“Certainly.” The composer jumped up from his seat and fetched a small stack of music from a nearby shelf. Wordlessly, he held it out.
Dare took the sheaf. For a long moment, he could not bring himself to open the first piece. He stared down at the frontispiece, an ornately scrolled border that contained the words Etude, by Nicholas Becker.
The father cleared his throat, and even Peter leaned over to look, though he would not be able to read the music scribed within.
Inhaling deeply, Dare turned the page. He forced his hands to remain steady, despite the bitter urgency that said hurry, hurry!
It was a simple, lovely piece for solo piano. Brief and sweet, something a young lady might play in her parlor for admiring suitors. Not the Rondo by any stretch. He felt his mouth turn down in a frown.
“That was written some time ago,” Nicholas Becker said. “When, er, when I was practically a child.”
Pulse beating in his temple, Dare turned to the next piece, titled Scherzo. He scanned the notes within, and let out a breath he had not been aware of holding. The restless mood of the written music stirred him, even unheard.
“Yes.” He had not meant to speak the word aloud. “This one has potential.”
“Potential?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “We came all this way for potential?”
The composer kept his gaze fixed on Dare’s shoes, as if they held the answer to some great mystery. “That one was also written some time ago. I had quite a few, um, small pieces. The publisher sorted through and selected what he thought would sell.”
Dare set the printed music aside. Damnation. He wanted to take the composer by the shoulders and shake him until more brilliant music came out.
“Yes. But what about now? What are you working on now?” He could not keep the raw demand from his voice.
“Ah…” The composer still did not look up, and for an instant Dare felt panic stab through his chest. He had been wrong.
No. He would not allow it. He fixed his gaze on Nicholas Becker, willing the man to speak.
The silence in the room teetered into discomfort before the father spoke. “Play the Air in E minor.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Nicholas Becker stood, one hand plucking at the side of his trousers. “The newest composition. Papa took a copy to the publishers only yesterday.”
“Let us hear it.” Dare could not look at Peter.
If this new piece was not brilliant, then they had come for nothing. Nothing. All his plans and hopes, dashed. Bile rose in his throat, anger at the universe for showing him a glimpse of perfection, and then snatching it away.
The composer took an inordinately long time to settle himself at the piano. The hush and crackle as he arranged the pages before him was the only sound in the silence. Dare was not certain his own lungs remembered how to breathe as he waited. Finally, after sending another anxious glance at his father, Becker began.
It was a thoughtful, meditative opening, and the room was immediately transformed by the aching sweetness of the melody. Relief flared through Dare, a smoldering ember leaping to flame. He let the music wrap round him, and closed his eyes in fervent gratitude.
As Becker continued to play, two things become quite clear. This newest work was every bit as inspired as the Rondo, and the composer was also an excellent pianist. Now Dare could look at his agent, his smile laced with triumph. Peter pressed his lips together, but he returned a single nod. Even he must hear the truth of it.
The notes sang through Dare as the piece ascended. His hands ached with the need to play that brightness into being, to sing it with the throat of his violin. It would sound exquisite; himself playing the theme while Nicholas Becker anchored the piece with those bell-like chords. With music like this, they could set the world on fire.
Victory glowed through him. He had been right, and everything would come about just as he had imagined it. The last shadows of fear and poverty slunk away.
His soul would be eased, and his mark made on musical history. Forever.
CHAPTER FOUR
The door to the parlor opened, the draft making the lamp flicker. One of the pages on the piano fluttered to the floor and the composer stopped, the music breaking off so abruptly that Dare caught his breath on that sudden edge. A drably dressed young woman hurried into the room. She paused by the piano and bent to gather the fallen page. With a practiced motion she returned the sheet to its place, then nodded to Becker to continue.
After a brief hesitation he did, and music brightened the air once more. Dare leaned back to listen, but his gaze caught on the figure of the young woman standing beside the piano. She was pale and a bit too thin, but the look on her face arrested his attention. Longing and tenderness filled her expression as she listened to the music. Her lips were tilted up in a half smile that seemed to hold a universe of secrets.
When the last ringing note had faded, she turned her head and met Dare’s gaze. Mystery moved through the silver-blue depths of her eyes. Then she blinked, and he saw he had been mistaken; her eyes were plain gray.
“I apologize for the interruption.” She bobbed a brief curtsey, then turned and gathered the music into a neat stack.
Nicholas Becker pushed away from the keyboard. “Master Reynard, this is my sister, Clara Becker.”
Dare rose and bowed over her hand. The sister, of course. But where her brother was a wheat field under a blue sky, she was the same field seen by moonlight—leached of color.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“Mr. Reynard, you honor us.” Her slim fingers were cold in his. “Your concert last night was…” She faltered. “It was glorious. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You must be very proud of your brother’s talent.”
“We are all extremely proud of Nicholas.” Her expression dimmed, and she slipped her hand from his. “Papa, is Mary bringing tea?”
“Yes,” her brother said. “Sit with us, Clara.”
Dare nodded at the composer. “Your newest piece is every bit as good as the Rondo. I would be honored if you’d let me debut it.”
Miss Becker sat down, rather abruptly, in the chair next to her brother.
“I…” Nicholas Becker’s ears turned pink. “Thank you.”
“In fact, it brings me to the purpose of my call today. I’d like to engage your services as a composer. You have enormous talent, Mr. Becker. If your work had greater exposure, there would be a piece by Nicholas Becker on every piano in England—the Continent, even.” Dare leaned forward, allowing time for the words to sink in, and captured the young man’s gaze. “I can provide that exposure. You must come on tour with me.”
The composer’s eyes widened. Clearly he’d no notion of what Dare had been going to say. Beside him, his sister gripped the wooden arms of her chair until her knuckles turned white.
For a moment Nicholas Becker’s mouth gaped, and then he collected himself. “That is most unexpected… and generous of you.”
“Generous, but unnecessary.” The elder Mr. Becker shook his head, his expression severe. “We thank you for the offer of patronage. Nicholas would be happy to write as many pieces as you’d like and send them along—”
“Send them along?” Dare’s hands tightened on his knees. “Mr. Becker, I don’t think you understand. I do not merely want to play your son’s works, I want to build my performances around them. My agent here,” he gestured to Peter, “has contacts with reputable publishers of sheet music throughout Europe. They will be eager for the compositions of Nicholas Becker, once they learn that I’m featuring them. The Rondo has been tremendously well received. There will be a ready market for his new works, too, as the public becomes familiar with the music through my performances. Our performances, for your son is a talented pianist as well.” He focused back on the composer. “Think of what we could accomplish.”
Dare could not keep the enthusiasm from his voice. Surely they would see how crucial it was that Becker himself be an integral part o
f the performance? It would be a perfect circle of creative effort. Nicholas Becker heard the notes and set them down, Dare transformed them back into music for the world to hear. Two masters of their craft, working together.
Too, there was the impending specter of the musical duel to be held that spring—but to speak of it now would complicate matters far too much. No, he would master each problem as he came to it. He must add the composer to his tour before proposing more.
Becker flushed and he glanced first at his father, then his sister. A curious expression crossed his face; not the elation Dare had expected to see, but something more troubled.
Whatever the composer’s reluctance, Dare was not going to fail now. He nodded to Peter.
“Ahem.” His agent opened his satchel and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Mr. Reynard is prepared to compensate you fairly in exchange for premier performing rights to anything you compose while in his employ. The parties will split publishing royalties for contracts, which I will arrange upon your joint approval.” He flipped through the pages. “You will agree to accompany Mr. Reynard on his tour of England and Scotland, with the option to continue, terms to be negotiated, to the Continent, presupposing all parties are satisfied with the initial tour. In addition, all expenses of travel will be paid and you will be fed and housed…” He glanced at the pitifully small huddle of coals on the grate, “…appropriately.”
Dare was not so subtle. “With the stipend I pay, you’ll be able to move your family out of this house. Think of the comforts you could provide your father and sister. Think how your prospects would change.” He paused as a girl carrying a tray entered the room.
“I shall pour out,” the sister said, rising to take a cup from the tray. She poured with a steady hand. “Do you take sugar, Mr. Reynard?”
Dare glanced at the chipped bowl holding a few forlorn lumps. “No, thank you.”
Despite her calm expression, the surface of the liquid trembled as she handed him his cup.
“Well then, how much?” the father asked. “You have not said how much.”
Dare smiled to himself. How quickly the old man had changed his tune. “Ten pounds a week.”
The maid dropped the tea tray. The pot and remaining cups, the sad lumps of sugar, the mismatched teaspoons, all crashed to the floor.
Dare leapt up and pulled Miss Becker with him, away from the spatter of scalding liquid and broken shards of porcelain. She half stumbled into his arms. She was soft and feminine—more curved than he would have guessed beneath her worn gown—and he was unexpectedly, blazingly, aware of her as a woman. The feel of her burned through him, hotter than the sear of his tea sloshing over the brim of his cup.
“Mary! Take care,” the father said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Becker.” The girl bobbed an abject curtsey. “Mistress, masters.” She gathered up the wreckage and hurried through the doorway.
Dare took a deep breath and set Miss Becker at a safe distance. He did not need any more complications in this already fraught negotiation.
“We beg your pardon, sir, most humbly.” Nicholas Becker’s face was red with mortification. “You are unhurt?”
“It’s only tea.” Dare placed his cup on the nearby table and shook down his tea-dampened cuff.
Judging from the maid’s reaction, the amount he offered was a fantastic sum to the family. No matter. He could afford it, and if the performances were received as well as he expected, he would be rewarded many times over. But the financial return was not what mattered.
“As I was saying.” Dare looked directly at the elder Mr. Becker. “Ten pounds a week.”
He let the words hang in the air, tempting. The older man’s eyes narrowed. Then he glanced at his son and shook his head.
“I am sorry,” he said. “It is not possible.”
“Fifteen,” Dare said.
Beside him, Peter shifted as if he would speak, but Dare kept his focus on Mr. Becker. He would succeed in this.
“Fifteen pounds.” Nicholas Becker said the words as if they were a hymn.
“No.” The elder Mr. Becker’s voice was not so firm, this time.
“Twenty,” Dare said. “And that includes payment for serving as my accompanist, as well. It’s my final offer.”
Miss Becker drew in her breath, and the silence stretched one heartbeat. Two. Dare locked eyes with the old man, willing him to accept.
“Indeed.” The father cleared his throat. “You make us an offer that is difficult to refuse.”
“But Papa…” Miss Becker took a half step forward, her lips pressed tightly together.
The old man waved her to silence. “Let me think.”
Sounds drifted into the room: the high voices of children playing in the street, the distant rumble of carriage wheels. At last the father nodded.
“We will accept your offer, but you will take both my children with you.” He thumped his cane for emphasis. “Nicholas and Clara, both.”
“Are you quite certain?” Miss Becker asked. Her gray eyes were startled, but behind that shock something flared. Yearning. Hope.
Dare crossed his arms. There were undercurrents here he did not understand; some family secret that lay like a sandbar, treacherously close to the surface. Was it going to wreck his plans on the shoals?
He turned his attention to Miss Becker. She met his gaze for a moment, then flushed and dropped her eyes.
“There is no reason to include Miss Becker in the tour,” Dare said. “Much as I dislike to say it, I fear she would be an impediment. Her brother and I will be busy, leaving no time to chaperone. This is not some pleasure jaunt, no Grand Tour of the sights where we will have leisure to squire your daughter about.”
“Clara would not expect such a thing,” the elder Mr. Becker said. “She will keep herself, and her brother, out of harm’s way.”
Dare raised one eyebrow. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
The composer nervously ran his fingers over the back of the armchair, where the finish had worn off. He cleared his throat and met Dare’s eyes.
“I must confess. I recently underwent a… difficult period. Clara helped immensely. I am sure Papa wishes her to come along to help see to my well-being.”
His words rang true, and there was a tightness about his eyes that indicated the composer was not yet fully recovered. It would explain the family’s reluctance.
“I’ll see that you are treated well, Mr. Becker,” Dare said. “I understand the volatility of the artistic temperament, and I assure you, your sister’s presence is unneeded.”
“I must insist.” Nicholas Becker’s hand stilled, then tightened over the back of the chair. “You will take both of us. Or neither of us.”
Dare turned to Miss Becker. There must have been something fierce in his expression, for she took a step back, her eyes wide.
“What do you say?” he demanded. “Do you also insist on coming along?”
There was a flash of something—anger?—in her expression, quickly dampened.
“I stand with my family,” she said.
Peter set a calming hand on his arm. “Dare, they have laid out their terms. Do you agree?”
Anger pumped through his blood at the damned stubbornness of the Becker family. Why would they not behave sensibly? Dare blew a breath out his nostrils and forced himself to think, though there was only one answer.
He scowled at Nicholas Becker.
“Your sister’s expenses will come out of your weekly stipend,” Dare said. “I am paying you well enough. I refuse to be burdened with her needs as well.”
The composer swallowed, but he nodded.
“It will do,” their father said.
“Peter, change the agreements,” Dare said.
This was a displeasing outcome… and yet, he had achieved his goal. Nicholas Becker would be composing for him, touring with him, despite the compromise of dragging the sister along.
Dare turned to the composer. “Peter will take your signat
ure and give you a week’s advance. We leave for Brighton in two days. I’ll send the coach to collect you. Both of you.” His gaze went to where Clara Becker stood, pale hands smoothing her skirts.
Shaking his head, he stalked to the door. He could not stand another instant in this cold, shabby house, dealing with the unmanageable composer and his family. Once they were on tour, Dare’s word was law. No matter what Nicholas Becker and his sister might want.
***
Clara turned to her father the moment the door closed behind their extraordinary guest. Her heart pounded with excitement even as her stomach clenched at the thought of everything that could go wrong.
“Papa! How could you agree to send us with him? It’s impossible. What if Nicholas—”
“Your brother is recovered,” Papa said, his tone harboring no room for argument. “There is no choice, Clara. You know this. We cannot afford to refuse. The two of you either go with the maestro, or we will be on the streets within the month.”
She folded her arms around herself, palms flat against her ribs. Papa was right. They had sold everything but the piano, and it was still not enough. Nicholas’s students had forsaken him during his dark time. The pittance the publisher paid for her works would not keep them housed and fed.
“It is providence,” Papa said. “When fate opens the door, one must be brave enough to walk through.”
Clara closed her eyes for a brief moment. The tour offered possibilities she could not have dreamed, along with the potential for even greater disaster.
“It’s my fault,” Nicholas said, his expression pinched with misery. “If I had been able to keep teaching, we wouldn’t be in such straits.”
Clara slipped her arm around his shoulders. “It’s not your fault. It was difficult even before, remember?”
Their mother’s long illness had begun the family’s slide into hardship; the ineffectual doctors who still had to be paid, the various medicines that had cost all their savings, but in the end had done little except ease her pain.
Nicholas’s descent into black melancholy had only locked a door that had already slammed closed in their faces.
Sonata for a Scoundrel Page 3
