Sonata for a Scoundrel (6 page)

“Ah…” She glanced over her shoulder to see Nicholas descending the stairs, his expression quiet and determined. “Yes. We are ready.”

The fellow bowed, from the waist this time, and smiled at her brother. “You are the composer, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Papa stumped in from the parlor, and the Frenchman again doffed his hat and introduced himself. He glanced about the entryway, and Clara guessed his sharp gaze missed very little.

“If you are ready to depart,” he said to Nicholas, “I will summon the footman to bring your trunks down.”

“Our… trunks?” Nicholas shot her a sidelong look.

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Dubois beckoned to the servant waiting beside the vehicle. “We must load the coach and be off. One does not keep Darien Reynard waiting.”

“But we don’t—” she began.

Papa stepped forward. He nodded to Clara’s valise, then the traveling case beside Nicholas. “This is all they will bring. A footman is not needed.”

“This? This is your luggage for a month of travel?” Henri Dubois’s brows climbed alarmingly high, then snapped back down into a frown. With the tip of his walking stick he prodded Clara’s worn valise as if were a dead thing. “No, no. It will not do.”

“It will have to,” Papa said, ignoring the man’s disbelief.

Clara gave Mr. Dubois a rueful smile. “Perhaps we can add to our wardrobes as we travel, if necessary.”

“If necessary! What do you have in there—a change of stockings? But now, we must go. Say your farewells.” He turned to the burly footman. “Take our guests’ handbags. And pray, do not strain yourself.”

Mr. Dubois followed the servant out to the coach. A tremor of fear, of lightness, ran through Clara. She turned to Papa and kissed his cheek.

“Be well while we’re gone. We’ll be home before you miss us. And don’t chastise Cousin Mary. I’ve instructed her to feed you amply and keep the house as warm as she likes.”

“Hmph. Impractical.” His voice was gruff. “Write me of your travels. Look after your brother. And Clara, both of you,” he gripped her arm, “be careful.”

“We will, Papa.”

“Don’t worry.” Nicholas shook his father’s hand, then let Clara precede him down the walk.

Mr. Dubois was beckoning to them from inside the coach. “Come, come.”

Her boots felt soled with lead as Nicholas handed her up into the vehicle. Everything was illuminated with a dreamlike quality: the gleaming lamp sconces, the luxurious leather seats, the gold tassels on either side of the curtains. The interior smelled of polish and privilege. Nicholas settled beside her and she reached for his hand, seeking the one thing that was familiar.

Across from them, Mr. Dubois gave a satisfied nod. As the coach rolled into motion, he closed his eyes, and to all appearances began to nap.

Clara pushed aside the blue velvet curtain at the window and gave Papa a final wave. Their father silently held up one hand, then leaned on his cane, his expression settling back into its usual stern lines. She turned on the seat, watching his motionless figure grow smaller, until they rounded the corner and she could no longer see him at all. She let the swath of velvet fall closed.

They were truly embarked now.

She felt as though she were enclosed in a small, elegant boat. The familiar landmarks slipped away, and she was unmoored, carried along by currents she could not chart. Where would they sleep this night? What would the next month hold? She had very little idea of the towns and cities they were due to visit. Scotland itself seemed very foreign and far away.

Soon enough, Master Reynard would join them. That was the most unsettling thought of all. She twisted her bonnet ribbons between her fingers, keeping time to the rough rhythm of the coach wheels. Mr. Dubois seemed well asleep as the vehicle jolted through the streets of London, conveying them to wherever the maestro was waiting.

She tilted toward her brother, keeping her voice low. “How soon until we arrive, do you think?”

“Let’s see where we are.” Nicholas pulled the curtain on his side of the coach and secured it open with the gold-tasseled cord. He was more familiar than she with the genteel areas where his former students dwelt.

The neighborhood they were passing through was very different from their own. The streets were cleaner, the buildings more imposing and well kept, the colors brighter. Clara blinked at the violet and scarlet-striped skirts of a passing lady, the colors echoed in her frilled parasol. It was noisier too, the air filled with the clatter of metal-bound wheels over cobblestones, the calls of vendors echoing over the bustle.

“Darien Reynard will be at Mivart’s Hotel,” her brother said. “Unless he’s staying with an earl or some such. In any case, we’re heading into Mayfair.”

Mayfair. She pulled back her curtain and peered out the window.

They turned a corner, past ornate lamp posts and a swath of green park. Fashionably dressed gentlemen strolled with ladies turned out in stylish perfection from the toes of their shining buttoned boots to the ostrich plumes adorning their high-brimmed bonnets. Clara glanced down at the simple wool of her best gown, the toes of her boots scuffed despite extra coats of polish. They had done the best they could, but it was laughably pathetic—she could see that now.

The graceful terrace houses outside the window began to pass more and more slowly, until finally the coach came to a swaying halt.

“Ah.” Mr. Dubois’s eyes snapped open. “We have arrived.” He brushed invisible lint from the front of his coat. “Remain here. I will inform Monsieur Reynard.”

The footman opened the door with a flourish, and Mr. Dubois stepped out. Clara could see him looking archly to either side before entering the gracious building before them.

“Mivart’s,” Nicholas said. “The best hotel in all of London. Just think, Clara, we’ll be staying in places like this as we travel. Can you imagine it?”

“Well, I don’t suppose Darien Reynard is planning to house us in the stables. A fine thing that would be, you performing with straw in your hair.” She had to smile at the notion; a welcome distraction from the flutter in her stomach.

Though she wasn’t so certain the master would be displeased to see
her
bedded down in the straw.

Her brother shook his head at her, the ghost of laughter in his eyes.

“Make way!”

It was Mr. Dubois again, at the head of a cavalcade of uniformed servants bearing trunks and boxes. He led them straight to the coach. The vehicle tipped and tilted as the men began loading the boot and roof.

She was beginning to understand Mr. Dubois’s shock, if this was the quantity of luggage he considered normal.

“It’s… rather a lot, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Darien Reynard tours for months at a time,” Nicholas said, as if he were a well-traveled fellow in his own right. “He must bring everything he needs.”

She refrained from pointing out that everything
they
needed fit into two small cases.

The activity drew curious glances. When Master Reynard himself appeared at the top of the steps, a crowd immediately gathered.

He was dressed in elegant black, his violin case in one hand. Dark hair framed a face that even without the patina of fame would have been captivating. His strong jaw and sensuous mouth, the faint line between his brows, and his eyes, a particular shadowy green… Would her breath always catch at the sight of him?

With the lift of a hand and a warm smile, he acknowledged his well-wishers and made his way through the admiring throng. He strode to the coach and mounted the steps. A final wave to the crowd, and then he ducked into the vehicle, settling across from Clara and her brother.

“Good morning, Mr. Becker, Miss Becker.” He stowed his violin beneath the seat, then sat back. “I trust you’re ready to begin our adventure together.”

Clara nodded, her voice trapped behind her teeth. That smile, when seen up close, had a rather disturbing effect on her senses. She did not remember him smiling like that before—except, perhaps, at the moment of her family’s capitulation. By then she had been too stunned to be much affected by it.

Mr. Dubois hopped into the vehicle and swung the door closed behind him. He nodded at Clara and Nicholas.

“Just look at them,” he said. “It is as I have told you.”

Master Reynard glanced at her brother, then folded his arms. “My valet informs me there is a problem with your luggage.”

“Ah—” Nicholas began.

“Indeed,” Mr. Dubois said. “The fact that they have
none
. It simply won’t do.”

“Your valet?” Clara blinked at the dapper fellow.

“Of course.” Master Reynard’s tone was wry. “Whom else could I trust to ensure I’m properly turned out for every occasion?”

“No one.” Mr. Dubois spoke the words with complete assurance. “But these two ragamuffins—they will not reflect well upon you.”

Master Reynard considered for a moment, his gaze growing sharper as he looked first at Nicholas, and then at her. Heat flamed her cheeks as he studied her. Her Sunday best was no match for the understated elegance of his own attire or the fashionable flair of Mr. Dubois. The valet was right. She and Nicholas would be an embarrassment. She glanced out the window at two well-to-do misses in lace-edged walking dresses.

Master Reynard shook his head, a sharp gesture of impatience. “I suppose we’ll have to make a detour. Bond Street is just ahead. Henri? No doubt you have a suggestion.”

“Yes, of course.” Anticipation lit the small man’s face. “Weston’s for Mr. Becker, to be sure.”

“But…” Nicholas shifted uncomfortably beside her. “Isn’t he the tailor to the
king
?”

“He is,” Mr. Dubois said. “And now he will have the good fortune to be the tailor to the soon-to-be renowned composer, Mr. Nicholas Becker.”

CHAPTER SIX

London sighs at the departure of Master Reynard. Lucky Brighton, to be the next stop on the maestro’s tour of England. Come back to us soon, Darien Reynard!

-Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler

T
wo hours later, they stepped out of the polished interior of Weston’s. Nicholas wore a new suit of clothes that fit him better than anything he had ever owned before, and Clara thought he looked quite handsome. How clever of the tailor, to have a number of coats and trousers partially made up for customers who needed an immediate change of dress.

Of course, she imagined the king would brook very little delay for himself or his courtiers, should any of them desire a new outfit.

“You are entirely satisfactory, Mr. Becker.” Mr. Dubois gave a sharp nod of approval.

Nicholas ran one hand down the dove-gray wool, his grin rather spoiling the impression of an effete young gentleman of the
ton
.

“I believe my two new suits will do very well,” he said.

“They will have to suffice until the rest of your wardrobe catches up with the tour,” Mr. Dubois said. “Certainly your trunks will arrive in time for the performance in Brighton.”

“Speaking of which,” Master Reynard said, “here’s the coach now. We should be on our way.”

Mr. Dubois cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at Clara. “We are not quite ready to depart, monsieur.”

Annoyance flashed in the master’s eyes. Clearly he had forgotten or ignored the fact that she, too, was in need of new clothing.

“What do you propose, Henri?” he asked. “We haven’t much time.”

Clara folded her arms over her worn woolen gown. Half of her wanted to stubbornly insist they depart London immediately, that she would make do with her paltry handful of dresses and petticoats. But Mr. Dubois was correct. Her poor dress would reflect badly upon the tour, and thus upon Nicholas.

Darien Reynard’s presence on the street was not going unremarked. As the genteel bustle of pedestrians caught sight of him, they slowed, their whispers buzzing like bees. The sun slid out from behind a cloud, and the rows of fashionable shops shone, their windows dazzlingly bright, the gilt lettering above their doors sparkling. Clara caught sight of herself reflected in the pane of Weston’s: a pale-haired girl, unremarkable in her limp bonnet—despite the new ribbons.

The reflection also showed the crowd gathering as more people veered toward Master Reynard. The ladies were chirping with excitement, and the men swept off their hats and bowed to catch his attention.

“Mr. Reynard!”

“How fortunate that you have graced London with your inspiration.”

“Oh, come see, it
is
him. No one else has a coach like that one.”

Mr. Dubois leaned close to his employer. “Madame Lamond’s is nearby. But perhaps we would be better off in the coach.”

Master Reynard nodded, and tipped his hat to his admirers. “I agree,” he said in a voice pitched only to their ears. “Into the coach. Now.”

Mr. Dubois gestured for the footman to open the doors and set the steps. He took Clara by the elbow and assisted her into the vehicle, but the speculative voices of the crowd still reached her ears.

“Whoever might
that
be?”

“Surely Master Reynard would not escort a doxy so openly about the streets of Mayfair.”