Sonata for a Scoundrel (13 page)

Nicholas shrugged. “Adequately. He’s asking for the new composition. I’m glad it’s going well, as I can’t put him off much longer. It’s hard enough working with him as it is.” A note of resentment entered his voice. “I still wish I could have—”

“What, fought with him like two brawlers in the alley? Let it go, Nicholas. Nursing your anger at Darien Reynard won’t make things easier.”

Though perhaps it did make things simpler for her brother. He hid behind that screen of emotion, used it to deflect the maestro’s curiosity. She wished she had something, anything, to distract herself from thoughts of Darien.

Despite her resolution not to think of him, every night behind her closed lids she remembered the intensity of his expression, the light in his mossy green eyes as he lowered his face to hers. The sensation of being in Darien’s arms was printed on her skin, pressed into her body so clearly that she could not forget.

Even as she wanted to. Even as he had so obviously put that kiss, and her, from his mind.

Her fingers tightened so firmly about the graphite that it snapped.

“Clara!” Nicholas gave her a startled look. “I thought the composition was going well. What’s troubling you?”

“What’s troubling me?” She opened her hand and let the broken lead drop to the table. “What could possibly be marring the happiness of my days? Hm, let us think on that a moment. Could it be that I’m trapped with two impossible men, dragged the length of England like a useless puppet—”

“If anyone ought to complain of being a puppet, it’s me.” Nicholas crossed his arms, his voice sharp and unhappy. “At least
you
have a talent. I’m only pretending. It’s not easy for me either. And add to that the fact I have to work with that reprehensible man…” He flung himself down in a nearby chair.

“Darien Reynard is not reprehensible.” She hated how prim her voice sounded. “How many times do I have to tell you? He has not looked at me once since that night, and not spoken above seven words to me, either.” She had been counting.

“He might simply be biding his time. Be careful, Clara.”

Oh, if only she thought that were true. But it was clear she was completely forgotten.

“I am careful. Now go away. I have music to compose.”

Nicholas shoved back his chair. “Best you finish it soon.”

“I shall.”

Although how she was to finish something she could not even start… Clara shook her head and took up the longer half of the graphite.

As soon as Nicholas closed the door behind him, she set her lead down again. Blast. She picked up the page sporting her last effort and stared at the handful of notes she had sketched there. Aimless. Useless. She crumpled the paper into a tight ball. Then the next. The next, until she had a row of expensive rubbish lining the desk.

The fire burned sweetly on the hearth, the coals sending out a shimmering warmth that did not match Clara’s mood at all. She stood, swept up the balls of paper, and dropped them into the fire.

Flames leapt up, the paper uncurling and dancing like souls consumed, hot and bright and angry. Like a spurned woman, like a deceitful man, like stubborn pride and fury and desperation. Dancing in the flames, while the devil watched.

Yes. Yes! At last she heard it—the quick staccato beat of the piano, rapping notes out while the violin played with the fury of a fallen angel. Fire and passion and wickedness all coiled together in a mad rush of melody.

She rushed back to the desk, grabbed a new sheet of paper, and began to write furiously.

***

From her vantage point in the hallway outside the half-open door to the music room, Clara could see Darien Reynard’s lifted brow as he accepted the pages from Nicholas. She rested her fingertips on the elaborate gilt doorframe and leaned closer, straining her ears to catch their conversation.

“
El Diavolo
?” Darien asked. “Do I dare ask what inspired this piece?”

Nicholas tapped his fingers nervously against his trouser leg.

“It’s a composite,” he finally said. “Drawn from a number of experiences.”

“I see.” Darien flipped to the second page and studied the notes scribed there. “This is a bit more… technically ambitious than your previous works. You plan to put me through my paces.”

Oh, yes. Wait until he attempted the cadenza. Clara swallowed back a sharp, bitter laugh. Her composition served him right enough; served them both. She might be invisible, but there was no denying her presence. Not when
she
was the one quite literally calling the tune.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Anton Varga Takes Roma by Storm…

The musician’s recent concerts have proven his unmatched genius on the violin, and there is no doubt he will dethrone Darien Reynard in Milan this spring. Audiences shall be in for a spectacle as the two men clash in competition, and a new master is crowned!

-La Forza

“D
amn.” Dare pulled his horse up and peered through the sheeting rain at the bridge spanning the river ahead.

Or what was left of the bridge. The torrential downpour had swollen the river, and part of the wooden structure had been torn away. The far bank was unreachable, the remains of the bridge sticking only partway into the grey, turbulent water. There would be no crossing here.

No one would be out to make repairs, not this afternoon. Indeed, the rain-filled sky was dim enough to presage an early twilight, and it was a long, muddy road behind him. At least the coach would not have to backtrack quite as far. The heavy vehicle was slow and unwieldy, the driver hard-pressed to keep them from foundering.

Shaking his head at the impassable river, Dare wheeled his mount back the way he had come. His greatcoat was sodden, his hat wet through and no obstacle to the cold droplets sliding off the brim. Since reaching Northumberland, the weather had been miserable. It had nearly been enough to drive him back into the coach. Nearly, but not quite. Even riding in the insidious rain was better than spending time with the Beckers.

Nicholas was as prickly as ever—and blast him for his latest composition.
El
Diavolo
was an incredibly demanding work. Dare had spent hours working out the fingering for the difficult passages, cursing Becker with every other breath. And praising him with the rest, though Nicholas seldom took his words of approbation well.

To be fair, the composer had written an equally challenging piano part for himself. In rehearsal, they stumbled and swore and halted every few measures, but Dare could hear the infernal brilliance of the piece. The music would be stunning, if both of them survived the task of making the impossible thing come together.

It was good to have the distraction, something to keep his thoughts from Clara Becker. Not that he was always successful. Christ, not that he was successful at all, with her luminously pretty face watching him every time he turned around.

It had been a surprise to find that Nicholas had not deposited Clara in London before catching up with Dare in Southampton. He supposed the composer needed his sister’s support to buoy him up before performances. In truth, her presence in Brighton had been essential.

Still, Dare had never before been in the position of trying to
ignore
a woman with whom he was in daily contact. In a rather ironic twist, it made him even more aware of her.

There was something disturbingly arousing in that careful dance of proximity; the spaces between them charged with meaning. Dare found himself measuring how far he stood from her slender figure. An arm’s length from brushing the tips of his fingers across the nape of her neck. Three steps from touching her shoulder in passing. Even when she was behind him, he could tell her presence by the faint perfume of her lavender scent.

He rarely let their gazes cross, and tried not to wonder what secrets flickered in Clara’s silvery-blue eyes. Every woman harbored mysteries, yet he suspected hers ran deeper than most.

And so, he restrained himself. Like a man too long from drink, who, when poured a glass of the finest French brandy, begins with savoring the aroma. Rich, intoxicating, filling his senses with the promise of more. Perhaps a drop spills over the edge, and the aficionado places his mouth there, against the cool glass, and licks that single droplet, letting the liquor burn against his tongue. Then, nearly trembling with effort, sets the glass down where the firelight can flicker through it, his self-control coiling the desire within him until it is sharp and poignant.

Dare could not sip the liquor that was Miss Clara Becker—but that did not stop him from thirsting.

His horse pricked its ears and Dare squinted through the downpour, making out the dark blur of the coach ahead.

“Ho!” he called, riding up to his driver.

Poor Samuel sat huddled on the bench. He lifted a pale face and pulled the weary horses to a halt.

“What news, master?”

“Bridge is out. We’ll have to turn back to… what was that last town we passed?”

“Milfield, ’twas. More a village than a town, sir.”

“There was an inn.”

And not many travelers in this weather, Dare would wager. They would find accommodation for the night, even if he had to pay extra to convince earlier patrons to give up their beds and sleep in the common room.

“Monsieur!” Henri stuck his head from one of the coach windows. “Come inside, I beg of you. This weather is horrible.”

“I would only get the rest of you wet. We’re turning around, at any rate.”

“What? We are not continuing on?”

“No, we’ll have to wait for bridge repairs on the morrow.” From the corner of his eye he caught the pale blur of Clara’s face behind the rain-streaked glass.

“But,” his valet sounded shocked, “you do not expect us to sleep on the road? In this nasty rain?” He batted his hand at the drops flying past the opened window.

“We will be at an inn, Henri. Don’t look so horrified. Now close the window. I’ll see you in the village.” Dare could not help feel a thin trickle of amusement as his valet complied, muttering about fleas and straw-covered floors.

The Green Man Inn proved Henri’s dire predictions wrong, and Dare was glad of it. The innkeeper’s wife hastily took his coat, exclaiming at the rivulets streaming off it, and seemingly unconcerned that her gleaming wooden floors sported new puddles.

“Ale, sir, or will ye be wanting something warmer?” The innkeeper hurried to the bar.

“A pint now,” Dare could use the rough fortification of country ale, “and supper when my companions arrive. You do have rooms for the night?”

“Aye. How many?”

Dare settled the details, glad to find they were the only custom for the evening, though the innkeeper advised him a few of the regulars liked to drop in for their jar and a bite of stew. The common room was comfortable, warmed by a large hearth at one end. Oil lamps shed a cheery light, an antidote to the endless pewter drizzle outside.

By the time the coach arrived, Dare was mostly dry, though his boots were still damp, and his hair. Likely it was curling, too, in that irritating way it had. He’d let it get too long—mostly to annoy Henri, but now it was beginning to annoy him as well.

The bustle in the yard outside transferred to the doorway. Clara entered first, and Dare gave her a curt nod. He looked to the others, trying not to see the shadow of hurt in her eyes.

“Monsieur, you are drenched!” Henri beckoned to the innkeeper’s wife. “Madame, a towel if you please.”

The stout woman pursed her lips, her bright eyes assessing the newcomers. “I’ll bring several. Wet enough, the lot of you.”

Half an hour later, after getting settled into his room and letting Henri fuss over him, Dare descended to the common room for supper. Both Nicholas and Clara were there, at a table near the peat fire.

Nicholas slid over on the worn bench to make a place for him. “I think our meal’s nearly ready. Is Mr. Dubois coming down?”

“He’ll join us as soon as he has finished pressing my coat to his satisfaction.”

“That may be another hour, then,” Nicholas said, and actually smiled.

Dare hid his surprise. Perhaps the smell of fresh-baked bread—and the half-empty pints of ale sitting before Nicholas and his sister—had mellowed the man’s usual animosity. Or perhaps it was the simple surroundings, so unlike their usual run of fine hotels and estates, that put the Beckers at ease, for Clara seemed more relaxed as well. Her expression was not taut with unhappiness as he had so often seen it, and the damp had coaxed her fine, straight hair to loosen in its braid.

That braid. So practical, so unfashionable. Dare’s fingers ached to unplait it, to free that fall of moonlight. He could imagine her, standing naked with her glorious hair down about her. It would part at her shoulders, showing her upper arm, the curve of—

“…tomorrow night?” Nicholas turned to him, expectation of an answer writ upon his face.

“Ah.” Dare tried to order his scattered thoughts. Damn. Clearly he needed to find some female companionship, and soon.

Across the table, Clara sent him a reproachful look. “My brother is concerned we will not make Edinburgh in time.”