Sonata for a Scoundrel

by Lawson, Anthea

Dare turned, glancing down the hallway and into the spacious drawing room. The house would do quite well, indeed. Now he had the pleasurable task of informing the Beckers they had a new home.

  Less than an hour later, his carriage drew up in front of the Beckers’ current dwelling. It looked even more pitiful in comparison to the comfortable town house. Dare stepped down from the carriage and hurried to the front door.

  Clara answered his knock. “Master Reynard. We did not look for you quite so soon.”

  Despite the reluctance in her words, her smile was genuine.

  “I have news,” Dare said. “I’ve let a house for you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her smile slowly faded. “We need no charity from you, sir.”

  “It’s not charity.” Damn it, she wasn’t taking this the right way at all. Her expression, instead of glowing with gratitude, was guarded.

  “Is it not?” she asked. “You have not spoken to us much of your own path out of poverty. Did you gladly take handouts along the way?”

  “That’s different.”

  It wasn’t, though. He had made his fortune by trusting only himself, accepting assistance from no one. Dare shifted on the step, an unaccustomed feeling heating the back of his neck.

  Half of him wanted to apologize, but the other half was sparking with anger. He did not like being made to feel ashamed. Especially when there was a grain of truth in it.

  “If you did not mean it as charity,” Clara said, “then it’s outright bribery. Your kindness overburdens our family.”

  “Then let the blasted house stand empty. I’m sorry I even thought of it.”

  “Clara?” Her father came up to the door and gave her a stern look. “Why do you keep the maestro standing outside? Come in, Master Reynard.”

  Lips set in a tight line, Clara took a step back, allowing Dare to enter.

  Mr. Becker called up the stairs for his son, then led them into the parlor. He settled into one of the tattered armchairs and leaned his cane against the side. Clara perched nearby, and a moment later, Nicholas hurried into the chilly room.

  “Mary, please fetch us tea,” Clara said to the brown-haired girl who hovered outside the parlor.

  “A moment.” Dare held out his hand to the maid, whom he had learned was a distant relation with even worse prospects than the Beckers’ own. “I have news that concerns everyone in this household.”

  “What is this news of yours?” Mr. Becker leaned forward, a shrewd glint in his eyes.

  Nicholas looked anxious, and again Dare wished things could have been simpler between them. But even if he had not been so damnably drawn to Clara, he admitted that the perfect meeting of creative minds he’d dreamed of would not have come to fruition. Nicholas did not seem to have the desire, nor the temperament, for such a collaboration. Dare tried not to let it disappoint. After all, the man was still an incredibly talented composer.

  “Here.” Dare held out the keys he had received from the landlord.

  “What are they?” Nicholas eyed him suspiciously, as though Dare cradled a handful of poisonous spiders.

  “The keys to 44 Chester Court. Your new lodgings, if you’ll have them.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Becker said, while Clara’s eyes widened. It was a neighborhood that held some prestige.

  “You can’t bribe us into coming with you,” Nicholas said. “Don’t take the keys, Papa.”

  Despite his son’s words, the elder Mr. Becker held out one hand, palm up. Dare gently deposited the key ring in his seamed hand.

  “The place is paid for,” Dare said. “If the house stands empty for the next year, it’s your choice. And it’s not a bribe, it’s a thank-you. Dispose of the place as you please.”

  “It is greatly appreciated,” Mr. Becker said. He cleared his throat and gave his children a meaningful look.

  “It was a kind thought,” Clara said at last, though her tone belied her words.

  “Yes.” Nicholas jammed his hands into his pockets.

  “I apologize if I acted hastily,” Dare said, with a glance at Clara. “I wanted to see you provided for, no matter what choice you make. It was, perhaps, presumptuous of me. But the lease is only for one year, and then you may move where you please. Or simply stay here.”

  Clara pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It would be a waste for the house to stand empty for that time. Papa, you deserve better surroundings than this.”

  “You all do,” Dare said.

  Mr. Becker glanced at his son, and there was a wealth of unspoken words in that look: duty and provision and family, if Dare were to guess. He tried not to hold his breath, but damnation, he wished the composer would simply choose to come with him.

  “Papa,” Nicholas said, then tightened his lips and began to pace.

  An awkward silence descended, marred by the sound of Nicholas’s footsteps. The edges of more words tried to pierce through, but the quiet was too thick, impenetrable.

  Dare folded his arms and watched the others. Both the serving girl and Clara focused on Nicholas, their heads turning together as he tromped from one end of the room to the other. The father, mouth pursed, glanced at his son, then to the floor. Clearly this was Nicholas’s choice to make.

  At last the composer halted and brushed the hair out of his eyes with a weary gesture.

  “Very well.” His voice was quiet, weighted like that of a man accepting a sentence of deportation. “We will move Papa into the town house you have so generously provided, and Clara and I will continue to the Continent.”

  A flare of triumph went through Dare, but he tamped it down. It was not a straightforward victory. But then, he was learning that nothing with the Beckers was ever simple.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Maestro Reynard Returns to the Continent!

  After touring England and Scotland, the virtuoso violinist returns to grace the rest of Europe—this time with his new composer, Mr. Nicholas Becker. Word of Mr. Becker’s talent has spread, and audiences are eager to hear the offerings of this newest musical star in the firmament.

  -l’Assemblee, February 1831

  The wind of the English Channel tangled Clara’s hair, teasing long strands from her usual coiled braid as the boat to Calais bore them across the water. Rain spattered her cloak, but it could not dampen her spirits. London was behind them.

  Over the winter holidays they had settled Papa into the new house, and she had to admit it was a lovely place. Even Henri had agreed it was acceptable. Seeing the genteel elegance, coupled with the look of relief on Papa’s face, had seemed to help Nicholas, too. At any rate, he was smiling more frequently. It went far to ease her fears. As long as her brother could picture Papa content and cared for, she hoped Nicholas could carry the burden of their secret a short while longer.

  Now they were headed for the Continent, the future. The dark mass of France rose before them above the ruffled waters. Salt and adventure flavored the air, quickening Clara’s breath. The clouds were beginning to break and tentative fingers of light reached down, sparking silver off the sea and touching the coastline with color.

  Inside her, a melody unfurled; a dove winging eastward in the clear air. Clara closed her eyes and followed that bright strand, the music that would resonate in Darien’s strings and fly to freedom.

  “Are you glad?”

  She would know that voice anywhere, among a thousand voices. Clara opened her eyes and turned to see Darien leaning against the railing beside her. His dark hair blew across one cheek, soft as feathers against the line of his jaw. She wanted to lay her hand there, feel his breath touch her skin.

  “Yes.” Gladder than she could ever say. She feared her expression would give her away, and dropped her gaze to her gloves. “How soon until we reach Paris?”

  “Three days, but the roads are not so bad, even this time of year. We’ll stop tonight in Boulogne, the next in Amiens, and reach the city two days before our concert at the Conservatoire.”

  “Henri seems pleased t
o be returning to France.” Indeed, the valet had begun strutting about as soon as they departed Dover, clearly anticipating being back on his home soil. “He is from Paris? Does he have family there? He has not mentioned it.”

  One corner of Darien’s mouth curved up in a wry smile. “My valet feels keenly the sacrifices he must make to travel with me. Speaking of Paris only makes him unhappy, and so he does not. But once we are there, he will talk of nothing else. Don’t be surprised if he insists on remaking your brother’s wardrobe, and yours as well.”

  “But…” Clara smoothed a hand down the fine, pale wool of her walking dress. “These clothes are barely two months old. I hardly think we warrant new ones. And the expense!”

  Darien shook his head. “I’d rather pay for a dozen wardrobes than have to endure Henri’s wounded disapproval. You will be in Paris, the styles are a la mode, and it would be criminal if you didn’t reflect the very best. Or so Henri sees it. I’ll have to endure it myself, no doubt.”

  “Well then.” She caught the self-deprecating glint in Darien’s eyes. “I suppose if the great maestro can suffer a new wardrobe, I can as well.”

  “How superior you make me sound.”

  “It’s fortunate I know how terribly human you are. Imagine, you even slurp your soup with a spoon.”

  She was rewarded by his warm, dark laughter, and could not help smiling back. It was a novel sensation, teasing Darien Reynard. Two weeks ago she never would have imagined it, but somehow she did not see the most celebrated musician in the world standing beside her. Or, she did, but it was only a part of who Darien was, not the whole of this complex, driven man.

  “Darien…” It seemed a good time to broach a question she had been worrying over. “Do you think, now that we’ll be on the Continent, you might return to the carriage? It doesn’t seem right, your riding ahead.”

  There. She had said it. And though it might make things more difficult, she had never liked knowing he was out riding in the rain and wind, suffering the worst of winter because of their illicit kiss.

  “Ah.” He sobered. “I don’t think your brother is any more genially inclined toward me than before.”

  “Nicholas can…”—go to the devil—“keep his feelings to himself. Both Henri and I think you should return to the carriage, and we outnumber him. It’s hardly fair to make you ride the breadth of Europe because Nicholas is being unreasonable. If he’s so blessed unhappy, let him take a horse.”

  Darien’s expression tightened. “I don’t think his reaction was unreasonable, given the circumstances.” He glanced over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to her. “As to what more has passed between us, Clara—let us agree that it’s better forgotten.”

  Sudden grief blazed through her. “Am I so easy to forget, then? Simply dismiss me from your mind?”

  He closed his eyes, some strong emotion etched across his features—fear or regret, she could not name it. When he opened his eyes again his face was shuttered, and she castigated herself for ruining the easy camaraderie they had shared.

  “Miss Becker. If you must know, you are not forgettable. In the least. But you must also know how infinitely foolish it is to act upon any attraction we may feel. It could ruin everything.”

  He was right. She turned to face the waves, her grip hard on the railing, and tried to blink away her stupid, stupid tears. And yet… he had all but admitted he was attracted to her. It was a grain of sand she would polish into a pearl, a secret treasure against her heart.

  “I know.” Her voice came out a whisper.

  He moved to stand closer, and she forced herself not to lean toward his heat. The backs of his fingers brushed, feather-light, against her cheek.

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  She did not look at him. She could only stare at the pewter waves churning all about the boat. After a long moment he left, and the wind bit through her cloak, a chilly reminder of her own solitude.

  ***

  Paris, at least, did not disappoint. There was something in the air, some refined yet zestful quality that made Clara feel as though she were sipping champagne. She let Henri shepherd her off to the modiste’s with no protest, glad to have something to occupy her mind other than Darien. Every time she looked at him, her heart hurt. Yet she could not keep from looking.

  “Bien,” Henri said, clapping his hands together as Clara paraded about the dressmaker’s salon in an opulent dress with hastily basted seams. “You look delicious. The lace heightens your fairness to perfection. C’est magnifique.”

  Here in Paris the little valet seemed to sparkle, his high spirits impossible to resist. Even Nicholas laughed as Henri squired them around the town, insisting they sample pastries and watch street performers and admire the paintings in the Louvre.

  Her brother had accompanied them on this particular outing, but spying a nearby bookseller’s had begged leave to browse while Clara took her fittings. She was happy to see the spring in his step as he entered the little shop. With a wave, he’d left them to the tender mercies of the seamstresses of Paris.

  “Now, cherie,” Henri said once the fitting was concluded, “we will gather up Nicholas and visit the milliner’s. No ensemble is complete without a hat! You must be garbed to perfection for the Marquise le Vayer’s salon this evening. Everyone of musical consequence will be there.”

  Yes, the salon. A shiver of nerves went through her. Both she and her brother had the impression that the gathering tonight was more important than the concert billed for tomorrow. Even now, she knew Darien was rehearsing La Colomba, the dove—her newest piece.

  And a troubling piece it had turned out to be, too.

  When she’d handed the completed composition to Nicholas, he’d scanned it with lifted brows.

  “Clara, I can’t give Darien this. It’s too…” He glanced at the ceiling, as if the words he needed were printed there.

  “I know, it’s a bit short, but the melody—”

  “Is too joyful! Look.” He shook the pages at her. “This first passage is nearly delirious. I never would write something like that. Never.”

  She swallowed. “It darkens, later on. The third page.”

  The dove, flying away under storm clouds, until it becomes lost to sight. An apt metaphor for the state of her heart.

  “It had better,” he said in an undertone, flipping through to the end. “You could make this easier, you know.”

  “Indeed.” She set her hands on her hips. “By writing only gloomy music? You know I can’t do that—I don’t write to suit anyone. I must write what I hear. What I feel.”

  “Then I pray you will not feel quite so giddy for some time.” He gave her a sharp look, but the subdued ending seemed to appease him. Frowning, he had taken La Colomba away.

  Darien demanded new pieces to premiere in each capital city, so there was little her brother could do, short of writing his own blasted compositions. What Nicholas said made sense, however. She supposed it was fortunate her own mood had taken a turn toward melancholy. It would not do to engage suspicions, either her brother’s or Darien’s, by being too lighthearted.

  She shook herself free of her thoughts while Henri left strict instructions with the seamstresses. The valet whirled Clara back into the scintillating bustle of the Parisian streets.

  “Your brother has a taste for poetry, non?” he asked.

  “Any books, but yes, poetry especially.” Books had been an impossible luxury, but no longer. “I fear we may need to buy an extra trunk to carry his purchases. We’ve left him in the shop far too long.”

  Henri quirked an eyebrow at her. “Then we will leave some of your old, dowdy clothes behind to make room.”

  She laughed. “Our new wardrobe is good enough for London, but not the Continent?”

  He made no reply—obviously he thought it unnecessary—only opened the door to the bookseller’s and gestured her inside.

  Stepping into the shop was stepping into another world, tranquil and ink-scented. Light f
rom the transoms caught in dusty motes, and the sound of a page turning only underscored the quiet. Clara felt as though an answering silence opened within her, a promise of solace and solitude that only a book could answer. She moved down one of the rows, trailing her fingers along the spines: some ridged, some with gold lettering, some tautly bound with cloth. Each book a possible adventure, waiting. She would like to have a story in which to immerse herself, some distraction during the long journeys in the coach.

  Darien had returned to riding with them, and Nicholas had said nothing. Still, the trip from Calais had been full of odd silences. She had tried not to watch Darien, tried to erase the memory of those sensuous lips on hers, but it was no use. Their kisses were etched into her soul. He met her gaze too often, something hungry in his eyes—a hunger that, when she glimpsed it, made her breath quicken.

  Henri consulted his pocket watch. “Miss Becker, I regret we do not have time to linger. Books are very well in their place, but you cannot wear one this evening to the salon, even if we trimmed it with lace and faux fruits.”

  The notion of making her entrance with a book perched on top of her head made her smile. “Perhaps we might return tomorrow, before the concert? It may be the only way we can tempt Nicholas away, you know.”

  Indeed, only the promise they would come again persuaded her brother to leave. He gently set a copy of Blake’s poems on the already-impressive stack he had amassed, then asked the proprietor to please send them to the hotel.

  “Come, come.” Henri made shooing motions. There was a decisive French accent in his hands now, as well—an extra flip of the wrist that lent an amused impatience to the gesture. “The Galerie Vivienne awaits.”

  “I thought we were going to the milliner’s,” Clara said, obediently leading the way out of the quiet shop.

  “Ah.” The valet smiled at her, one brow faintly lifted. “You have not heard of the Galerie? It is one of the grand sights of Paris, not to be missed.”

  Nicholas caught up to them with two long strides. “According to you, none of the sights of Paris should be missed. The whole city seems nothing but an endless buffet of amusements.”