Sonata for a Scoundrel (16 page)

He smiled at her, and she tried to ignore the fact he’d removed his dark coat and undone his cravat. The white fabric of his shirt made his skin seem darker, his hair soft midnight. Did he have Mediterranean blood? She had not thought to wonder before. He was simply Darien Reynard. But even the greatest violinist of the day had to come from
somewhere
.

She was not here, however, to ask about his origins.

“Master Reynard…” Oh, this should not be so difficult. She lifted her gaze to his and put all her sincerity behind the next words. “I wanted to thank you. Your generosity, you’ve done so much for us—”

“I need no thanks, though I’m happy I could provide some assistance to your family. Still, with Nicholas’s talent, it was more than an even trade.”

Nicholas’s talent. Clara swallowed and half turned from the maestro. She was not sure he understood how very dire their circumstances had been, or that he’d saved them from a life of certain destitution.

The small room was crowded with flowers, the smell of orange blossoms permeating the air with sweetness. Orchids and anemones embraced and tangled in a wanton display. She followed one meandering vine of ivy and tried to collect her thoughts. It seemed her thanks were unnecessary, but she’d had to offer them.

“It was an excellent concert,” she said at last. “Cambridge likes you very well. I don’t know when I’ve seen so many bouquets. They must have plundered their hothouses.”

He laughed. “When we play on the Continent, then you’ll see bouquets to exclaim over. Sometimes there’s hardly room for me in the dressing room. Luckily, I’ve never been prone to sneezing fits.”

“The Continent?” She swung back to face him. “But we return to London tomorrow. The tour is over.”

“
This
tour, yes. I have every intention of bringing your brother, and yourself, if you wish it, along with me on the next one. We need not depart immediately, but—”

“We cannot come.” She hugged her arms about herself. “Nicholas could not…”

She made herself stop before she blurted out too much. Her brother was immeasurably relieved to be returning home. He had told her at great length how good it would be to set aside the mask of Nicholas Becker, composer. The deception had been exhausting him; she could see it every time he took his bow before a standing ovation, every time he accepted praise for something that was none of his doing. They could not continue touring with Darien. How soon until her brother faltered? She feared the black melancholy even now hovered over him, waiting to descend.

Yet as Nicholas’s smiles began to come more freely, her own had begun to fade. What did she have to return to? Certainly, she would be glad to have the burden lifted from Nicholas, relieved to shed the constant worry her notebooks would be discovered. She would be free to compose without having to lock herself in her room.

It had used to be enough.

She glanced at Darien. He watched her, a frown creased between his dark brows. “Of course you will come,” he said. “The competition in Italy is only two months away. Nicholas must be there.”

“I don’t think you will be able to convince him of that.”

The frown moved down to Darien’s mouth. “Does he still hate me so much, then? I had thought he’d forgiven me at last. Our rehearsals and performances are going so well, I would not have guessed it.”

How could she possibly explain? “It is not that he dislikes you—”

“Clara.” Darien stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. “Be honest. What can I do about Nicholas? You know your brother well. You must tell me.”

Shadows hovered in his eyes. Under his intent gaze, her secrets trembled close to the surface.

The impulse to reveal everything rushed through her, hot and immediate. Oh, how she yearned for him to know she was the composer! There was a unique and wordless bond between them, if only he could see it. See
her
for who she truly was: the woman who wrote the music he loved.

“Yes,” she whispered. The edge of truth burned, but it was a welcome fire. Her pulse pounded, each beat striking through her, like a clock telling the hours. It was time. Time. “Darien, I—”

“Master Reynard?” a too-familiar voice called from the hallway.

Oh, God. Nicholas, knocking at the door. Darien standing too close, his hands on her shoulders.

“In here.” With one swift move he pivoted and thrust her into the wardrobe.

She caught her balance, then crouched between his coats. The wool rasped softly against her cheek as she fought to contain her breathing, the scent of him all around her. Her fingers trembled and she laced them tightly together. Darien pushed the wardrobe door closed, but the latch did not catch and she could see a slice of the room beyond.

“Nicholas. Come in.”

She heard her brother step into the dressing room. He cleared his throat.

“I wanted to thank you before we returned to London,” he said. “You’ve been exceedingly generous, not only to myself but to my family. It means a great deal to us.”

“You are very welcome.” There was a quiet note in Darien’s voice, as though he knew how important these thanks were. Perhaps, with Nicholas giving him almost the same words she had, he did understand. “It has been my pleasure. These last concerts have been excellent.”

“Yes.” Nicholas sounded glad. “I’ll always remember them.”

“You know…” The maestro moved into her line of sight and began unbuttoning his gold-embroidered waistcoat. “My agent informs me that audiences on the Continent are clamoring to hear your music. When I play your compositions to best Varga, the world will be at our feet. It would be good if you were there.”

“Ah. But I don’t have to be, for you to win. Do I?”

Darien hesitated a moment, then shrugged out of his waistcoat. “No. But it might help. Certainly, if you performed with me, your fame would be assured. As would a slew of publishing contracts.”

“Well, those could be sent to me in London.” There was a stubborn note in her brother’s voice that Clara knew all too well. Nothing would entice him to continue touring.

Darien nodded, as if he recognized pushing would only make Nicholas balk further. He turned his attention to his cuffs. “So. Home to London it is. Are you ready to return to the hotel?”

“Almost. I must go find Clara.”

“I’ll meet you at the carriage in fifteen minutes,” Darien said. He sounded remarkably calm at the thought of Nicholas looking for her.

She did not hear her brother leave, but a few moments later Darien swung open the wardrobe door. “It’s safe.”

Trying not to think of how rumpled her plum-colored gown must be, Clara took his hand and let him assist her out.

“You see,” she said. “I don’t think Nicholas can be convinced.”

“Perhaps.”

Darien looked thoughtful, and she suspected he would not let them go so easily. The thought worried and elated her all at once.

His expression cleared and he focused on her again. “But tell me. What were you about to say, earlier?”

Realization scratched against her heart, a sharp-edged knowledge she could not escape. She had been so close to ruining everything, to destroying Darien’s career with her selfish, unconsidered words. His entire future rested on the deception she and Nicholas had foisted upon him. The recognition the master deserved could only be his if she let the lie stand, and let the world continue to believe for all time that Nicholas Becker was the composer.

Her silence was the greatest gift she could give Darien. The only repayment she could ever make.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“Of course it does.” He drew her forward. “Clara—”

“No.”

She stepped into him, her skirts brushing his trouser legs, and slipped her hands up to his shoulder. No more questions. Tomorrow she must bid him farewell, but tonight she would kiss him. One final kiss, to remember. She tilted her face up and brushed her lips over his. He closed his eyes, his body suddenly taut, but he did not push her away, or even command her to stop.

Heat sparked through her, and a curious excitement born of her own boldness. She pressed closer, re-learning the shape of his lips, sipping the warmth of his breath. Her breasts, her whole body, tingled where she touched him, and she wanted to lean into him, push herself hard against his strength. But wanting and action were so often separated by caution, and so she continued the feather-light kiss, praying he would not move away.

“Clara.” Her name, whispered into her own mouth. As Darien finished the word, whatever spell bound him motionless broke.

With a sudden, nearly violent move, he brought his arms around her and pulled her against him. His lips opened over hers, hot and demanding. Her yearning spilled over, like a goblet of liqueur, sweet and fierce and obeying only the rule of gravity.

It was a kiss filled with near chances, hopes and regrets distilled into a single moment of desire. Clara closed her eyes against the prickle of tears. This kiss would be a bright, burning star for her to chart her life by, the only thing in a dark sea full of night. She would look up and navigate her future by its light, by the memory of Darien’s kiss. His body printed on hers, the heat of him enveloping her through the thin silk of her gown. His tongue delving into her willing, open mouth. His strong arms around her, inescapable, secure, the both of them leaning into one another, as though their hearts might—if only they pressed close enough—touch.

And then it was over, leaving her aching with unspoken words, unspent tears. The kiss was over, the tour was over, and tomorrow she would watch him go forward into his own life, while she stayed behind in hers. Holding the knowledge inside her, fragile as a fallen leaf, she stepped back and offered him a small curtsey.

“Farewell, Darien. And thank you.”

She could not meet his moss-green eyes, could not wait for a reply. She was breaking. The door was smooth under her hand as she left his dressing room, and he did not call her back.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The merry pranksters of Cambridge were out in full force at Maestro Reynard’s recent concert. A number of young gentlemen appeared dressed in unrelieved black—down to the dying of their hair! Each one proceeded to court every nearby female with claims that they were the true Master. Darien Reynard took the jest with good grace, going so far as to insist that his imitators stand and take a bow at the end of his performance…

-The Courier

I
t was raining; a gray, dreary drizzle that shrouded the buildings of London like a widow’s veil. For once, Darien shared the coach with them. But then, he would have it to himself soon.

Clara could feel him watching her. Darting a look across the carriage, she found his expression brooding, a thin line etched between his dark brows. Their gazes met, then held as yearning trembled wildly inside her.

She was only grateful Nicholas did not notice. Her brother was in the grip of unusually high spirits, though as they penetrated deeper into London, his expression turned pensive.

“This looks rather like our old neighborhood,” he said with a glance out the window. “I thought we were going to Papa’s new house.”

Nicholas had directed Darien’s agent to send his pay directly to their father, and Clara had written Papa, urging him to find newer, better lodgings at once. Certainly they had sent enough for him to do so. There was no reason he should stay a minute more in that hovel they had once called their home.

Darien shifted. “We are going to the address Peter gave me—the place he has been delivering your money.”

“But…” The coach slowed and Nicholas leaned forward, shaking his head. “It
is
our old neighborhood. Our old house, in fact.” His voice rose. “Darien! Are you certain my pay has been delivered as instructed?”

The footman opened the door, letting the cold, wet air seep in. Nicholas was right. There was the cracked walkway, the peeling front door, and waiting on the stoop—

“Papa!” Clara flew out of the carriage and dashed up the walk, into the quick comfort of his embrace. She would not cry. She would not.

“Clara,” he said. “It is so good to have you home. And Nicholas. Come, let me see you. Such the gentleman you look.” He nodded to Darien. “Master Reynard, we have much to thank you for.”

“What are you saying?” Nicholas pivoted, waving at the house. “Nothing has changed! Where is the money I sent?”

“Yes, Papa.” Clara kept a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Why are you still here? I thought you’d removed to better lodgings.”

The only thing that had prevented her emotions from crumbling during the return to London had been imagining Papa’s bright new home. She’d never anticipated coming back to this dreary place. Tears pricked the back of her throat. She and Nicholas had struggled so, and to what end?

Papa sighed. “Come in. Come in, all of you, and I will explain.”

The walls were closer together, the carpet dingier than she remembered, and Clara felt her spirits sink a bit more with each step. The same threadbare furniture in the parlor, the inescapably familiar smell of must and old cabbage. The taste of hopelessness. She tried not to breathe it in, but there was no other choice.