London sighs at the departure of Master Reynard. Lucky Brighton, to be the next stop on the maestro’s tour of England. Come back to us soon, Darien Reynard!
-Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler
Two hours later, they stepped out of the polished interior of Weston’s. Nicholas wore a new suit of clothes that fit him better than anything he had ever owned before, and Clara thought he looked quite handsome. How clever of the tailor, to have a number of coats and trousers partially made up for customers who needed an immediate change of dress.
Of course, she imagined the king would brook very little delay for himself or his courtiers, should any of them desire a new outfit.
“You are entirely satisfactory, Mr. Becker.” Mr. Dubois gave a sharp nod of approval.
Nicholas ran one hand down the dove-gray wool, his grin rather spoiling the impression of an effete young gentleman of the ton.
“I believe my two new suits will do very well,” he said.
“They will have to suffice until the rest of your wardrobe catches up with the tour,” Mr. Dubois said. “Certainly your trunks will arrive in time for the performance in Brighton.”
“Speaking of which,” Master Reynard said, “here’s the coach now. We should be on our way.”
Mr. Dubois cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at Clara. “We are not quite ready to depart, monsieur.”
Annoyance flashed in the master’s eyes. Clearly he had forgotten or ignored the fact that she, too, was in need of new clothing.
“What do you propose, Henri?” he asked. “We haven’t much time.”
Clara folded her arms over her worn woolen gown. Half of her wanted to stubbornly insist they depart London immediately, that she would make do with her paltry handful of dresses and petticoats. But Mr. Dubois was correct. Her poor dress would reflect badly upon the tour, and thus upon Nicholas.
Darien Reynard’s presence on the street was not going unremarked. As the genteel bustle of pedestrians caught sight of him, they slowed, their whispers buzzing like bees. The sun slid out from behind a cloud, and the rows of fashionable shops shone, their windows dazzlingly bright, the gilt lettering above their doors sparkling. Clara caught sight of herself reflected in the pane of Weston’s: a pale-haired girl, unremarkable in her limp bonnet—despite the new ribbons.
The reflection also showed the crowd gathering as more people veered toward Master Reynard. The ladies were chirping with excitement, and the men swept off their hats and bowed to catch his attention.
“Mr. Reynard!”
“How fortunate that you have graced London with your inspiration.”
“Oh, come see, it is him. No one else has a coach like that one.”
Mr. Dubois leaned close to his employer. “Madame Lamond’s is nearby. But perhaps we would be better off in the coach.”
Master Reynard nodded, and tipped his hat to his admirers. “I agree,” he said in a voice pitched only to their ears. “Into the coach. Now.”
Mr. Dubois gestured for the footman to open the doors and set the steps. He took Clara by the elbow and assisted her into the vehicle, but the speculative voices of the crowd still reached her ears.
“Whoever might that be?”
“Surely Master Reynard would not escort a doxy so openly about the streets of Mayfair.”
“He is far too refined to do so. And that… person… is certainly the opposite of refined!”
Titters of laughter accompanied the words. Face flaming, Clara scooted back on the seat until her shoulders met the padded cushions, letting the coach shield her from the sidelong glances and sharp tongues.
Nicholas sat beside her and covered her gloved hand with his own in silent sympathy. She could not help noticing how dingy her glove was, beneath the pristine whiteness of his new one.
Outside the coach, Master Reynard raised his voice. “I regret I must bid you farewell. We have an appointment to keep.”
Disappointment riffled through the crowd, but he mounted the steps, lifted his hand, and ducked into the coach. The footman closed the door immediately, no doubt well used to such crowds and the master’s need to extricate himself from them.
Clara kept her gaze fixed firmly on her knees, and the unrefined gown that covered them. Well then. She and Nicholas had known they were unprepared for the world Darien Reynard inhabited. The unkind words could not hurt her, and it was foolish to let them keep twisting and writhing in her stomach. Still, she could not venture a glance at the musician seated across from her. Had he heard the insinuations? Would he think even less of her, after hearing such things?
If so, he showed no indication of it. His long fingers drummed on the cushion, and he did not glance at her with either scorn or disdain. For all she could tell, she was invisible to him—a speck of dust or small, buzzing fly. Inconvenient, perhaps, but easily ignored.
The injustice stung her heart, and she turned her gaze out the window, pretending to admire the view.
Soon enough, the coach reached their destination. They alighted from the vehicle in front of a shop with Madame Lamond spelled out in curling golden script upon the dark blue door. When Master Reynard made no move to enter the modiste’s, Mr. Dubois arched his eyebrows, his nostrils thinning with disapproval.
“It would be best if you attended, Monsieur Reynard,” the valet said. “The results will be much more easily accomplished in your presence.”
Master Reynard frowned, but stepped forward.
“Very well,” he said, “but if I am trapped into going, Mr. Becker must come, too.”
“Certainly,” Nicholas said. “But please, call me Nicholas. Mr. Becker is my father. It feels beyond strange to hear that name addressed to me.”
“You’ll become accustomed to it,” Master Reynard said.
Taking Clara by the arm, Mr. Dubois ushered her into Madame Lamond’s. The shop smelled of roses and silk, and Clara blinked at the lustrous bolts of cloth displayed about the room. Once again the enormity of their change in station struck her, adding a tight hitch to her breath.
The bell over the door tinkled with their entrance, and a handful of stunningly dressed ladies turned to regard them. Their gazes slid dismissively over Clara and fastened on the gentlemen behind her. Most especially on Darien Reynard. They moved toward him in a cluster, a handsome blonde woman in the lead, who halted so close that her skirts crowded Clara’s own drab gown. The woman laid her hand on his arm, her eyelashes fluttering.
“My dear Master Reynard! Such a delight to encounter you again, after our lovely interlude last year. I hope you will be in London long enough to…” She leaned forward, her voice dropping, “…repeat it.”
“Lady Barlow.” Master Reynard inclined his head. “Though nothing would give me greater pleasure than to take tea with you again, I’m sorry to say I am leaving town directly.”
Clara did not think he sounded sorry in the least. The other ladies giggled behind their gloved hands, and Lady Barlow’s smile veered into a pout. Her sharp blue eyes fastened on Clara.
“And who is this?” Her voice was sugary, but Clara heard the blade beneath. “What an unusual style of dress. Is she Irish?”
The watchers laughed again, though this time Clara was on the receiving end of that barbed mirth. She lifted her chin. Whether anyone knew it or not, she wrote the music Darien Reynard used to dazzle the world. She would ignore the cuts and slights, and armor her soul with the secret of her talent.
“Excuse us.” The master picked Lady Barlow’s hand off his sleeve. “Is Madame Lamond available?”
“Master Reynard!” A curtain at the back opened, and a thin-faced woman emerged. She hurried forward and made him a brief curtsy. “I am at your service, sir.”
“I do not doubt it,” he said. “But I defer to Mr. Dubois to inform you of the particulars.”
“Henri, my darling!” The modiste turned to Mr. Dubois, kissing the air to either side of his face. “How kind of you to visit my humble shop, though it is the best one can find
outside Paris, you must agree. Now, who is this beauty you have brought to me?”
“Allow me to introduce Miss Clara Becker,” Mr. Dubois said. “Sister to this gentleman here, the composer Nicholas Becker.”
“Indeed,” Master Reynard nodded. “Mr. Becker is a man of rare talent, whose works I will soon be featuring in all my performances.”
The announcement sent a rush of whispers through the elegant ladies, and Lady Barlow’s expression took on a decidedly acquisitive cast. Clara did not like the way the woman was eyeing Nicholas.
“Very nice to meet you both,” the modiste said. “The whole town is talking of last night’s concert, but I am sure you did not come here to discuss music. Now, what do you require?”
“Not much,” Clara began.
“Everything,” Mr. Dubois said.
“And when will you need this everything?” Madame Lamond asked.
“We depart London this afternoon,” Master Reynard said. “I have every faith in your abilities, madame.”
“This afternoon?” A wash of panic colored Madame Lamond’s careful accent. “But… you ask much of me, maestro.”
Clara sent Madame Lamond a sympathetic glance. The gentlemen obviously had no notion of the amount of work that went into making a dress—especially the complex and fashionable gowns the town ladies were wearing.
“Henri insists you are the very best modiste in all London,” Master Reynard said. “I believe we must have a private word, madame. Excuse me, Miss Becker, gentlemen.”
He took the modiste by the elbow and guided her past the full-length mirrors and books of the latest fashion plates. Once they had gained some distance, he bent and whispered in her ear. Whatever he said made Madame Lamond cover her mouth with her hand and laugh as though he had suggested something improper. Clara strained to make out what they were saying, but the two were speaking too softly.
Another exchange, then Madame Lamond nodded and they returned to where Clara waited with her brother and Mr. Dubois.
The modiste studied Clara for a long moment, tapped at her cheek with one finger, then gave a decisive nod.
“Yes,” she said. “We can take in the waist and lengthen the hem. And the blue of the silk will complement her eyes.”
“Not blue silk like you are using for my dress, I should hope,” Lady Barlow said, clearly unashamed to admit to eavesdropping.
“Of course not,” Master Reynard said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “It will not be silk like your dress at all.”
Mr. Dubois cleared his throat, covering what sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter.
“You see, maestro,” he said, “your presence is invaluable.”
“Out, gentlemen!” Madame Lamond made a shooing motion. “Before you cause a riot in my store.”
Master Reynard bowed. “We shall not encumber your genius any longer, but expect us to return within an hour and a quarter. Our journey to Brighton cannot be further delayed.”
He, Nicholas, and Mr. Dubois made for the door. The shop quieted as the ladies, led by Lady Barlow, followed the gentlemen out. Clara watched them go, hoping Nicholas could hold his own in such company.
“Come, Miss Becker,” Madame Lamond said. “We have not a moment to waste.”
The modiste immediately set her seamstresses to altering a beautiful blue silk gown that looked ready to hang in someone else’s wardrobe. Lady Barlow’s, if Clara did not miss her guess. She was gratified, in a hot and unkind sort of way.
Madame Lamond produced new undergarments for Clara, then measured her and turned her about. Clara stood in nothing but her stockings and new silken chemise as partially made dresses went on and off her again with such smooth velocity she could scarcely keep count. The next hour was a blur of gorgeous fabrics, bloused sleeves, and necklines trimmed with lace. The modiste and two of her assistants were never still. One of the girls furiously ripped out seams while the other sewed new ones. Their scissors and needles darted, flashing like nimble fish in shimmering seas of fabric.
“Let us see how the fit is,” Madame Lamond said at last, holding the blue silk dress for Clara to step into. The assistants buttoned her and adjusted the skirts while the modiste stood back to view their handiwork.
Another of her girls hurried over. “Madame, Master Reynard and his companions have returned.”
“They may wait,” Madame Lamond said. She turned her full attention back to Clara, and gave a satisfied nod. “Lovely. The dress suits you to perfection—as if it had been made for you from the first. Now, a touch of rouge, a little color for the lips. Hold still, yes, like that. And voila! Come, slip your dreadful boots on. Dear, dear, those need replacing as well. There is a mirror in the corner.”
Clara followed, doing her best to manage the fuller skirts and sleeves. Madame Lamond positioned her before the full-length mirror in an ornate gilded frame.
“Look,” the modiste said.
Clara did—and blinked at what she saw.
Someone she hardly recognized blinked back. Her reflection’s eyes were wide and luminous, the hue of the dress a perfect complement to her fair coloring.
“I…” She set a hand to her cheek, and the elegant woman in the mirror mimicked the action. “Heavens.”
It had never occurred to her that she could look so fashionable, as though she were ready to waltz around a grand ballroom or take tea with a duchess. The simple circlet of her braided hair seemed queenly rather than quaint. Her gold locket glowed serenely against the fine fabric, and the fashionable cut of the dress accentuated her curves. She had not realized quite how slender her waist could appear, or how full her hips.
She felt, in a word, beautiful. Breathless delight ran through her. She, Clara Becker, looked beautiful. How shocking. How wonderful.
“It’s splendid.” She turned to Madame Lamond, her voice warm with gladness. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“Well now.” The woman smiled like a cat who had been in the cream. “You are made to wear such gowns, Miss Becker. I have a hundred clients who would pay a king’s ransom to look as well as you do.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Dubois approached, with the modiste’s girl trailing behind. “She looks exquisite. Madame Lamond, you have worked a miracle. I, of course, expected no less.”
Madame Lamond blushed. “Mr. Dubois, you are too kind. We had excellent material to work with. Please tell Master Reynard the rest of Miss Becker’s wardrobe will be dispatched the moment everything is complete.”
“Good, good. Come along, Miss Becker. The maestro and your brother await.”
With a final, grateful smile at the modiste, Clara followed Mr. Dubois out of the fitting area. She kept her back very straight, as befitted her new gown. He led her to a side room equipped with a handful of chairs, where Nicholas and Master Reynard waited; Nicholas sitting patiently while the master paced.
“Gentlemen!” Mr. Dubois announced. “Allow me to present Miss Clara Becker.”
“I say.” Nicholas rose abruptly from his chair. “Clara, you look…”
“Magnificent!” The valet set his hands on his hips and nodded. “I knew Madame Lamond was the right choice. She is always the right choice.”
Master Reynard strode up to her, then halted. Their gazes locked, and her pulse magnified to a heady, rushing rhythm. The surprise in his face turned to something more considering, as if he saw in her the woman she had glimpsed in the modiste’s mirror. Lovely. Elegant. Desirable.
“Miss Becker.” He slowly looked her up and down, and she felt a tingle in the wake of his gaze. “Quite a transformation.”
“Turn, turn.” Mr. Dubois made a twirling gesture with his hand.
Clara untangled her gaze from Darien Reynard’s and spun, skirts and petticoats swishing about her. Then she spun again for the pure joy of being beautiful and admired and dressed in something that was gorgeously new.
“The rest of her wardrobe will follow, monsieur,” Mr. Dubois said. “Everything is arranged.”
&n
bsp; “So it appears.” Master Reynard’s gaze drifted over her once more. “And now, with your permission, Henri, I think it’s high time we departed London.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
When they exited the modiste’s Dare was relieved to find there was no gaggle of women waiting to pounce. At least there was some benefit to the drizzle spattering from the gray clouds overhead. His black coach waited; the driver, Samuel, hunched in his greatcoat, the luggage well-girded against the weather. At last, they were ready to set off.
Although—he slanted a look at Clara Becker—he could no longer begrudge the delay. She had turned out to be remarkably pretty, and he felt a twinge of remorse for overlooking it. Had he not, himself, been the victim of being judged by his appearance? When he was younger, passersby in the piazza had not even deigned to glance at him, until he’d begun to play. Then the ragged boy was suddenly valuable, although nothing inside him had changed.
His valet made to clamber up on the box with the driver, and Dare snagged his arm.
“No, Henri, you will not ride up front. It’s five hours to Brighton, and it’s raining.”
“But, monsieur, your dignity—”
“Will suffer even more if you fall ill and are unable to dress me satisfactorily.” Dare waved at the coach, gleaming blackly with a thin slick of moisture. “If you insist, you may clamber up with Samuel outside of Brighton. Now get in, before we are all soaked through.”
Henri blew a breath from his nostrils but complied, taking a place in the far corner. Nicholas stepped into the coach after him, and Dare offered Miss Becker his hand. A blush colored her cheeks as she accepted his assistance into the vehicle.
Miss Clara Becker was lovely, and it complicated matters more than Dare would like. When he could simply think of her as the composer’s drab sister, it was easy to relegate her to the fringe of his awareness. But now she was a luminous star rising on the horizon.
She settled her skirts, and Dare took the seat across from her. He couldn’t ask Henri to switch, nor Nicholas—it would be too odd a request and he could not give them any good reason. The fact that he found Miss Becker attractive was something he could never breathe a hint of, especially to her brother.
Sonata for a Scoundrel Page 5
