Sonata for a Scoundrel (9 page)

Already the sound of the sea was moving through her in the beginning of a counterpoint, the cries of the gulls transmuting to melody. For a moment she heard Darien Reynard playing his violin, soaring on the high notes while the piano murmured and sighed like the waves behind.

Inspiration indeed.

“Clara? Are you coming?” Nicholas had disembarked and was holding out his hand.

She blinked from her reverie. Gathering her skirts, she took her brother’s hand and stepped out of the carriage. Immediately a liveried attendant held a large black umbrella over her, despite the fact the rain was down to a mere sprinkling. Each of them had their own attendant, though Mr. Dubois moved so quickly to the door of the hotel that his man was forced to sprint to keep pace.

“Come,” Master Reynard said. “We’ll get settled, and then rehearse.”

He turned away from the carriage, where the luggage was already half unloaded by yet another set of servants, and Clara and her brother followed him into the hotel.

Thick carpet muffled their footsteps as they stepped into the quiet lobby. An enormous crystal and gold chandelier descended from the ceiling, and the scent of lemon oil and flowers infused the air. They were ushered by their attendants up a magnificent flight of stairs and along a short hallway, where Clara and Nicholas were directed to their suite of rooms.

“I’m just along the way, in the master suite,” Darien Reynard said. “If Peter has done his job, which I’ve no doubt he has, there will be a piano. Come in half an hour, Mr. Becker.”

Nicholas nodded, and they watched Master Reynard proceed down the hall. His stride was free and confident, as though he were the master of the hotel and the town of Brighton. Indeed, of England and the entire world.

“Your suite, sir, miss.” The liveried servant held open the door and gestured them inside.

Lingering thoughts of Darien Reynard dispelled as Clara stepped into the sitting area. The room was decorated in shades of green and cream, a coal fire burned warmly on the hearth, and a bow window overlooked the park across the street. It was understated and elegant, and she was grateful all over again for her new blue dress. At least she
looked
as though she belonged here, even if she did not feel that way.

“Very good,” she said, keeping her chin lifted.

“The water closet and bathing room are just there, and you will find a bedroom to either side of this sitting room. The footmen will be up with your luggage shortly. Will you be needing anything more?”

She exchanged a quick glance with Nicholas, then turned back to the hovering servant. “Ah. Perhaps you could send up some tea?”

“Immediately.” The man bowed. “The bell pull is beside the door. Do not hesitate to ring if anything else is required.”

“Thank you,” Nicholas said. As soon as the man left, her brother turned to her. His voice held an undertone of mirth. “Clara—ordering tea as though you were a duchess! I think this life suits you.”

“He seemed to expect
something
of us. It was the first thing I could think of.”

“An excellent notion.” Nicholas strode over to the window, flexing his hands. “It will help pass the time until I go rehearse with the maestro. Certainly it won’t take a half hour to unpack our things.”

As it transpired, they were not expected to do even that much. A maid arrived with the tea trolley, at the head of a parade of servants. The footman deposited their small bags, and two other maids bore the luggage off into their respective rooms. When Clara made to follow she was treated to a slightly shocked glance by the tea-trolley girl. So she and Nicholas sat in overstuffed chairs before the hearth, sipping tea from bone-china cups, nibbling the lemon cakes that accompanied the beverage, and trying to appear as though they were accustomed to such things. It was easier once the servants had taken themselves away, though her brother kept glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantle.

At length he set aside his tea and brushed a stray crumb from his trousers. “It’s only been twenty-five minutes, but I can’t wait any longer. Come and listen as soon as you have finished.”

Clara wrapped both hands around her cup, savoring the warmth. She was not entirely certain how it would be, hearing her brother and Master Reynard practice the
Air
.

“I’ll join you presently.”

A welcome quiet slipped in as Nicholas shut the door behind him. What a tremendously eventful day it had been. It felt like weeks since she had waved goodbye to Papa, not simply a morning and afternoon. She was hardly the same person who had followed Mr. Dubois to the carriage from her doorstep.

Clara took a last sip of tea and set down her cup. Finally she could investigate their suite without revealing her gauche curiosity to the servants.

She began with her room. The green and cream colors from the sitting room continued in the striped wallpaper—at least what she could see of it between the gilt-framed landscape paintings adorning the walls. Two brocade-upholstered chairs, a writing desk, a washstand, and the bed, which was twice the size of any she had ever slept in. She ran her palm over the richly patterned coverlet, the fabric more suited to a ball gown than bed linens. The carved headboard was nearly obscured by a pile of pillows. It would be a trick to fit herself in among them.

Despite the fact the room had been empty before their arrival, coals were banked in the fireplace, keeping the air at a comfortable temperature. Much as she appreciated it, Clara had to shake her head. How much coal must the Royal York consume in a day, heating unoccupied rooms? It hardly bore contemplating.

Nicholas’s room was much the same, though darker greens dominated the color scheme and his bed was a four-poster. His suit hung in the wardrobe, but his shirts were missing. She recalled one of the maids taking them away to be pressed, along with Clara’s spare chemise and nightgown.

Now for the bathing room. She pushed the white door open, and a sigh slipped from between her lips. A large copper tub sat beneath the single high window, the light gleaming on its graceful curves. A Turkish-style rug softened the tiled floor before it and an array of soaps and lotions graced the shelf to one side. It was the most elegant thing she’d ever seen. Though she had to admit, some of the appeal lay in the fact that should she desire a bath,
she
would not be the one to heat and carry the water. That was a luxury she could come to appreciate.

The clock in the sitting room gave a gentle chime, and Clara recalled herself. She ought to go hear how Nicholas and Master Reynard were progressing with the
Air
. But first…

Her reticule lay untouched where she had left it in the sitting room. Clara took it into her bedroom and locked the door. Graphite and notebook in hand, she notated the sweet, poignant melody that had swirled about her in the carriage. Darien Reynard’s melody.

After a moment she turned the page and scribed the gull’s song, and the sigh and rush of the waves. There. Those bits were down on paper now, and she needn’t worry about losing them. She tucked her graphite away and glanced around the room. It wouldn’t do to leave the evidence of her composing out in plain sight, or even in her reticule, where an inquisitive servant could discover it. She pressed her lips together. The bed. Heavens knew there were enough pillows to conceal almost anything.

The linens were wonderfully soft against her hand as she slipped her notebook deep into the pile of pillows. But she had delayed too long. It was time to go hear Darien Reynard play her newest work.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In recent years, critics have found Master Darien Reynard’s playing, while still brilliant, lacking in spirit. However, his recent performance at King’s Theatre showed a new, revitalized Reynard, at the top of his form in both technical virtuosity and musical heart. One can only hope this is a lasting change.

-Ariosa Reviews

T
he next evening, the black coach deposited Clara, Nicholas, and Master Reynard beneath the dome-topped portico of the Royal Pavilion. The white marble glowed translucent in the twilight, as if lit from within. Nicholas hesitated beside the familiar bulk of the coach, and Clara could not blame him. The exotic building before them seemed more like a prison than a palace.

Tonight, Nicholas would play before the king.

But it would do her brother no good to give in to her own anxiety. She gave him an encouraging smile and slipped her arm through his.

“Come,” Master Reynard said, a slight furrow between his brows.

He strode forward, and liveried servants hurried to swing the tall double doors wide. The three of them were ushered into a large, octagonal foyer featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the last reflection of silvery dusk.

Clara took a deep breath as she stepped over the threshold. She shivered, but the act of entering the Pavilion, however fantastical a place, had no transformative effect. She was not magically changed into a princess from a fairy tale.

Master Reynard marched ahead, violin case in one hand, his bearing supremely confident. She and Nicholas were carried along like flotsam in his wake.

“Look,” her brother whispered, jerking his chin up.

She blinked up at the ceiling, which resembled the draperies of a huge, exotic tent. A curious, boxy chandelier glowed at the apex, and tassels hung down at the corners, nearly sweeping the floor.

“It’s quite a spectacle,” Master Reynard said, handing his greatcoat to the hovering servants. “The former king spared no expense to build his pleasure dome, as you’ll see.”

As the master drew her brother’s attention to the fanciful brass fireplace, Clara slowly unfastened her pelisse. It had just arrived that morning, part of a posthaste delivery from Madame Lamond’s. Clara’s touch lingered on the silky fur trimming the edges before she gave it up to the servant. She would appear truly vulgar if she carried her overgarment about the pavilion, folded bulkily under one arm like some inanimate lapdog, but she found herself reluctant to let go of it.

Thank heavens for the modiste. Clara was only able to attend the performance that night because the delivery had included an evening gown. Her blue silk dress, no matter how lovely, would not have served for a function of this elegance, but the new teal and silver taffeta gown with gorgeous puffed sleeves was perfect. The lace at the neck was finer work than she had ever seen, and the wide, embroidered sash did not seem nearly as ostentatious as she had first thought; particularly not compared to their surroundings. She gave the room a wry glance.

For a moment she imagined entering the Pavilion dressed in her old Sunday best. They would have hurried her off to the servant’s quarters. Shame curdled in her stomach; not for who she was, but for the foolish confidence her family had demonstrated when agreeing to this scheme. They’d had no notion, and now Nicholas was about to perform before the king!

A man garbed in the royal livery bowed to Darien Reynard. His gaze flickered over Clara and Nicholas, then returned to the master.

“We have been expecting you,” the servant said. “This way, if you please.”

Clara squeezed her brother’s arm. They both needed the reassurance that they were not completely lost here, adrift on a sea of courtly opulence.

It was difficult to keep from gawking as they trailed Master Reynard down a long gallery. The pink walls were riotous with Oriental motifs, the skylight overhead painted in a rich cobalt pattern. The servant led them between two staircases fashioned of iron to resemble some foreign wood, and along a short hallway.

“The Music Room.” The man opened a red lacquered door painted with gold, and gestured them in. “His Majesty will appear shortly. Please, make ready.”

Nicholas hung back for a moment, then surged forward, pulling Clara with him as he hastened after Master Reynard. There was no turning back.

The master checked his stride and nodded to Nicholas. “I’ve always thought playing in here was like performing inside an empress’s jewelry box.”

Glancing about, Clara agreed. Though the air was thick with heat and the smell of mingled perfumes, it was an extraordinary space. An enormous gas-lit crystal flower floated high in the center of the room, its soft colors glowing opalescent. Smaller gasoliers circled it, lilies of light depending from the domed ceiling where gilt dragons curled, their jeweled eyes winking. A large number of people gathered beneath the fanciful decorations, filling the space with a counterpoint of conversations.

A gentleman detached himself from a nearby group and made his way to where they stood.

“Master Reynard, what an honor. We are so fortunate you are here.” He glanced over his shoulder to where a young woman watched, her expression eager. “My acquaintance is shy, but she wishes to communicate her ardent enthusiasm of your music.”

“My pleasure,” Darien said. He nodded to the young lady, who blushed and clasped her hands in delight.

As if an invisible signal passed through the room, heads turned toward them. Conversations hushed, then redoubled, and there was a general movement toward where Darien Reynard stood.