Sonata for a Scoundrel (8 page)

Although—he slanted a look at Clara Becker—he could no longer begrudge the delay. She had turned out to be remarkably pretty, and he felt a twinge of remorse for overlooking it. Had he not, himself, been the victim of being judged by his appearance? When he was younger, passersby in the piazza had not even deigned to glance at him, until he’d begun to play. Then the ragged boy was suddenly valuable, although nothing inside him had changed.

His valet made to clamber up on the box with the driver, and Dare snagged his arm.

“No, Henri, you will not ride up front. It’s five hours to Brighton, and it’s raining.”

“But, monsieur, your dignity—”

“Will suffer even more if you fall ill and are unable to dress me satisfactorily.” Dare waved at the coach, gleaming blackly with a thin slick of moisture. “If you insist, you may clamber up with Samuel outside of Brighton. Now get in, before we are all soaked through.”

Henri blew a breath from his nostrils but complied, taking a place in the far corner. Nicholas stepped into the coach after him, and Dare offered Miss Becker his hand. A blush colored her cheeks as she accepted his assistance into the vehicle.

Miss Clara Becker was lovely, and it complicated matters more than Dare would like. When he could simply think of her as the composer’s drab sister, it was easy to relegate her to the fringe of his awareness. But now she was a luminous star rising on the horizon.

She settled her skirts, and Dare took the seat across from her. He couldn’t ask Henri to switch, nor Nicholas—it would be too odd a request and he could not give them any good reason. The fact that he found Miss Becker attractive was something he could never breathe a hint of, especially to her brother.

Damnation. He’d known he should never have agreed to allow her to come along on the tour. The last time he’d traveled with a woman…

His throat tightened with loss. Francesca’s face rose in his memory, dark-eyed and anguished. Swallowing, Dare banished the memories. That was the past, and the truth was he must travel with Miss Becker for the next few weeks. Surely he could manage that much without revealing his sudden attraction.

***

In the closeness of the coach Clara found it impossible to ignore Darien Reynard’s presence. The force of his personality seemed to magnetize the air, filling it with invisible currents of attraction. He sat directly opposite her, one long leg stretched out so the tip of his boot nearly brushed the hem of her new gown. When she stole a glance at his face, she saw he was watching her, his green eyes brooding.

His lips were set in a firm line, and though there was no sign of displeasure in his expression, there was little of pleasure, either. Instead, he studied her as though she were an unexpected dissonance in the score of his life; different, possibly unpleasant, yet unmistakably interesting.

She craved and feared his notice in equal measure. Part of her yearned for him to see
her
, Clara the musician; dared him to look past his assumptions and impatience and recognize who she truly was.

Yet that way lay danger and ruin. Better to be the unwanted sister of the composer, no matter how the charade smoldered in her chest and charred the edges of her heart. It was only for a handful of weeks. She and Nicholas could bear up for that long, for Papa’s sake.

The excitement and trepidation of leaving London mixed with the unsettling effect of Darien’s observation, until Clara could scarcely draw a breath. Her ribs were tight, and dizzy confusion raced through her blood.

She dropped her gaze to his elegant hands, the fingers that coaxed such brilliance from his violin. They drummed softly against the seat. Was he hearing music even now, swirling in the air around them?

She was; a melody poignant with deep shadows and a high, breathless descant. Her fingers itched to write the music down, but she would make do by scribing the notes in her mind.

The coach bobbed over a rough patch of road, rustling the copy of the
Times
Mr. Dubois was reading. After Master Reynard had ordered him into the coach, the valet had taken his place and then, in silent rebuke, immersed himself in the newspaper.

Beside her, Nicholas leaned forward, his posture earnest. “Mr. Reynard, we—”

“No need to thank me further,” the master said. “Tell me about what you are working on, your newest composition.”

Clara felt her brother stiffen beside her.

“I, well…” Nicholas coughed into his fist. “As you recall, the
Air in E minor
was only just completed. As for what is next, it depends on where inspiration strikes.” He grimaced, though she supposed he had meant it as a smile.

Ha. Inspiration was everywhere, and if it was shy, well, one had to take it by the elusive tail and haul it forth. She resisted the urge to kick her brother in the ankle. Master Reynard would think it odd.

The master raised one eyebrow. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find ample inspiration in our travels.”

“Of course.” Nicholas turned to her with a strained expression. “Don’t you agree, Clara?”

She pursed her lips and let doubt raise her brows. But at the look of panic in his eyes she relented.

“Yes,” she said. “A new melody is waiting for you even now. I just know it.”

When they arrived in Brighton she would smuggle her notebook out of her reticule and jot the tune down, somewhere unobserved.

“I would expect nothing less. I’ll need a number of new pieces to premiere, after all.” Master Reynard glanced at Clara. “As I recall, you were at my London performance.”

It was not a question, and Clara wondered if he had actually seen her in the box, beside her brother. She nodded, the memory of the music that night striking her, so that the golden curtain of his celebrity fell once more between them.

“It was a splendid concert,” she said, then fumbled to a halt.

“That last passage in the Beethoven especially,” Nicholas added. “What about your accompanist, and Mr. Widmere… will they be joining us?”

“Peter has gone ahead to make arrangements. He’ll meet us in Brighton and ensure all is satisfactory before proceeding again.” A flicker of a smile brushed Master Reynard’s lips. “You could say he is always one step ahead of me.”

Nicholas smiled back. “As long as he is not one behind.”

“No, he is far too skilled at his job for that. He also arranges for accompanists in the cities we pass through. Although
you
will accompany me on your own compositions, as we discussed previously. I would like to begin working on the
Air
.”

Clara felt a bitter twist at the words. She wished she could play her pieces with Darien Reynard, but it was not to be. And truly, Nicholas was an accomplished pianist. He would do well by her music.

“When is our first performance?” Nicholas asked. “It’s not tonight, is it?”

His voice squeaked up at the end, and Clara shared his stab of fear. They were not ready!

“No,” Master Reynard said. “I prefer to arrive the day before any performance, and Peter insists upon it, in case of delays in travel. We’ll be playing one night in Brighton, then moving on for a concert in Southampton, then three nights in Bath, and farther north from there. Peter can provide you an exact itinerary, if you wish.”

“Ah… certainly.” Nicholas blinked.

Clara laced her gloved fingers together. Somehow, hearing the master’s casual listing brought the enormity of their situation to the fore again. They were actually touring. With Darien Reynard.

“You’ll grow accustomed to it, Nicholas.” Master Reynard’s voice was even, though a distant melancholy shadowed his eyes. “Soon you’ll feel as though this coach is more home than anywhere else.”

“How sad,” Clara said, then bit her tongue. What an idiotic thing to say. Even if it were true. “That is… it’s quite an elegant coach. Very lovely.”

She glanced about the lavish interior; everywhere but at Darien Reynard. A snort of laughter issued from behind Mr. Dubois’s paper. The pages rustled suspiciously, but his bright-eyed face did not appear.

“Clara.” Her brother gave her an unobtrusive pinch on the arm. Painful, but well deserved.

“It’s tragic, I know.” Master Reynard sounded amused, though there was a shade of regret behind the words; the way a sprightly tune set in a minor key still carried the flavor of sorrow.

At this, Mr. Dubois set down his paper. He was smiling, as she had suspected. “Why then, monsieur, we must simply fit the coach up with a bed and washstand, and you will not have to stay in those beastly hotels any longer. Such a hardship, this life.”

“When I was at the start of my career, I slept in far worse. You would have been horrified, Henri.”

“I have no interest in hearing of it.” Mr. Dubois winked at Clara, then snapped his paper up, leaving the conversation to them once more.

“I would like to hear of it,” Nicholas said.

The time passed quickly as Darien Reynard told his stories, prompted by Nicholas. It was a clever way of keeping the maestro from asking further questions, and she admired her brother for thinking of it. Beyond that, it was fascinating to hear the master speak of the places he’d visited, his various adventures and misadventures. Occasionally he would catch himself, with a glance at her, and she suspected he was editing out his wilder exploits. Still, it was obvious Master Reynard had met with success in all aspects of his life.

Except, perhaps, those that included a home. And love.

Only once did he mention a woman: an Italian opera singer with whom he toured for some time. His voice had softened when he spoke of her, but then had grown hard again and he’d quickly passed on to other subjects. Had Signora Contini broken his heart? Clara could scarcely imagine it. Master Reynard seemed arrogantly invulnerable.

No, the only broken hearts were the ones he left strewn behind him as he toured the Continent.

Rain spattered against the coach windows, and Clara let out a silent sigh. She had seen little of the countryside, just glimpses of green fields and weathered stone walls between the squalls veiling the landscape. What was the point of being outside of London if she couldn’t enjoy new sights?

As suddenly as it had started, the rain ceased. Ahead, she spotted the dark shapes of church spires, spearing the silver-lit clouds floating above.

“I see a town,” she said, unable to suppress the catch of excitement in her voice.

“Brighton,” Master Reynard said.

“High time.” Mr. Dubois folded his paper away. “Fond as you are of the carriage, monsieur, can you bear to stay in the hovel that is the Royal York Hotel this evening?”

The master shot his valet a glance, but did not respond. Instead, he directed their attention out the window.

“The Royal Pavilion will be in view soon,” he said. “Some call it a folly of the worst order, others declare it a masterwork of architecture.”

“If one is drawn to vulgar excesses,” Mr. Dubois added, though Clara noticed his gaze, too, was fixed on the sights of Brighton.

She set her gloved fingertips to the rain-dappled glass. Outside, an exotic fantasia of domes and spires and latticework reached palely into the sky, surrounded by gardens that were lush even in such a bedraggled season. It was extravagant beyond words, this palace built by the late king when he served as regent for his mad father. She could not imagine what it would be like to set foot in that place. Like visiting fairyland, perhaps.

“We have a command performance there tomorrow afternoon for the king,” Master Reynard said, as casually as if he were announcing a stroll in the park.

Clara whipped her head around to stare at him, her heartbeat stuttering, then racing forward in double time.

“The… the king?” Nicholas sounded as though he could barely breathe.

“Yes.” The master smiled at Nicholas, no doubt in an attempt to be reassuring. “His youngest daughter is going to be married at the Pavilion. Most of the court has assembled in her honor, despite the fact she’s a FitzClarence.”

“The queen has been very kind to his illegitimate children,” Mr. Dubois said. “She has a good heart, that one.”

Clara blinked. They were speaking of the King and Queen of England as if—as if they were simply neighbors one gossiped about.

“Never fear, Nicholas,” Master Reynard said. “There will be a piano at the hotel. Peter sees to such things. We’ll have ample opportunity to practice.”

“I’m not certain there are hours enough in my lifetime for me to feel ready to play before the king,” Nicholas said, expression taut. “The
king
.”

Clara mastered her own apprehension and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry. Everyone will be watching Master Reynard.”

“It will only be one piece, and you are a fine pianist,” the master said. “But I’ll do my best to perform with extra zeal and flamboyance.”

“Perhaps you should wear a red velvet coat, as well,” Mr. Dubois said, his large nostrils flaring with distaste.

“An excellent thought!” Mischief played about the corners of Master Reynard’s lips. “Embroidered with peacock feathers. You
did
pack such a coat, didn’t you Henri?”

Outrage lifted the valet’s eyebrows, and Darien Reynard laughed, a warm, low laugh that invited them to join in. It was a laugh that resonated through Clara, a molasses-coated sound, slow and sweet and dark.

Mr. Dubois frowned at his employer as the carriage slowed. “Monsieur, I do wish you had allowed me to sit up front with the driver.”

Master Reynard smiled slightly at his valet, then turned to the carriage door as the footman swung it open.

A gust of fresh, salted air blew inside, like nothing Clara had ever smelled before. She inhaled deeply, tasting the tang of adventure on the back of her tongue. Despite her worry for Nicholas and the upcoming performance, she felt something within her take wing.

The carriage was drawn up before a grand four-storied hotel. Gray and white gulls wheeled overhead, and a shining swath of rumpled water gleamed from between the buildings. The sea!

She longed to leap from the vehicle and run—most unladylike—past the hotel and down to the shore, where that great hushing expanse of water beckoned to her. Was it truly full of salt? Would she see fantastical creatures of the ocean leaping and dipping through the waves?