Sonata for a Scoundrel (2 page)

Silence, and utter stillness, followed the last note. Nicholas’s hands lay motionless on the keyboard. On the whole, he had done it justice. Clara tugged a strand of her pale hair loose and tried not to look at Papa.

“Well.” He gave a sharp nod. “It should fetch a decent price. Nicholas, make a copy, and I will deliver it to the publishers in the morning.”

It was the closest he would come to a compliment. It was enough. The landlady would not need to send her burly sons on the morrow. There would be food on the table, with a little left over to keep the creditors at bay.

Nicholas stood and crossed the room to take her hands. “It’s lovely, Clara. I know the exact feeling it conveys.”

Clara nodded at him. Her brother was familiar with other feelings, far bleaker than the ones she had set to music. But that was behind them now.

“You should rest,” he said.

“Yes.” Eyes heavy with exhaustion, she dropped her hands and turned away.

The stairs were steeper than ever, and creaked under her feet as she mounted into the darkness, not bothering to take a light. Behind her, the music began again as Nicholas familiarized himself with the composition. The bright and sorrowful notes twined about her, following her into sleep.

***

The ticking of a metronome in her dream transformed to someone knocking insistently at the front door. Clara blinked at the gray light seeping through the curtains and struggled up, pushing the warm blankets away. Mary, their distant cousin and maid of all work, would answer. And surely Papa was home from delivering the rent by now, but Clara’s curiosity was even more insistent than her desire to burrow back beneath the covers.

Cold air against her skin pulled her completely awake. The fabric of her dress was chilly as she hurriedly slipped it over her chemise. She pulled the brush through her hair, grabbed her woolen shawl, and hastened to the landing in time to see Papa open the door. Peeking over the railing, she could make out the legs and shoes of a finely dressed gentleman.

“What is this?” Papa was never gentle with strangers.

Clara edged to the window at the top of the stairs and glanced outside. A large coach was parked before their house, the black lacquered doors and gilt trim as out of place in their neighborhood as a raven among sparrows. In the windows of the row houses across the street, faces stared out like pale, curious moons.

“Sir.” The visitor appeared untouched by Papa’s manner. “Do I have the pleasure of finding the Becker household?”

“Who is enquiring?”

“I am Peter Widmere, agent for…” He made a dramatic pause, and she could hear Papa’s cane thump impatiently.

“Get on it with it,” Papa demanded.

“Agent for Darien Reynard.”

Papa’s cane stilled, and Clara drew in her breath. Darien Reynard! The most famous musician on the Continent! What was his agent doing here?

“Darien Reynard? The maestro?” Papa’s forbidding air had faded entirely.

Clara peeked out the window again, trying to see inside the coach. Was it possible Reynard himself was within? She lifted a hand to her hair, the fine strands still dream-tangled. Her heart accelerated, sending a tremble of indecision through her. Should she dash back to her room and finish dressing properly?

But if she left now she would miss everything.

“The very same,” Mr. Widmere said. “Now, tell me. Are you Nicholas Becker’s father?”

“Yes,” Papa said, “I am Herr Becker. Tell me why you have come.”

“I was sent to deliver these tickets.” The man reached into his coat pocket and drew out an envelope. “As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Reynard performs tonight at the King’s Theatre. He directs your family to attend.”

Clara covered her mouth, silencing a gasp. She and her brother had spoken of attending Darien Reynard’s concert, as one speaks of traveling to Italy, or dining with a duke. It had been as out of reach for them as the clouds.

Papa’s back stiffened, as if to deny that any man could command him, but he held out his hand for the tickets. “Very well. We will come to the concert.”

“Excellent.” The agent made a crisp bow. “Mr. Reynard will be gratified to hear it. Good day, sir.”

Papa stood, leaning on his cane as the man marched back to the coach and pulled open the door. The interior was empty. Clara let out a silent sigh of disappointment—or perhaps relief. Of course the maestro would not grace them with his presence, especially not in such a quarter of London.

But they would get to see him perform, this very evening! The clatter of wheels as the coach pulled away echoed the excitement pulsing through her. Darien Reynard, the legendary violinist, had sent
them
tickets. It was dizzying.

She did not care what they said of him, the stories of his excesses and vices, the whispers that he colluded with the devil in exchange for the power to move men’s souls with his playing. The only thing that mattered was that tonight,
tonight
, she would see him take the stage and hear him play. A thrilled vibration settled in her chest, then expanded until her whole body hummed, like a piano string struck by a velvet hammer of anticipation.

Papa shut the door, then thumbed through the contents of the envelope.

“Hmph,” he said. “Come down, Clara. Three tickets.” His tone edged on disapproval, as though their benefactor knew too much about them already.

There was so much that must be kept secret.

Clara drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders as she descended to the chilly parlor. She was so very tired of being constantly cold. Surely the tickets had put Papa in a generous mood? And since he had not said otherwise, he had been able to sell her composition to the publishers and pay the landlady her due.

“May we light a fire, Papa?” It was a shocking waste of coal to light the hearth in the daytime, but her fingers were nearly numb. “I will bring the mending down and work beside it.”

He gave a single nod.

She did not wait for more, but bent to the fireplace, carefully wielding the tongs. Perhaps she could send Mary to the bakery to bring home a fresh loaf. What a splendid day it was already. She hardly dared imagine the evening to come.

First, however, was the pressing issue of the mending. Her best gown had a tear in the hem, and Nicholas’s good wool coat needed a button. Papa, of course, would be turned out in his usual severe black suit. Though they rarely could afford to attend concerts, Papa insisted they maintain the proper appearances.

They would do well enough. After all, it was not as though they would be seated in one of the grand boxes reserved for the
ton
.

CHAPTER TWO

T
hey were seated in one of the grand boxes reserved for the
ton
.

Clara fingered the simple gold locket about her neck and curled deeper into the plush velvet seat, trying to make herself invisible. Sitting in the upper-level boxes changed the entire feel of the theater. The noise and heat rose around them, a dozen conversations buzzing in her ears.

“Do you think the king is here?” Nicholas could not stop glancing into the other boxes. “Look, Clara, surely that is the Duke of Kent, and next to him… the lord chancellor, is it not?”

She did not know, though she was pleased to see Nicholas so animated. The adjacent box was occupied by a grandly dressed lady, gems glittering at her throat and ears, who lifted her lorgnette and surveyed the family with a contemptuous air. The woman nudged her companion, a distinguished-looking fellow wearing a coat decorated with medals. His eyes slid past them as if there were only empty seats in their box. Face heating, Clara pretended to study the program, though she had memorized it already. Beethoven for the first half, then a selection of shorter pieces for the second.

But they were there because Darien Reynard himself had sent them tickets. The thought lifted her chin again, and she met the woman’s stare with an even smile. They belonged, because the maestro had made it so.

Nicholas leaned out to view the crowd, his eyes bright. “Everyone is here. There’s Mr. Cramer from the publishing company, and Henry Bishop. I hear he’s working on a new opera.”

“Hush,” Papa said. “They are putting out the lights.”

Dimness descended and Clara let out her breath. Anticipation pulsed from her toes upward, coiling bright and warm in her chest. Only moments now, and she would see him perform. Darien Reynard. She tasted the syllables of his name as though they were chocolate upon her tongue.

The gaslights at the front of the stage flared and a hush spread through the audience, the last conversations sputtering out.

A man walked onstage and Clara leaned forward—but no, it was the accompanist, an older, sandy-haired man who took his place at the piano. He swiveled and looked back into the wings, and the audience burst into expectant applause.

Now Darien Reynard strode forward, claiming the appreciation as his due, and there was no mistaking that
this
was the man. Violin tucked easily under one arm, he moved with a contained grace, his tall, broad-shouldered frame poised and full of energy. A shock of wavy black hair nearly touched his shoulders, and his elegant coat was even darker—pure shadow, as though the light could find no purchase upon it.

He surveyed the crowd, gaze penetrating, then halted at center stage and flicked a glance up toward their box, almost as if he could he see them in the dimness. Clara moistened her lips, barely breathing, until his attention sheered away.

His mobile, sensual mouth set in a half smile that only added mystery to his handsome face, Darien Reynard inclined his head to the audience. He set his instrument on his shoulder. With a dramatic sweep of his right arm he raised his bow, then held it motionless above the strings. Instantly the murmurs and rustles ceased.

The first chord sprang from the instrument and rippled into the air, followed by another, another, as he caressed his violin, the notes throbbing with passion. The piano joined in, and the music moved into a sprightlier theme. Clara’s heart beat in time; ached and sighed while the figure on the stage led her forward into rapture and mystery. This,
this
, was how she heard music. A doorway into another land, a place where everything was luminous with emotion.

He was never still. Even in the
andante
sections he swayed, as though the music was weeping through him, the notes pulled forth from his body through the gleaming golden wood he held in his hands. Clara was certain her eyes were not the only ones blurred with unshed tears.

The final movement burst like constellations through her, jubilant sprays of notes flung out over the audience. He took the melody at a blistering speed, the bow now flying over the strings so quickly she half expected to see smoke following in its wake. The music exploded about her, rushing upward as Darien Reynard drove the piece forward. The accompanist could barely keep up with him as Beethoven’s
Sonata No.
9 thundered to a breathtaking close.

Instantly the audience sprang to its feet, shouting approval, the rush of sound raw and graceless compared to what had just gone before. Clara rose, program fluttering to the floor, and applauded as loudly as she could through the muffling of her gloves. Glorious. Simply glorious.

“That was Beethoven as he ought to be played,” Nicholas said. “Reynard could repeat it for the second half and I’d be well satisfied.”

Even Papa unbent enough to agree, though his approval was tacit. “The acoustics up here are improved.”

“It was much more than better acoustics,” Nicholas said. “
That
was a master at work.”

Clara nodded. She could not speak yet, not while Darien Reynard’s playing still echoed through her, but she was in complete agreement. She had never heard anything so splendid.

“I’m going to fetch some refreshment.” Nicholas turned to her. “Coming?”

The thought of journeying through the glittering crowd that swirled outside their box made the skin between her shoulders tighten.

She shook her head, preferring to sit quietly and savor the memory of the man and his music. Clara glanced up toward the gilt ceiling, imagining that the notes were still gathered there, spinning and dancing in the shadows. If she listened closely perhaps she could catch their bright echo.

She closed her eyes, but there were too many voices between her and the trapped strands of melody. Snatches of conversation floated past.

“…in Madrid he couldn’t even go out in the street, the crowds followed him everywhere…”

“…the crown princess fainted at his performance. Of course now it is the fashion for everyone to faint at his feet.” A feminine giggle. “I wouldn’t mind swooning anywhere upon his person, I declare. Such a magnetic man!”

It was true enough. Darien Reynard was impossibly handsome, even without the power of his musical mastery. She did not think any woman could avoid being captivated by him.

Nicholas returned with tea and she sipped at her cup. The warmth of the beverage joined the memory of music still curling about her, the heat of the theater wrapping about them. She was warm from her head to her toes. It was a delicious sensation.