Sonata for a Scoundrel (17 page)

Her father sat, as though his bones pained him, and gave them a sober look.

“Well. I had hoped…” He cleared his throat and began again. “Your money came regularly, Nicholas. But it was not enough.”

“Not enough?” Nicholas began pacing. “How can a small fortune be not enough? Do you know what I had to—”

“Papa,” Clara cut in. “Please explain.”

She did not want Nicholas to spill his litany of grievances, his unhappiness with Darien, who stood silently just inside the doorway. The air was heavy enough without those words.

“We are too deeply in debt.” Her father bent over his cane, his voice rough. “When your mother was ill, we spent everything, and more, and more, and it was still not enough. I did not want you burdened with the knowledge, but if not for Master Reynard, it would have been debtor’s prison for me. Servitude for you both.”

“You should have told us!” Clara hurried to him and placed her hands over his gnarled ones where they gripped his cane. “We should have known.”

“It would have changed nothing.”

Darien stepped forward. “Now, however, I think it changes everything.”

It did. Clara’s thoughts whirled in a storm of implications, but one thing was as clear and sharp as lightning. They could not stop touring with Darien Reynard. She was no longer safe savoring the memory of his kisses. Not when they would still be together, when every day she would be close enough to touch him. Taste his scent on her tongue. Feel the heat of his leanly muscled body as she passed him in the hallway. She swallowed.

“No.” A note of disbelief rang in her brother’s denial. Nicholas’s pacing grew sharp and awkward. “We will remain in London. We must. You said there will be new publishing contracts for the compositions.” He halted in front of Darien.

“And there will be.” Darien’s voice was calm, though she detected an undercurrent of tension. “But not right away, and certainly not before I perform in Europe.”

He did not add
with you
. He did not need to.

“Surely there will be advances,” she said, her heart twisting for Nicholas.

He had managed, barely, to hold up under the strain of the last few weeks. Knowing the deception was coming to an end had strengthened her brother, even as it had sapped her.

“No,” Darien said. “Even for the most famous composers, publishers will only pay once they have the manuscript in hand.”

“We could borrow,” Nicholas said.

“No borrowing.” Papa shook his cane. “No debt, ever again. Nicholas, you and your sister fared well enough on this tour. You could do another.”

Clara glanced about the room, chilly despite the extra coals heaped on the grate. Cold winter air pressed inexorably through the thin walls, seeped through the rickety window frames. Soot sifted down onto her soul. She could not bear to live here again.

She could not bear to see her brother’s misery eat away at his soul.

“Nicholas…” She did not know what to say.

He ignored her outstretched hand and went to stand at the window, arms crossed. Papa only shook his head. His face was lined with cares and he looked older now. Though perhaps it was only their absence, and this new knowledge, that allowed Clara to see the struggle etched on his face.

“I will leave you to discuss your options,” Darien said. “And I remind you that my offer to tour the Continent stands. In fact, considering the extra distances and performances the tour will entail, I shall increase your salary. I’ll call again later this afternoon.”

He inclined his head and strode out, not waiting for a reply. The door closed hollowly behind him, and this time Clara did not watch as the black coach pulled away.

“Well.” Papa did not move from his seat, his gaze fixed on Nicholas. “It seems clear enough what you must do.”

It was eerily like the last time Darien had been here, but now there was no celebratory sense, no vast relief that their fortunes had changed. Things had become infinitely more tangled.

“Papa,” Clara said. “It has not been easy for Nicholas, you must understand that.”

“And returning to this would be?” He thumped his cane on the floor. “Look at you both, with your fine clothing, your cheeks no longer hollow from hunger. That is what I want for my children, not this life of poverty!”

“I could resume teaching.” Nicholas turned from the window and jammed his hands in his pockets. “My students would return, or I could find new ones. Touring with Master Reynard must surely have lent me enough prestige.”

“Perhaps,” their father said. “And perhaps not. You could try, yes. But what if it were not so? What if you gained only a meager number of students, or none at all? We would be as badly off as before. And it would be too late to mend, with Master Reynard long gone to the Continent.”

“If we went with him,” Clara said, “the money would be enough—”

“You said that last time!” Nicholas glared at her. “But it has not proven to be the case.”

“I did not make such promises,” she said. It had been Papa. But Nicholas would not turn on their father with such anger, and so Clara bore the brunt of it.

Papa heaved himself up from the chair and went to stand beside Nicholas at the window.

“Do not blame your sister,” he said. “If you go with the maestro to the Continent, it will be different. There will be greater exposure, more publishing contracts. Enough to build a secure foundation for our family.”

“I cannot.” Nicholas drew his shoulders in toward his chest.

“You have been,” Papa said. “The secret is still safe, yes? Our debts are nearly erased.”

Clara wrapped her arms about her waist. It was plain that she and Nicholas must continue on with Darien. And Darien needed them, as well, needed his “composer” with him to best Anton Varga. That was nearly as important as keeping their family from the hard London streets.

“I’m going upstairs,” her brother said.

Without meeting her eyes, without looking at Papa, he left the parlor. His footsteps sounded slow and heavy as he climbed the stairs.

“Ach.” Papa let out a sigh, melancholy as the wind that crept in through the chinks in the sill. “He will see the sense of it.”

Clara could only hope. And despair.

***

“This will do,” Dare said. “I’ll direct my agent to send a deposit immediately.”

He glanced with satisfaction about the airy, marble-floored foyer of the town house. Not so grand as to be overwhelming, not in the very tip-top of neighborhoods, but with an easy gentility the Beckers would appreciate.

“And the furniture?” the hovering landlord asked.

“Leave it all for now. It’s suitable enough.” Far better than anything the family currently owned, with the exception of their piano.

Regardless of whether or not Nicholas and Clara agreed to come to the Continent, he would see the Beckers out of that hovel and into a better neighborhood. Common decency demanded as much. He could not leave his composer in such penury. Nor Clara, he had to admit. The expression on her face had been pinched and unhappy from the moment she’d set foot in the door of her old home, and it pleased him that he had the power to improve things for her and her family.

“A full year, sir?”

“Yes.” By that time, the Beckers’ situation should be stable, no matter what choice they made.

“Very good. Let me draw up the paperwork and give you the keys.” The man hurried off.

Dare turned, glancing down the hallway and into the spacious drawing room. The house would do quite well, indeed. Now he had the pleasurable task of informing the Beckers they had a new home.

Less than an hour later, his carriage drew up in front of the Beckers’ current dwelling. It looked even more pitiful in comparison to the comfortable town house. Dare stepped down from the carriage and hurried to the front door.

Clara answered his knock. “Master Reynard. We did not look for you quite so soon.”

Despite the reluctance in her words, her smile was genuine.

“I have news,” Dare said. “I’ve let a house for you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her smile slowly faded. “We need no charity from you, sir.”

“It’s not charity.” Damn it, she wasn’t taking this the right way at all. Her expression, instead of glowing with gratitude, was guarded.

“Is it not?” she asked. “You have not spoken to us much of your own path out of poverty. Did you gladly take handouts along the way?”

“That’s different.”

It wasn’t, though. He had made his fortune by trusting only himself, accepting assistance from no one. Dare shifted on the step, an unaccustomed feeling heating the back of his neck.

Half of him wanted to apologize, but the other half was sparking with anger. He did not like being made to feel ashamed. Especially when there was a grain of truth in it.

“If you did not mean it as charity,” Clara said, “then it’s outright bribery. Your kindness overburdens our family.”

“Then let the blasted house stand empty. I’m sorry I even thought of it.”

“Clara?” Her father came up to the door and gave her a stern look. “Why do you keep the maestro standing outside? Come in, Master Reynard.”

Lips set in a tight line, Clara took a step back, allowing Dare to enter.

Mr. Becker called up the stairs for his son, then led them into the parlor. He settled into one of the tattered armchairs and leaned his cane against the side. Clara perched nearby, and a moment later, Nicholas hurried into the chilly room.

“Mary, please fetch us tea,” Clara said to the brown-haired girl who hovered outside the parlor.

“A moment.” Dare held out his hand to the maid, whom he had learned was a distant relation with even worse prospects than the Beckers’ own. “I have news that concerns everyone in this household.”

“What is this news of yours?” Mr. Becker leaned forward, a shrewd glint in his eyes.

Nicholas looked anxious, and again Dare wished things could have been simpler between them. But even if he had not been so damnably drawn to Clara, he admitted that the perfect meeting of creative minds he’d dreamed of would not have come to fruition. Nicholas did not seem to have the desire, nor the temperament, for such a collaboration. Dare tried not to let it disappoint. After all, the man was still an incredibly talented composer.

“Here.” Dare held out the keys he had received from the landlord.

“What are they?” Nicholas eyed him suspiciously, as though Dare cradled a handful of poisonous spiders.

“The keys to 44 Chester Court. Your new lodgings, if you’ll have them.”

“Ah,” Mr. Becker said, while Clara’s eyes widened. It was a neighborhood that held some prestige.

“You can’t bribe us into coming with you,” Nicholas said. “Don’t take the keys, Papa.”

Despite his son’s words, the elder Mr. Becker held out one hand, palm up. Dare gently deposited the key ring in his seamed hand.

“The place is paid for,” Dare said. “If the house stands empty for the next year, it’s your choice. And it’s not a bribe, it’s a thank-you. Dispose of the place as you please.”

“It is greatly appreciated,” Mr. Becker said. He cleared his throat and gave his children a meaningful look.

“It was a kind thought,” Clara said at last, though her tone belied her words.

“Yes.” Nicholas jammed his hands into his pockets.

“I apologize if I acted hastily,” Dare said, with a glance at Clara. “I wanted to see you provided for, no matter what choice you make. It was, perhaps, presumptuous of me. But the lease is only for one year, and then you may move where you please. Or simply stay here.”

Clara pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It would be a waste for the house to stand empty for that time. Papa, you deserve better surroundings than this.”

“You all do,” Dare said.

Mr. Becker glanced at his son, and there was a wealth of unspoken words in that look: duty and provision and family, if Dare were to guess. He tried not to hold his breath, but damnation, he wished the composer would simply choose to come with him.

“Papa,” Nicholas said, then tightened his lips and began to pace.

An awkward silence descended, marred by the sound of Nicholas’s footsteps. The edges of more words tried to pierce through, but the quiet was too thick, impenetrable.

Dare folded his arms and watched the others. Both the serving girl and Clara focused on Nicholas, their heads turning together as he tromped from one end of the room to the other. The father, mouth pursed, glanced at his son, then to the floor. Clearly this was Nicholas’s choice to make.

At last the composer halted and brushed the hair out of his eyes with a weary gesture.

“Very well.” His voice was quiet, weighted like that of a man accepting a sentence of deportation. “We will move Papa into the town house you have so generously provided, and Clara and I will continue to the Continent.”

A flare of triumph went through Dare, but he tamped it down. It was not a straightforward victory. But then, he was learning that nothing with the Beckers was ever simple.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Maestro Reynard Returns to the Continent!

After touring England and Scotland, the virtuoso violinist returns to grace the rest of Europe—this time with his new composer, Mr. Nicholas Becker. Word of Mr. Becker’s talent has spread, and audiences are eager to hear the offerings of this newest musical star in the firmament.