Sonata for a Scoundrel (20 page)

She fetched up against a wall papered in an elegant gilt and violet pattern, and watched the room swirl with excitement.

“Ah, another one who feels no need to scramble for Reynard’s notice. I honor you for that, mademoiselle.”

Clara turned to see a tall, auburn-haired man leaning against the wall next to her. His nose was large and somewhat curved, giving him a feral, hawk-like appearance. The glint in his eyes made her feel oddly vulnerable. He looked at her the way a raptor might view a hare.

“I don’t believe we have been introduced, sir.” She kept her tone frosty. No more luring out onto the terrace for her—she had learned that lesson well.

“Who cares for such formality? We are at the marquise’s salon,” he said. “Everyone here has something to recommend them. And again, I approve of your excellent taste. I, too, see no need to fawn at the
master’s
feet.”

“Didn’t you enjoy the music?” What a boor this fellow was.

He waved one hand. “Oh, the piece was pretty enough, I suppose. Too mawkish for my tastes, but look at the composer. A pretty, sheltered young man. Give him a few more years, some hard lessons, a mistress or two—”

“Sir!”

He trained that assessing gaze on her once more, then gave a sharp nod. “Ah, I should have noticed the resemblance at once. I understand he is traveling with his sister. So you see, I have no need of an introduction after all, Miss Becker. And what was at first intriguing behavior on your part is now, sadly, explained away.”

“I can only count myself grateful to be English, if
your
behavior is the regular thing at Paris salons. Good evening.” She turned pointedly from him, looking across the room for Darien or her brother. Surely they must be finished by now.

“Aha, she has claws.” The fellow had the audacity to come around and stand directly before her. His gaze dipped to the bodice of her low-cut gown, then traveled slowly back up to her face. “And a lovely figure as well. Tell me more of yourself, Miss Becker. How do you like traveling with Reynard? Does he treat you…
well
?”

Clara felt her eyes widen. Was he insinuating she was Darien’s mistress? The nerve! “That is absolutely none of your concern. Now go away, whoever you are.”

“I think I shall stay,” he said, his eyes bright with malicious interest. “In fact—”

“Gracious!” The marquise’s voice cut through the swirls of conversation filling the room. Clara glanced up to see their hostess hurrying forward, a look of mild alarm on her face. “I did not expect you to be in town yet, monsieur. Not that I am unhappy you are here.” She laid one crimson-gloved hand on the man’s arm. “Come, let me fetch you something to drink.”

He gave a slow shake of his head. “No. I am quite entertained here, thank you.”

“But…” The marquise now had two hands on his arm, and it looked to Clara as though she were trying to discreetly drag him away. Their hostess lowered her voice. “Monsieur Reynard is coming this way. Please.”

“Never fear.” The man gave the marquise a smile edged with spite. “I left my pistols behind. At any rate, we are engaged in another type of duel.” As if sensing Darien’s approach, the man turned, his nostrils flaring in a sneer. “Good evening.
Master
.”

Darien seemed calm, but Clara caught the furious gleam in his eyes, the way his shoulders bunched under the perfect tailoring of his coat.

“You, of all people,” Darien said, “are absolved of calling me ‘master.’ Unless you still consider yourself my pupil,and a tiresome one, at that.”

Understanding washed over Clara. This was Varga. Anton Varga—Darien’s rival and nemesis. The man’s animosity made perfect sense now.

A dull red flush crept up from Varga’s collar. “We’ll see who’s worthy of the title soon enough. I hope you have not grown too attached to it.”

His attention shifted, and Clara saw that Nicholas had come up beside Darien. Her brother’s gaze went first to Darien then to Varga, and his fingers wove restlessly together. Clearly he was as uncomfortable as she with the antagonism surging between the two musicians.

“Oh, look. It’s your pet composer,” Varga said. “I can’t say I had any taste for that piece of his. The beginning was remarkably… cloying.”

“See here.” Nicholas stepped forward, and Clara stifled a groan.

Her brother had no business trying to interfere. He was nothing but a mouse caught between two feral cats. Darien pulled Nicholas back, giving him a cautioning look, but it was too late.

Varga obviously knew weakness when he saw it, and he did not hesitate. “Yes, that style is far too romantic, though I’m sure it plays well here in Paris. The French have a weakness for the effeminate.”

Clara slanted a glance at Nicholas, concern squeezing her breath when she saw how pale he was. They were only words but, crafted to wound, they had hit uncomfortably near the mark.

Darien lifted a brow, though she could tell he was seething. “As usual, you have no ability to discern real talent. Your loss, as they say.”

“Ha!” There was no mirth in Varga’s voice. “
Your
loss, when we meet in Milan. Especially if you are pinning your hopes on this mollycoddle. Personally, I’m more intrigued with his sister. There’s a pretty piece for you, far better than the boy. But if you prefer the brother, there is no accounting—yaah!”

Varga’s hand flew up to guard his face, but he was not in time to stop Darien’s blow. He reeled back and the room pulsed with excitement, a crowd quickly forming about the two men.

“Monsieurs, no, no, I beg of you!” the marquise cried, interposing herself between the two men, her arms outspread. “We must not have violence.”

“Or if we do, let’s keep it away from the instruments,” someone called.

“Reynard.” Varga was breathing heavily, a red welt forming on his cheek. “You will answer for this.”

“But not tonight,” pleaded the marquise.

The muscled footmen Darien had spoken of earlier appeared. One clamped a meaty hand over Varga’s shoulder, obviously preventing him from attacking Darien.

Darien shook his cuffs down and gave a scathing look at the watchdog hovering at his own side. When he spoke his voice was cold.

“Keep your base thoughts to yourself, Varga. No one cares to hear them.” He pointedly turned away from his rival and bowed to their hostess. “Marquise, thank you for the memorable evening. I’m sorry it had to end on such a note. We will be taking our leave now.”

Her expression a touch wild around the eyes, the marquise nodded in return. “
Bonsoir
, and thank you.”

As Clara turned to follow Darien out the door, she could not help glancing at Anton Varga. He was watching his former master, the hatred in his expression so plain it made her skin prickle with dread.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rivals Come to Blows!

Witnesses report that Maestro Darien Reynard and Monsieur Anton Varga exchanged hostilities at the Marquise le Vayer’s salon last evening over the charming sister of composer Nicholas Becker. Such delicious troubles are sure to multiply as the men prepare for their grand duel in Milan!

-Le Salon Extraordinaire

C
lara watched out the coach window as the French countryside rolled past, a stitchery of fields and stone walls. It was not so different from England, though the landscape was drier, the church steeples more ornate.

Sadly, she had already finished the novel she’d purchased in Paris. Perhaps Nicholas would lend her one of his volumes of poetry, though she feared she would not be able to immerse herself quite so satisfactorily in verse as she had in Mary Shelley’s latest tale.

In the corner across from her, Henri settled back against the leather cushions of the coach and heaved a sigh.

“Today we leave the soil of France, and I bid my country
adieu
.” He glanced at Darien. “I think, monsieur, the concerts were very well received. You will not find better audiences anywhere in Europe.”

“I agree that the French are without parallel,” Darien said. “The attitude of
listening
in the Conservatoire was remarkable—I could not have asked for better.”

Clara would find out if audiences differed soon enough—they were bound for Prussia and Austria before swinging south to Italy for the duel. She pulled her cashmere shawl closer around her shoulders. The thought of meeting Anton Varga again made her shiver.

“I’m glad we’re leaving,” Nicholas said. “I don’t want to stay in any country that has Varga within its borders.”

Unhappiness was clear in his expression, the way he hunched his shoulders forward. He had taken Varga’s insults quite badly, and the handbills printed by the man’s supporters, repeating his barbed words, served to wound Nicholas afresh.
Girlishly Romantic!
the headlines had shrieked.
Stupefyingly Sweet, the ramblings of a mediocre mollycoddle
. The harsh words seemed impossible for Nicholas to ignore.

Clara set her hand over her brother’s. She was worried, but every time she tried to voice her concerns he shrugged her away. The other night, after the concert in Reims, he’d locked himself in his room with a bottle of cheap cognac. In the morning he’d emerged hollow-eyed and wincing. She had said nothing, but fear for him wrapped cold tendrils about her heart.

“We will see Varga in Milan,” Darien said. “There’s no help for that. But hopefully not before.”

Henri folded his arms. “I think he will follow and make trouble for you wherever he can. Do not let down your guard.”

These words made Nicholas look even more miserable. He pulled his hand from beneath hers and turned to stare out the rain-smeared window.

Clara sighed. Only a small breath escaped her lips, but Darien glanced at her, sympathy clear in his deep green eyes. Ah, but she did not want his sympathy.

Emulating her brother, she turned her head to once again look out at the countryside. At least she was writing suitably gloomy pieces now. Her next one would be titled
Ombra
. Shadow.

***

“… and now, my favorite part of every performance…” Darien’s voice drifted to the wings as he began the introduction that would bring Nicholas on stage.

Clara hurried behind the curtains, panic beginning to spin in her chest. It was too dim to run, but her heart beat as quickly as if she were sprinting. Where was Nicholas? Why wasn’t he waiting backstage, as he always was by now? In less than a minute, Darien would announce his name—
Nicholas Becker!
It was the cue for her brother to step into the lights, take his place at the piano, and perform her newest composition with Darien Reynard.

Except that Nicholas was missing.

She stumbled as she entered the hallway leading to the dressing rooms. “Nicholas!” she hissed, but only dark silence greeted her.

No—not fully dark. A thin line of light shone from beneath his dressing-room door. Praying her brother was within, she ran to it and wrenched it open.

“Hurry!” she cried. “You must…”

Nicholas was there. She drew in a ragged breath, but panic welled again as she took in his state. His eyes were closed and he sprawled in the single armchair, a glass in his hand. An emptied cognac bottle lay on one side on the floor, and she kicked it away as she hurried to her brother.

“Nicholas—wake up!” She grasped his shoulder and shook, gently at first, then more roughly as he did not respond. “You must play. Get up, get up!”

At last his lids opened a fraction. He blinked, then closed his eyes again, mumbling inaudibly. His head sank back down to his chest, and further shaking could not rouse him.

Dear God. He had drunk himself insensible. There was no way he could perform.

The floor tipped beneath her, the inevitable slide into ruin just underfoot. How quickly everything was lost.

Through the open door, Clara heard the wash of applause, sharp with expectancy. And—her stomach tightened at the thought—the King of Prussia was in the audience. Darien needed the noble’s support in Milan. A misstep here would spell failure.

No. She would not allow it.

She stepped into the hall and closed the door, then smoothed her hair back with both hands. If Nicholas could not play…

Then she must.

Fear clamped about her ribs, but she forced herself to hurry back toward the wings. She felt light headed, as if she’d stumbled into a dream—a dream rapidly becoming nightmare.

The audience’s applause died completely away as they waited for Nicholas to appear. In that moment before the hushed murmurs of speculation could begin, Clara walked on stage. The footlights were blessedly bright, shielding the watching crowd from view. She gave Darien a wide-eyed glance, hoping desperately he could read her intent.

He locked gazes with her, his expression surprised. When it was clear Nicholas was not going to appear, Darien raised one eyebrow in question, and she gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. With a poise she could only admire, he settled his features and turned back to the audience.

“Our composer is unfortunately indisposed,” he said. “Please welcome his sister, Miss Clara Becker—a talented pianist in her own right—who will instead accompany me this evening!”