Sonata for a Scoundrel (18 page)

-l’Assemblee, February 1831

T
he wind of the English Channel tangled Clara’s hair, teasing long strands from her usual coiled braid as the boat to Calais bore them across the water. Rain spattered her cloak, but it could not dampen her spirits. London was behind them.

Over the winter holidays they had settled Papa into the new house, and she had to admit it was a lovely place. Even Henri had agreed it was acceptable. Seeing the genteel elegance, coupled with the look of relief on Papa’s face, had seemed to help Nicholas, too. At any rate, he was smiling more frequently. It went far to ease her fears. As long as her brother could picture Papa content and cared for, she hoped Nicholas could carry the burden of their secret a short while longer.

Now they were headed for the Continent, the future. The dark mass of France rose before them above the ruffled waters. Salt and adventure flavored the air, quickening Clara’s breath. The clouds were beginning to break and tentative fingers of light reached down, sparking silver off the sea and touching the coastline with color.

Inside her, a melody unfurled; a dove winging eastward in the clear air. Clara closed her eyes and followed that bright strand, the music that would resonate in Darien’s strings and fly to freedom.

“Are you glad?”

She would know that voice anywhere, among a thousand voices. Clara opened her eyes and turned to see Darien leaning against the railing beside her. His dark hair blew across one cheek, soft as feathers against the line of his jaw. She wanted to lay her hand there, feel his breath touch her skin.

“Yes.” Gladder than she could ever say. She feared her expression would give her away, and dropped her gaze to her gloves. “How soon until we reach Paris?”

“Three days, but the roads are not so bad, even this time of year. We’ll stop tonight in Boulogne, the next in Amiens, and reach the city two days before our concert at the
Conservatoire
.”

“Henri seems pleased to be returning to France.” Indeed, the valet had begun strutting about as soon as they departed Dover, clearly anticipating being back on his home soil. “He is from Paris? Does he have family there? He has not mentioned it.”

One corner of Darien’s mouth curved up in a wry smile. “My valet feels keenly the sacrifices he must make to travel with me. Speaking of Paris only makes him unhappy, and so he does not. But once we are there, he will talk of nothing else. Don’t be surprised if he insists on remaking your brother’s wardrobe, and yours as well.”

“But…” Clara smoothed a hand down the fine, pale wool of her walking dress. “These clothes are barely two months old. I hardly think we warrant new ones. And the expense!”

Darien shook his head. “I’d rather pay for a dozen wardrobes than have to endure Henri’s wounded disapproval. You will be in Paris, the styles are
a la mode
, and it would be criminal if you didn’t reflect the very best. Or so Henri sees it. I’ll have to endure it myself, no doubt.”

“Well then.” She caught the self-deprecating glint in Darien’s eyes. “I suppose if the great maestro can suffer a new wardrobe, I can as well.”

“How superior you make me sound.”

“It’s fortunate I know how terribly human you are. Imagine, you even slurp your soup with a spoon.”

She was rewarded by his warm, dark laughter, and could not help smiling back. It was a novel sensation, teasing Darien Reynard. Two weeks ago she never would have imagined it, but somehow she did not see the most celebrated musician in the world standing beside her. Or, she did, but it was only a part of who Darien was, not the whole of this complex, driven man.

“Darien…” It seemed a good time to broach a question she had been worrying over. “Do you think, now that we’ll be on the Continent, you might return to the carriage? It doesn’t seem right, your riding ahead.”

There. She had said it. And though it might make things more difficult, she had never liked knowing he was out riding in the rain and wind, suffering the worst of winter because of their illicit kiss.

“Ah.” He sobered. “I don’t think your brother is any more genially inclined toward me than before.”

“Nicholas can…”—
go to the devil
—“keep his feelings to himself. Both Henri and I think you should return to the carriage, and we outnumber him. It’s hardly fair to make you ride the breadth of Europe because Nicholas is being unreasonable. If he’s so blessed unhappy, let
him
take a horse.”

Darien’s expression tightened. “I don’t think his reaction was unreasonable, given the circumstances.” He glanced over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to her. “As to what more has passed between us, Clara—let us agree that it’s better forgotten.”

Sudden grief blazed through her. “Am I so easy to forget, then? Simply dismiss me from your mind?”

He closed his eyes, some strong emotion etched across his features—fear or regret, she could not name it. When he opened his eyes again his face was shuttered, and she castigated herself for ruining the easy camaraderie they had shared.

“Miss Becker. If you must know, you are not forgettable. In the least. But you must
also
know how infinitely foolish it is to act upon any attraction we may feel. It could ruin everything.”

He was right. She turned to face the waves, her grip hard on the railing, and tried to blink away her stupid, stupid tears. And yet… he had all but admitted he was attracted to her. It was a grain of sand she would polish into a pearl, a secret treasure against her heart.

“I know.” Her voice came out a whisper.

He moved to stand closer, and she forced herself not to lean toward his heat. The backs of his fingers brushed, feather-light, against her cheek.

“I am sorry,” he said.

She did not look at him. She could only stare at the pewter waves churning all about the boat. After a long moment he left, and the wind bit through her cloak, a chilly reminder of her own solitude.

***

Paris, at least, did not disappoint. There was something in the air, some refined yet zestful quality that made Clara feel as though she were sipping champagne. She let Henri shepherd her off to the modiste’s with no protest, glad to have something to occupy her mind other than Darien. Every time she looked at him, her heart hurt. Yet she could not keep from looking.

“
Bien
,” Henri said, clapping his hands together as Clara paraded about the dressmaker’s salon in an opulent dress with hastily basted seams. “You look delicious. The lace heightens your fairness to perfection.
C’est magnifique
.”

Here in Paris the little valet seemed to sparkle, his high spirits impossible to resist. Even Nicholas laughed as Henri squired them around the town, insisting they sample pastries and watch street performers and admire the paintings in the Louvre.

Her brother had accompanied them on this particular outing, but spying a nearby bookseller’s had begged leave to browse while Clara took her fittings. She was happy to see the spring in his step as he entered the little shop. With a wave, he’d left them to the tender mercies of the seamstresses of Paris.

“Now,
cherie
,” Henri said once the fitting was concluded, “we will gather up Nicholas and visit the milliner’s. No ensemble is complete without a hat! You must be garbed to perfection for the Marquise le Vayer’s salon this evening. Everyone of musical consequence will be there.”

Yes, the salon. A shiver of nerves went through her. Both she and her brother had the impression that the gathering tonight was more important than the concert billed for tomorrow. Even now, she knew Darien was rehearsing
La Colomba
, the dove—her newest piece.

And a troubling piece it had turned out to be, too.

When she’d handed the completed composition to Nicholas, he’d scanned it with lifted brows.

“Clara, I can’t give Darien this. It’s too…” He glanced at the ceiling, as if the words he needed were printed there.

“I know, it’s a bit short, but the melody—”

“Is too joyful! Look.” He shook the pages at her. “This first passage is nearly delirious. I never would write something like that. Never.”

She swallowed. “It darkens, later on. The third page.”

The dove, flying away under storm clouds, until it becomes lost to sight. An apt metaphor for the state of her heart.

“It had better,” he said in an undertone, flipping through to the end. “You could make this easier, you know.”

“Indeed.” She set her hands on her hips. “By writing only gloomy music? You know I can’t do that—I don’t write to
suit
anyone. I must write what I hear. What I feel.”

“Then I pray you will not feel quite so
giddy
for some time.” He gave her a sharp look, but the subdued ending seemed to appease him. Frowning, he had taken
La Colomba
away.

Darien demanded new pieces to premiere in each capital city, so there was little her brother could do, short of writing his own blasted compositions. What Nicholas said made sense, however. She supposed it was fortunate her own mood had taken a turn toward melancholy. It would not do to engage suspicions, either her brother’s or Darien’s, by being too lighthearted.

She shook herself free of her thoughts while Henri left strict instructions with the seamstresses. The valet whirled Clara back into the scintillating bustle of the Parisian streets.

“Your brother has a taste for poetry,
non
?” he asked.

“Any books, but yes, poetry especially.” Books had been an impossible luxury, but no longer. “I fear we may need to buy an extra trunk to carry his purchases. We’ve left him in the shop far too long.”

Henri quirked an eyebrow at her. “Then we will leave some of your old, dowdy clothes behind to make room.”

She laughed. “Our new wardrobe is good enough for London, but not the Continent?”

He made no reply—obviously he thought it unnecessary—only opened the door to the bookseller’s and gestured her inside.

Stepping into the shop was stepping into another world, tranquil and ink-scented. Light from the transoms caught in dusty motes, and the sound of a page turning only underscored the quiet. Clara felt as though an answering silence opened within her, a promise of solace and solitude that only a book could answer. She moved down one of the rows, trailing her fingers along the spines: some ridged, some with gold lettering, some tautly bound with cloth. Each book a possible adventure, waiting. She would like to have a story in which to immerse herself, some distraction during the long journeys in the coach.

Darien had returned to riding with them, and Nicholas had said nothing. Still, the trip from Calais had been full of odd silences. She had tried not to watch Darien, tried to erase the memory of those sensuous lips on hers, but it was no use. Their kisses were etched into her soul. He met her gaze too often, something hungry in his eyes—a hunger that, when she glimpsed it, made her breath quicken.

Henri consulted his pocket watch. “Miss Becker, I regret we do not have time to linger. Books are very well in their place, but you cannot wear one this evening to the salon, even if we trimmed it with lace and faux fruits.”

The notion of making her entrance with a book perched on top of her head made her smile. “Perhaps we might return tomorrow, before the concert? It may be the only way we can tempt Nicholas away, you know.”

Indeed, only the promise they would come again persuaded her brother to leave. He gently set a copy of Blake’s poems on the already-impressive stack he had amassed, then asked the proprietor to please send them to the hotel.

“Come, come.” Henri made shooing motions. There was a decisive French accent in his hands now, as well—an extra flip of the wrist that lent an amused impatience to the gesture. “The Galerie Vivienne awaits.”

“I thought we were going to the milliner’s,” Clara said, obediently leading the way out of the quiet shop.

“Ah.” The valet smiled at her, one brow faintly lifted. “You have not heard of the Galerie? It is one of the grand sights of Paris, not to be missed.”

Nicholas caught up to them with two long strides. “According to you, none of the sights of Paris should be missed. The whole city seems nothing but an endless buffet of amusements.”

“Not the whole city.” Henri’s smile folded in on itself and was gone. “There are quarters… But,” he gave a sharp shake of his head, “those are not of concern at present. Look, ahead is the entrance to the Galerie.”

The street led up to a tall arched passageway where plaster nymphs and goddesses posed on the pilasters.
GALERIE VIVIENNE
was spelled out in large letters above the arch, and through it Clara glimpsed more archways, and a soaring glass-and-iron-fretted ceiling. As they entered the passage, cobblestones gave way to serpentine mosaics. The clatter of the street smoothed away as they emerged into a long, spacious loggia lined with genteel shops.

Clara studied the crosshatched shadows on the floor, then glanced at the transparent ceiling two stories overhead. “How very clever. One of the most vexing things about shopping in the rain is having to dash from place to place, unfolding and folding one’s umbrella. This is quite refined.”

Henri smiled modestly, though his tone was proud. “We French have had an idea or two. To be fair, there is your Burlington Arcade in London, though it is not quite on par with la Galerie. But come, the milliner’s is a little farther, and then perhaps we shall meet Monsieur Reynard at the café.”

In the Parisian fashion, there was a restaurant with tables spilling out into the—well, “street” was clearly not the proper word. The walkway. Bright chatter floated from the patrons, and as they passed the café the scent of coffee and perfumes mingled pleasantly.

“Darien intends to meet us?” Nicholas asked. “I thought he was spending the afternoon practicing.”

The valet raised his brows. “One must eat sometime. I told him we would be at the café here at two. Perhaps he will join us. Or perhaps he will not.”

Clara resolved not to dwell on the possibility. She had done remarkably well to avoid thinking of Darien all morning. Now, however, even the row of tinctures displayed in green glass bottles in an apothecary’s window made her consider the color of his eyes. She sighed.