Sonata for a Scoundrel (12 page)

Nicholas,

Without you and your compositions, this tour is nothing. I entreat you to reconsider. Do not throw away your chance at greatness. Think of what you will be giving up. This door will not open again.

Take your sister back to London, but do not abandon the tour. Henri will accompany you in escorting your sister home, and then you can rejoin me in Southampton. I will increase your salary commensurately.

Again, my sincere apologies.

- Darien Reynard

Henri took the letter with a doubtful expression. “Monsieur. Were I Miss Becker’s brother, I would not like to continue my association with the man who took such liberties with my sister.”

“Damnation, Henri! It was just a kiss.” Dare would never admit to anyone how quickly he had lost control of himself.

Anger—at Clara, at his own inattention, at the court that turned a blind eye—had made him act recklessly. He should never have kissed her. But, Christ, that kiss. He had meant it only as a warning.

A warning that turned to a conflagration between one breath and the next. Suddenly there had been nothing but the night, Clara’s lips beneath his, and a blaze of desire, burning bright and hot.

He had behaved abominably. If Nicholas had not found them, Dare would have been as bad as any rogue of the
ton
. He’d been a heartbeat away from parting her lips and licking his tongue into the moist hollow of her mouth, an instant from slipping his fingers beneath her bodice and caressing the sweet curve of her breast.

A rap at the door proved a welcome distraction. Henri went to answer, but Dare knew it was the servant reporting that his horse was ready.

“You cannot ride out tonight, in the cold and dark,” Henri said, for the fifth time.

“I must.” And the miserable night ride would help cool the ache of unspent desire that rose every time he thought of Clara Becker.

She had no place in his thoughts, and no place on the tour. Henri would ensure she was escorted safely back to London. Then Dare could make his amends to Nicholas, and convince the composer to continue on to the Continent with him.

The grand competition was two months away, and Becker was his trump card.

That musical duel meant everything. No matter how tempting Clara Becker’s lips and sweetly curved body, she could not compare to the permanent acclaim that winning the competition would bring. It would be the culmination of Darien’s career; a lifetime spent honing his skill. He
would
claim the title of the greatest violinist of the era.

Nothing could be allowed to stand in his way.

CHAPTER TEN

Rumors Confirmed! We have it on utmost authority that Master Darien Reynard is touring with a new composer—the handsome young Mr. Nicholas Becker. Two gentlemen for the price of one, ladies!

-The Bath Gazetteer

D
espite the luxurious bed, Clara slept fitfully. She woke frequently and peeked through the curtains to see if it was still safely dark, or if morning had broken, hard and unforgiving.

At length, the sky transformed from ink to paper. Exhaustion and sorrow weighing heavily on her shoulders, she pushed the rich coverlet back, and rose. The carpet was thick beneath her toes, and the well-banked coals in the hearth still sent out tendrils of heat. She shivered at the thought of returning to the cold, bare rooms of their house in London.

No. She must convince Nicholas to remain with Master Reynard.

Before the maids came to pack her few pitiful belongings, Clara dug her notebook from beneath the pile of pillows and slipped it into her reticule. She gave a longing look to the trunks that had arrived yesterday, full of resplendent gowns. Such expense and haste, to make clothing she would never wear.

With a low sigh, Clara opened her battered valise and donned her mended gray dress. It would help remind Nicholas of how very much they were giving up.

She heard him stirring in the sitting room—the thud of his door closing, the thump of his case hitting the carpet. When she pushed open her bedroom door, she saw him pacing beside the fireplace, his face tight, his blond hair mussed.

“Good morning,” he said as she entered the sitting room. “Are you ready to depart? I have arranged our transportation back to London.”

“No. Nicholas, we can’t leave the tour.”

“We cannot stay! Clara, if Papa knew, if he had seen, last night…” Nicholas bunched his hands into fists. “We must leave. It is the right thing, the only thing to do.”

Swallowing back her impatience, she moved to her brother’s side and set a hand on his arm.

“Don’t you also remember what he said, when we agreed to this scheme? This is your chance to restore our family, Nicholas. You are the only one who can do so. Master Reynard’s attentions…” Her voice trembled, and she drew in a steadying breath. “They meant nothing—to me, and most certainly not to him.”

“He embraced you.”

She forced a laugh. “Nicholas, do you truly think Darien Reynard finds
me
compelling, when he could have the pick of any lady in the country?”

The words scoured her soul as she uttered them, for of course she spoke the truth. Whatever had passed last night between herself and Darien, there had been nothing of verity in it. For either of them. She loved his musicality, was dazzled by his fame, but she knew very little of the man himself. And he knew even less of her. Their kiss had been a lie.

Nicholas frowned at her. “Then why?”

“Perhaps he had too much brandy. I assure you, had he been in possession of his senses, he would never have touched me.”

“It does not change, nor excuse, what happened. And we are still leaving.”

“I know you feel you must defend my honor. But are you truly willing to do so at the expense of our family’s future? And speaking of honor, what of the deception we are perpetrating upon Master Reynard?”

His expression grew pained. “Clara, I—”

A rap at the door interrupted him.

“Who is it?” Nicholas strode to the door and yanked it open.

“Bonjour,” Henri Dubois said. “I come with a message from Master Reynard.”

“Then he can deliver it himself.” Nicholas blocked the opening, keeping Mr. Dubois standing in the hallway.

“But he cannot deliver it himself, for last night he rode ahead to Southampton, leaving the coach at your disposal. Please, may I come in?”

“No.”

“Oh, Nicholas.” Clara took his arm, drawing him away from the threshold so that Mr. Dubois could enter. Once the valet was inside, Nicholas shut the door rather too loudly.

“What does your master wish us to know?” Nicholas demanded.

Mr. Dubois held out a letter, sealed with crimson wax and imprinted with the stamp of a violin.

Nicholas took it and broke the seal, the wax crumbling like bits of dried blood onto the carpet. Watching his expression, Clara saw the moment of hesitation, the turmoil of his emotions. Her brother wanted to do what was right, but the path was not so clear.

“What does it say?” she asked softly.

“He wants me to take you back to London, then continue on the tour.”

“Of course.” It made perfect sense, if one did not know that Clara was the true composer.

“For an additional salary,” Mr. Dubois added. “Also, he tenders his sincerest apology.”

She set her fingers to her mouth, resisting the urge to nibble at her fingernails. What a tangle this was. Darien had given Nicholas reason to continue on the tour. Remove the problem—herself—and pay him more. His solution did little to address the smirch to her honor, but that only strengthened her claim that the kiss had meant nothing.

Nicholas held the letter before him, long enough to re-read it several times over. She could feel him teetering on the decision point.

“Take me back to London and continue with Master Reynard,” she said. “I will correspond with you regularly.”

They could not speak openly, not with Mr. Dubois watching with his bright, intelligent eyes. Clara pulled her worn shawl about her shoulders, and Nicholas looked at her for a fraught moment. The shadow of their poverty dimmed the lavish sitting room and her throat tightened with misery. She could not bear to return to that chilly, dark existence—but she would do it, as long as Nicholas went on.

“No.” Nicholas lowered the letter.

“Mr. Becker,” the valet said, “I must entreat you. Have you heard of the grand musical competition that is to be held in Milan this spring?”

“The London papers mentioned it,” Nicholas said. “A duel between musicians, featuring Darien Reynard, yes?”

Clara had read the notice as well, but had not dwelt overmuch on it. Milan was worlds removed from their existence, and whatever transpired there had no bearing upon their lives.

Ah, how things had changed.

Mr. Dubois nodded. “The master would not say as much to you, but he believes he can only win the competition by playing one of your pieces, sir. To part company with him now, and in such a manner… I feel it would be a great blow to his genius. In fact, it might damage his career beyond repair.”

Clara took a quick breath. Foolish as it was, if Darien believed he could not win without playing one of her compositions, it would be true.

“Master Reynard does not seem so fragile to me,” Nicholas said. “There is a vast amount of music for him to perform.”

“One can argue with the artistic temperament,” Mr. Dubois said, “but the greater the talent, the more difficult the man. You must believe me that, should you abandon Master Reynard at this juncture, the consequences could be dire.”

Clara caught her lower lip between her teeth, and glanced at her brother. If he destroyed the master’s career, he would never be able to live with the burden. Already he carried too much melancholy inside his soul.

“Nicholas,” she said. “Please. For all our sakes.”

His mouth twisted. With a sharp gesture, he balled up the letter and threw it into the hearth. It blazed brightly for a single moment, before the flames consumed the fine paper.

“Very well,” Nicholas said, in a voice as colorless as the ashes of the letter. “We shall not waste time in returning to London. Clara and I will remain with the tour.”

Mr. Dubois’s eyebrows lifted and he glanced from Nicholas to Clara. She met his gaze calmly, despite the sudden relief rushing through her.

“I have every confidence that nothing like last night’s… episode will ever occur again,” she said. “I will remain with the tour. With Nicholas.”

“And keep out of Master Reynard’s way,” her brother said.

“Of a surety.” She fingered the worn skirts of her gown. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I am going to change into a more suitable traveling dress.”

She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her, shutting out her hopelessly romantic imaginings of Darien Reynard.

There could never be anything between them. If she were wise, she would erase the memory of that kiss from her mind; crush it like glass beneath the heel of reality until it was nothing but glittering dust, borne away by the wind.

***

Clara sat at the cherry-wood writing desk and gazed out the window of her enormous suite in Carlton Towers; the grand country home of the Earl of Surrey, where Master Reynard and his party were being housed prior to their performances in Leeds and York. The earl and his countess were not currently in residence, for which Clara was grateful. She did not think she would ever feel at ease among the nobility.

The misty landscape outside provided no inspiration. It was too soft, too undefined. She returned her attention to the paper before her and, compressing her lips together, crossed out the lines she had written moments before. The discarded page took its place with a dozen other failed attempts on the desk beside her.

It was a shocking waste of paper, but Darien Reynard could afford it. What he could not afford, however, was to have no more compositions by Becker. She tugged at a loose strand of hair and closed her eyes, her mind chasing after any elusive hint of melody. She would not fail in this.

“Clara?” Nicholas rapped at her door, then opened it without waiting for her response. “How’s the newest piece coming?”

She fixed a smile on her lips. “A bit slowly, but well enough.”

She closed her hand around her stick of graphite.

“Inspiration is everywhere, or so you’ve told me.” Nicholas tilted his head at her, concern shading his eyes. “Your two sea pieces turned out admirably.”

“Yes.”

She’d been able to complete the melodies that had come to her in Brighton. But she had finished those compositions ten days ago, and nothing since had inspired. Rather the opposite. Everything was difficult now, and the joy and excitement she had felt on the early days of the tour had quickly soured.

“How did your rehearsal go?” she asked, attempting to deflect her brother’s attention.

She had paused in the hall earlier, listening, but relations between Nicholas and Darien were strained enough without her presence adding to the tension.

Somehow, while performing, both men were able to lay aside their differences and work together in service to the music. The rest of the time, however, Darien Reynard avoided them, continuing his habit of taking a horse ahead to the next town at the end of each series of concerts.