“I’m no composer,” her brother said. “We’ll be discovered. The pretense, traveling with the maestro…” He shook his head, not bothering to brush away the hair that fell across his eyes.
“You will find a way.” Papa held up the bank notes Mr. Widmere had left, and shook them for emphasis. “Twenty pounds a week. Twenty! For that, for our family, you must. The contract is already signed. It is your chance, Nicholas, to bring back what we have lost.”
Clara felt her brother shudder, then take a steadying breath. There was no arguing with Papa. He always knew just how to force their agreement.
She wet her lips. “How can we possibly manage it?”
Papa began pacing, the thud of his cane a somber, hollow sound. “Everywhere you go, Nicholas will insist on a suite of rooms. He will keep watch while you write, Clara. Compose at night, in your room.” He rounded on them, a fierce light in his eyes. “You must swear to never let Master Reynard, or anyone, know. Think of what it would do to him—to us. Discovery now will not be a private scandal. If it is found that Master Reynard is promoting music composed by a woman, public opinion will turn against him. He will be disgraced… and we will be ruined. You must ensure that does not happen.”
She heard his unspoken command as well. Watch over Nicholas. She would, of course, although there had been very little she’d been able to do for him during his debilitating melancholy. It had taken everything she had to keep him eating, to coax him to rest when she heard him treading the floor through the night, to watch with mounting dismay as he grew listless and haunted.
But he had recovered. He was well now.
“You can do it, Nicholas.” She gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be there to help. Besides, you are a wonderful pianist. Imagine how the students will flock to you when you return from touring with the master.”
Her brother stared at the floor a moment more, then straightened and pushed the hair from his face. “It is madness, but very well. We’ll go with him through England and Scotland.”
“You will be home again in six weeks’ time,” Papa said. “After that, we shall see.”
They were going with Darien Reynard. They were going with Darien Reynard!
The reality of it sifted down into her soul and left her trembling. She, Clara Becker, was going to be traveling with the most celebrated musician in the world. He might be insufferably condescending, but she could forgive him. Could even forgive his rudeness to her.
After all, audiences would now hear her music the way she did. How would it feel, night after night, to lay her music in the hands of the master? Her heart twisted at how desperately she wanted it, and at how perfectly perilous their scheme was.
Master Reynard was so vibrant, so very masculine, from the set of his broad shoulders to the determination in his shadowy green eyes. So certain that the world would yield to him.
And she had stumbled against him like the most gauche of schoolgirls. The memory sent an embarrassed, thrilled prickle over her skin. No one in her family seemed to notice that brief, intimate contact before he set her on her feet. Likely he had barely registered it himself. But she felt as though something essential had brushed against her for a moment; some dark, beautiful flame.
The man was arrogant and inflexible, but he was Darien Reynard.
“Yes,” Nicholas said, with more hope in his voice than she had heard for months. “We are going to Scotland, to make our fortune.”
He strode to the hearth, took up the coal bucket, and with a flourish upended it into the fire.
“Nicholas!” she cried, from habit.
A half-bucket of coal was a guilty extravagance. But not any more. She could not help smiling at him.
“We can afford to be warm now.” The new coals began to glow and a sudden grin lit his face. “Everything has changed, Clara. Everything!”
He took her hand and pulled her into an impromptu polka. “We are going to Scot-land,” he sang as they whirled about the room, “with Darien Rey-nard.”
The floorboards creaked under their feet, and Clara laughed, dizzy and breathless. Papa pounded his cane, ostensibly to make them stop, but nonetheless keeping perfect time with their steps.
CHAPTER FIVE
With Master Reynard in London, ladies have been observed going to great lengths to snare his attention. Yesterday, in Hyde Park, Miss L_M_ flung herself into his path; and Lady B_ was spotted tapping at his windowpane in the dead of night—one would hope with no success!
-Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler
Clara ran her fingers over the silver-backed hairbrush that had belonged to her mother, then tucked it into her valise. She had packed everything she needed; nearly everything she owned, in truth. Her two everyday dresses, her spare chemise and petticoats, her nightgown. Giving in to vanity, she had purchased new ribbons for her bonnet, though they had taken the last of her coins. She fastened the valise closed, glanced once more about her bare room, and stepped into the hallway.
With a pang, she passed the empty corner where their grandfather clock used to stand. Now they had to rely on the timepiece downstairs, which barely tinkled the hours instead of ringing them out with calm authority.
“Nicholas.” She paused beside his half-open door. “Are you ready?”
“Nearly.”
She heard him open a drawer, then shut it again with a clunk.
“I’m taking my valise downstairs. Master Reynard’s note said ten o’clock, and it’s rising the hour.”
“I know.” The drawer closed with a bit too much force. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Soon. Soon. Excitement twined with anxiety, the knotted tension coiling up from the soles of her boots. Every step forward from here would be a step into the unknown.
She had hardly slept the last two nights, trying to imagine what it might be like to tour with such a pre-eminent musician. Before her brother lost his students, he used to describe the grandiose houses to her, the ease and opulence that were simply a way of life to the gentry.
But Darien Reynard was not mere gentry. No, that was like comparing an eagle to a flock of swans. Which she supposed made her and Nicholas little brown wrens. She could not imagine how they were going to fly.
She hurried down the stairs and set her worn valise in the entryway, just in time to catch the unmistakable clatter of a coach arriving.
It was time.
Fingers suddenly cold, she pulled her gloves on, then tied her bonnet beneath her chin. The fresh blue ribbons formed a crisp bow, distracting from the faded brim—at least, she hoped so. Through the parlor window she glimpsed the coach door swing wide.
“Nicholas!” she called up the stairs, then pulled their front door open. A cold breeze rushed inside, the west wind shivering beneath low gray clouds.
A figure emerged from the vehicle and her breath stilled. But no. The slight, dapper-looking gentleman could never be confused with Master Reynard. She waited, but no one else stepped out of the coach.
She breathed a sigh of relief, like a marionette whose strings had suddenly gone slack. The maestro had not come to fetch them himself. Of course not. Instead there was this fellow, dressed with fastidious elegance in checked trousers, a russet coat, and a striking green cravat. He had a thin, beakish nose with large nostrils, and bright brown eyes that assessed her as he strutted up to their door, his ebony walking stick tucked under his arm.
When he reached the entryway he swept off his top hat, made not of the usual beaver, but some odd, silvery fur. He made her an extravagant bow, one foot pointed and extended before him.
“Miss Becker, I presume?” His voice bore a Continental accent. French, perhaps?
She nodded, unable to muster a reply. Should she curtsey? Was there a certain type of curtsey that answered such a bow? If so, she had already failed the first test, and she had not even stepped out her own front door.
“I am Henri Dubois.” He paused, as if expecting some sort of recognition. When none was forthcoming, he g
ave a shrug and continued. “Monsieur Reynard sent me to gather you and your brother. You are ready?”
“Ah…” She glanced over her shoulder to see Nicholas descending the stairs, his expression quiet and determined. “Yes. We are ready.”
The fellow bowed, from the waist this time, and smiled at her brother. “You are the composer, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Papa stumped in from the parlor, and the Frenchman again doffed his hat and introduced himself. He glanced about the entryway, and Clara guessed his sharp gaze missed very little.
“If you are ready to depart,” he said to Nicholas, “I will summon the footman to bring your trunks down.”
“Our… trunks?” Nicholas shot her a sidelong look.
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Dubois beckoned to the servant waiting beside the vehicle. “We must load the coach and be off. One does not keep Darien Reynard waiting.”
“But we don’t—” she began.
Papa stepped forward. He nodded to Clara’s valise, then the traveling case beside Nicholas. “This is all they will bring. A footman is not needed.”
“This? This is your luggage for a month of travel?” Henri Dubois’s brows climbed alarmingly high, then snapped back down into a frown. With the tip of his walking stick he prodded Clara’s worn valise as if were a dead thing. “No, no. It will not do.”
“It will have to,” Papa said, ignoring the man’s disbelief.
Clara gave Mr. Dubois a rueful smile. “Perhaps we can add to our wardrobes as we travel, if necessary.”
“If necessary! What do you have in there—a change of stockings? But now, we must go. Say your farewells.” He turned to the burly footman. “Take our guests’ handbags. And pray, do not strain yourself.”
Mr. Dubois followed the servant out to the coach. A tremor of fear, of lightness, ran through Clara. She turned to Papa and kissed his cheek.
“Be well while we’re gone. We’ll be home before you miss us. And don’t chastise Cousin Mary. I’ve instructed her to feed you amply and keep the house as warm as she likes.”
“Hmph. Impractical.” His voice was gruff. “Write me of your travels. Look after your brother. And Clara, both of you,” he gripped her arm, “be careful.”
“We will, Papa.”
“Don’t worry.” Nicholas shook his father’s hand, then let Clara precede him down the walk.
Mr. Dubois was beckoning to them from inside the coach. “Come, come.”
Her boots felt soled with lead as Nicholas handed her up into the vehicle. Everything was illuminated with a dreamlike quality: the gleaming lamp sconces, the luxurious leather seats, the gold tassels on either side of the curtains. The interior smelled of polish and privilege. Nicholas settled beside her and she reached for his hand, seeking the one thing that was familiar.
Across from them, Mr. Dubois gave a satisfied nod. As the coach rolled into motion, he closed his eyes, and to all appearances began to nap.
Clara pushed aside the blue velvet curtain at the window and gave Papa a final wave. Their father silently held up one hand, then leaned on his cane, his expression settling back into its usual stern lines. She turned on the seat, watching his motionless figure grow smaller, until they rounded the corner and she could no longer see him at all. She let the swath of velvet fall closed.
They were truly embarked now.
She felt as though she were enclosed in a small, elegant boat. The familiar landmarks slipped away, and she was unmoored, carried along by currents she could not chart. Where would they sleep this night? What would the next month hold? She had very little idea of the towns and cities they were due to visit. Scotland itself seemed very foreign and far away.
Soon enough, Master Reynard would join them. That was the most unsettling thought of all. She twisted her bonnet ribbons between her fingers, keeping time to the rough rhythm of the coach wheels. Mr. Dubois seemed well asleep as the vehicle jolted through the streets of London, conveying them to wherever the maestro was waiting.
She tilted toward her brother, keeping her voice low. “How soon until we arrive, do you think?”
“Let’s see where we are.” Nicholas pulled the curtain on his side of the coach and secured it open with the gold-tasseled cord. He was more familiar than she with the genteel areas where his former students dwelt.
The neighborhood they were passing through was very different from their own. The streets were cleaner, the buildings more imposing and well kept, the colors brighter. Clara blinked at the violet and scarlet-striped skirts of a passing lady, the colors echoed in her frilled parasol. It was noisier too, the air filled with the clatter of metal-bound wheels over cobblestones, the calls of vendors echoing over the bustle.
“Darien Reynard will be at Mivart’s Hotel,” her brother said. “Unless he’s staying with an earl or some such. In any case, we’re heading into Mayfair.”
Mayfair. She pulled back her curtain and peered out the window.
They turned a corner, past ornate lamp posts and a swath of green park. Fashionably dressed gentlemen strolled with ladies turned out in stylish perfection from the toes of their shining buttoned boots to the ostrich plumes adorning their high-brimmed bonnets. Clara glanced down at the simple wool of her best gown, the toes of her boots scuffed despite extra coats of polish. They had done the best they could, but it was laughably pathetic—she could see that now.
The graceful terrace houses outside the window began to pass more and more slowly, until finally the coach came to a swaying halt.
“Ah.” Mr. Dubois’s eyes snapped open. “We have arrived.” He brushed invisible lint from the front of his coat. “Remain here. I will inform Monsieur Reynard.”
The footman opened the door with a flourish, and Mr. Dubois stepped out. Clara could see him looking archly to either side before entering the gracious building before them.
“Mivart’s,” Nicholas said. “The best hotel in all of London. Just think, Clara, we’ll be staying in places like this as we travel. Can you imagine it?”
“Well, I don’t suppose Darien Reynard is planning to house us in the stables. A fine thing that would be, you performing with straw in your hair.” She had to smile at the notion; a welcome distraction from the flutter in her stomach.
Though she wasn’t so certain the master would be displeased to see her bedded down in the straw.
Her brother shook his head at her, the ghost of laughter in his eyes.
“Make way!”
It was Mr. Dubois again, at the head of a cavalcade of uniformed servants bearing trunks and boxes. He led them straight to the coach. The vehicle tipped and tilted as the men began loading the boot and roof.
She was beginning to understand Mr. Dubois’s shock, if this was the quantity of luggage he considered normal.
“It’s… rather a lot, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Darien Reynard tours for months at a time,” Nicholas said, as if he were a well-traveled fellow in his own right. “He must bring everything he needs.”
She refrained from pointing out that everything they needed fit into two small cases.
The activity drew curious glances. When Master Reynard himself appeared at the top of the steps, a crowd immediately gathered.
He was dressed in elegant black, his violin case in one hand. Dark hair framed a face that even without the patina of fame would have been captivating. His strong jaw and sensuous mouth, the faint line between his brows, and his eyes, a particular shadowy green… Would her breath always catch at the sight of him?
With the lift of a hand and a warm smile, he acknowledged his well-wishers and made his way through the admiring throng. He strode to the coach and mounted the steps. A final wave to the crowd, and then he ducked into the vehicle, settling across from Clara and her brother.
“Good morning, Mr. Becker, Miss Becker.” He stowed his violin beneath the seat, then sat back. “I trust you’re ready to begin our adventure together.”
Clara nodded, her voic
e trapped behind her teeth. That smile, when seen up close, had a rather disturbing effect on her senses. She did not remember him smiling like that before—except, perhaps, at the moment of her family’s capitulation. By then she had been too stunned to be much affected by it.
Mr. Dubois hopped into the vehicle and swung the door closed behind him. He nodded at Clara and Nicholas.
“Just look at them,” he said. “It is as I have told you.”
Master Reynard glanced at her brother, then folded his arms. “My valet informs me there is a problem with your luggage.”
“Ah—” Nicholas began.
“Indeed,” Mr. Dubois said. “The fact that they have none. It simply won’t do.”
“Your valet?” Clara blinked at the dapper fellow.
“Of course.” Master Reynard’s tone was wry. “Whom else could I trust to ensure I’m properly turned out for every occasion?”
“No one.” Mr. Dubois spoke the words with complete assurance. “But these two ragamuffins—they will not reflect well upon you.”
Master Reynard considered for a moment, his gaze growing sharper as he looked first at Nicholas, and then at her. Heat flamed her cheeks as he studied her. Her Sunday best was no match for the understated elegance of his own attire or the fashionable flair of Mr. Dubois. The valet was right. She and Nicholas would be an embarrassment. She glanced out the window at two well-to-do misses in lace-edged walking dresses.
Master Reynard shook his head, a sharp gesture of impatience. “I suppose we’ll have to make a detour. Bond Street is just ahead. Henri? No doubt you have a suggestion.”
“Yes, of course.” Anticipation lit the small man’s face. “Weston’s for Mr. Becker, to be sure.”
“But…” Nicholas shifted uncomfortably beside her. “Isn’t he the tailor to the king?”
“He is,” Mr. Dubois said. “And now he will have the good fortune to be the tailor to the soon-to-be renowned composer, Mr. Nicholas Becker.”
CHAPTER SIX
Sonata for a Scoundrel Page 4
