

Nicholas set down his spoon and looked at Dare. “He was your student?”

“Briefly.” And what a mistake that had been. The arrogant young man had arrived at Dare’s lodgings in Vienna, demanding that the maestro teach him everything. “A very difficult student. Most of our short time together was spent with Varga trying to prove he was the better player.”

Henri pushed his empty stew bowl away. “That has not changed. But this spring you will settle the matter once and for all.”

“You are speaking of the competition?” Clara asked.

Dare allowed himself to look fully at her. The question echoed in her expressive eyes, and her soft lips were slightly parted. He recalled too well the feel of that softness under his mouth, the way her tongue had tentatively met his. It had been her first kiss, surely.

He cleared his throat.

“Yes, the musical duel between us in Milan this coming April. The winner will be celebrated as the foremost violinist of the day.” And the loser would slink off, a mere footnote to history. Dare glanced at Nicholas—his trump card, his talisman. “It’s a beautiful city. You will enjoy it.”

The composer opened his mouth, no doubt to issue a protest, but Dare overrode him. “In fact, I think
Il Diavolo
will be just the thing to ensure my victory.”

“You do?” Clara said. “But, I have heard you practicing and…”

She twisted an errant strand of her pale hair between her fingers, clearly reluctant to finish her thought.

Dare laughed. He couldn’t help it. “And it sounds dreadful, yes. Your brother is a fiendish composer, there is no arguing the fact. But April is months away.”

Once they returned to London he would press Nicholas into continuing with him to the Continent. And Clara? He could not envision her staying behind. Her support and company seemed vital to her brother.

More months of travel with Clara Becker. More months of sublimating his desire for her into his playing. It would be difficult, but not impossible. He need only keep the competition in his thoughts. And the dire specter of losing his composer, should he lose control. It was sufficient motivation.

“More ale?” The innkeeper’s wife bustled up to their table and began clearing the remains of their supper.

Dare nodded. It was a relief to spend time with Nicholas without the man glaring at him at every turn. And even better to have Clara speak to him without that brittle edge in her voice, that scrim of ice that had encased her since the night of their kiss. The thaw was a pleasant change.

Might he ensure it was a permanent one? At the very least, he could apologize once more for his actions. She was a sensible young woman. Surely she would understand, though he did not expect her forgiveness.

Still, if Clara looked upon him a bit more kindly, that would help her brother’s regard as well, which could only help the music. So far they had struggled through, but Dare missed those first, early rehearsals, when things had been far easier between himself and the composer.

“Now that supper’s done, would you care to repair to the parlor?” the innkeeper’s wife asked. “I’d dearly love to hear some music again, and that I would.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

C
lara tried—how she tried!—to keep from watching Darien Reynard during supper. But when he laughed, that sweet, dark sound settled low in her stomach, both warm and disconcerting. It was a relief to repair to the inn’s small parlor, where she would not have to sit facing him.

“Clara.” Her brother grinned at her. “Let’s play the Beethoven four-hands.”

She glanced at the small fortepiano, an instrument built before the turn of the century, if she was not mistaken. “I don’t think it’s big enough. There can’t be more than five octaves.”

“We’ll make do.” Nicholas folded back the keyboard cover and played a run of notes. “Reasonably in tune, too. Come, Clara.”

Her brother had not been in such high spirits for weeks, and she credited their humble surroundings. They’d eaten together at a table not set with linens and fine china, with no obsequious servants hovering to satisfy the least demand, no stilted, uncomfortable conversations between bites of lobster bisque. The parlor was cozy, not elegant in the least, and Clara released an inaudible sigh. The rain outside enclosed them, and it was as if they were removed, set apart from the cares of the world for the space of a country evening.

“You play?” Darien gave her a penetrating glance. “I should have guessed it.”

“There was no escaping Papa,” Nicholas said. “He was the sternest music master in London, and proud of it. Indeed, Clara was much more disciplined about practicing than I.”

“That’s because I didn’t have friends calling me to play hoops in the street.” She gave him an arch look.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you escaped your chores by playing. Papa always valued practicing over household work.” Her brother slid over on the bench and patted the space beside him.

“A wise man,” Darien said.

He looked serious, but Clara caught the spark of humor in his expression. Their eyes met, then held for a heartbeat too long before she glanced away, a shiver tingling through her.

“Bah.” Henri perched himself on one of the chintz-covered chairs. “One cannot eat or wear music, no matter how beautiful.”

“And you, Henri!” Darien settled on the sofa facing the piano. “The evening will not be complete without a song from you. It has been far too long.”

The valet frowned, but the quirk of his brow indicated pleasure at the request. “Perhaps.”

Nicholas shot her a quick look. “Ready?”

She felt ridiculously nervous playing before Darien Reynard, though surely not as terrified as Nicholas had been before the king. The thought gave her no comfort.

“I’m not certain I remember the second movement.”

“You will.” Her brother set his hands on the keys. “Commence!”

He played the opening theme, barely giving her time to catch up. The music bloomed around them, the cheerful runs, the interplay between melody and counter-melody drawing her in despite the lighter, unfamiliar keyboard, the fact of Darien watching them perform.

How curious. So many times she had seen him play, but had never imagined their positions reversed.

His regard became more pronounced when she and Nicholas began the
rondo
movement. She could feel the delicious weight of his gaze upon her. How good it was to at last be
seen
by him, to be known, at least in some small measure, for who she truly was: an accomplished musician. The relief of it was physical, as though a part of herself, tightly wound for weeks, was uncoiling, her shoulders loosening, her lungs able to breathe more deeply.

As the melody ascended, she shot Darien a quick, sideways glance, and was rewarded with a genuine smile. In that moment, she felt as though they were equal. Not a man and a woman, not a maestro and his admirer, but two musical souls, recognizing one another.

Then Nicholas nudged her with his elbow, his signal to speed up. Attention drawn back to the music, she gave him a nod, and together they increased the pace, matching note for note until the piece raced, tumbling headlong to a breathless, laughter-filled conclusion.

“Up to your old tricks, brother mine.” She leaned against Nicholas’s shoulder, mirth still bubbling through her as Darien and Henri applauded wildly.

“Ah, that was lovely.” The innkeeper’s wife hovered just inside the door. Her husband stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder. “To be sure, I have never heard anything so fine.”

“Well, Beethoven,” Nicholas said, his eyes shining.

Darien nodded, the warmth in his expression unmistakable. “One of the most memorable performances of the
Opus 6
I’ve heard. But come, Henri, give us a song.”

The valet cleared his throat, then stood. “I give you
Amis, la matinee est belle
from
La Muette de Portici
.”

“French opera?” Clara swiveled on the bench to face Henri.

She never would have thought it. But then, it did make sense that the valet of the most celebrated violinist in the world would have a musical bent, himself.

Henri took a moment to gather himself, then began. He had a strong, clear tenor that, while it would not earn him a place on the grand stages of Europe, was very pleasant to listen to.

When he reached the choral portions, Nicholas turned and began picking out a delicate accompaniment on the piano. The melody familiar, Clara hummed along, taking the soprano part and blending her notes to Henri’s. It was a happy song, addressed to the fishermen of a village, and the lighthearted theme perfectly suited the evening.

Upon finishing, Henri swept them a bow full of flourishes. Clara’s hands stung from her applause, but the valet certainly deserved it. The innkeeper’s wife hastened to bring him a new mug of ale, then handed it over like a blushing maiden.

“’Tis as good as being in London. Or Paris at that!” She glanced at her husband. “Who’d have thought, John? Our very own parlor, turned into a concert hall. But you, sir.” She directed her crescent smile at Darien. “Do you sing as well? I saw you carry in a case of some kind.”

“I do not sing—”

“And thank heaven for that,” Henri said, rolling his eyes.

“—but I will play. In fact,” Darien looked at Nicholas, “what do you think of attempting
Il Diavolo
?”

Clara saw the convulsive movement as Nicholas swallowed, and then her brother straightened his shoulders. “Very well. I will forgive your mistakes, if you will forgive mine.”

“Agreed.” Darien rose. “Let me fetch my violin and the music. We shall master this piece yet.”

“Come, come,” Henri said, gesturing to their hosts as Darien exited the room. “No need to stand in your own doorway like unwelcome guests. Be seated, and you will hear something marvelous.”

“Or hopefully something not too dreadful,” Nicholas said under his breath. “I owe you a particularly evil turn for this, Clara.”