Sonata for a Scoundrel (19 page)

“Are you fretting about the salon, Clara?” Nicholas asked.

She rather thought he revealed his own worry with the question.

“I’m certain it will be a perfectly pleasant gathering,” she said. “There is nothing to worry about.”

“Aha!” Henri said. “Then you do not know much of our salons. Revolution is bred behind those doors, poetry is born, grand symphonies conceived. Not at all pleasant, but the very essence of life itself.”

“Is there to be revolution tonight?” Nicholas swallowed. “I thought it was a musical gathering.”

Henri cocked his head. “And who is to say that musicians are not, in their own way, as world-changing as revolutionaries? Look at you. Your music is forming the sensibilities of Europe, even today. We are in your hands, yours and Monsieur Reynard’s. Where will you lead us?”

It was a thrilling, uncomfortable notion. Nicholas looked startled for a moment, then answered with a shrug. Unsatisfactory, perhaps, but what other response could he make? Clara could not look at her brother, but from the corner of her eye, she saw him jam his hands in his coat pockets. If they were, as Henri claimed, “forming the sensibilities of Europe,” then deception was at the core.

She shuddered. No one, no one, must ever discover that secret.

They walked without further conversation, their steps echoing faintly as they passed through a great domed room and down another graciously ceilinged passageway. Here the shops sold trifles and novelties, and soon they fetched up at the milliner’s.

“
Voila
,” Henri said, holding open the door. “Let us proceed to the hats. That particular violet one in the window, with such a dip—
très
elegante
. It will look very well on you, and for the trimmings…”

Clara stepped inside and gave herself over to the consolation of ribbons and feathers, the sweeping concoctions of headwear. Certainly, they did not have hats quite so lavish in England—but, as Henri stressed, they were in Paris now, and must look the part. It did not take long, to Nicholas’s evident relief, to settle on appropriate trimmings for the violet hat. The thing was extravagant, but she knew better than to argue with the valet once he had made up his mind.

As it happened, Darien did not join them at the café, though Clara could not help watching every tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered man who passed. Paris was astonishingly full of such specimens, a few of whom returned her gaze with frank approval.

But none of them were Darien Reynard.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Cher ami!”
The Marquise le Vayer, a petite lady wearing sapphires, kissed Darien Reynard’s cheeks and drew him forward, leaving Clara and Nicholas to trail behind him into her well-appointed salon. “How splendid that you grace us with your presence again. Come, come, introduce your companions. Is this the composer I have heard so much of?” The marquise sent Nicholas a significant glance, one dark brow arched.

Once again, Clara was invisible. She stifled her stab of irritation. Their hostess had not meant to slight her, and to his credit, Darien had become scrupulous about presenting her.

Behind the marquise, the room was a bright swirl of faces and movement. The sound of a piano drifted through the conversation, playing a piece Clara did not recognize. She dipped a curtsey to the marquise as Darien introduced first herself, then Nicholas.

“
Enchanteé
.” The marquise’s bright eyes lit on Nicholas again. “A new composer among us. There are many people here you must meet, though it is a pity that wretch Berlioz is off in Italy.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “He has deserted us.”

“Yes, winning the Prix de Rome must be a severe hardship,” Darien said dryly.

“For us! Believe me, that man will be quite famous some day. Well, perhaps his travels will inspire him.” She smiled at Nicholas. “As I hope your travels have inspired you. Come with me. Tell me all about yourself, and I will make all the introductions.”

“I really… That is…” A touch of panic in his blue eyes, Nicholas glanced at Clara.

She gave a half shrug. What could she do? Whisper in his ear about the details of composing as he circulated the room? He would have to fend for himself.

“You English.” The marquise slipped her arm through Nicholas’s. “Don’t worry, I have some fine cognac. We will have you comfortable in no time.”

“Go,” Darien said. “You’re in excellent hands. I’ll find you when it’s time to play.”

Clara pressed her lips together and watched as the marquise led her brother away.

“Don’t look so anxious,” Darien said in a low voice. “Everyone here is perfectly friendly. The marquise hires burly footmen, too—a helpful reminder for those inclined to misbehave. Now, let’s go hear the music.”

The marquise’s townhouse was divided into a series of rooms. Darien led her through the first, and for once he was not accosted at every turn. Of course he was recognized, greeted—but a certain awestruck quality was missing from the assembly. Clara guessed he found it refreshing. Though he was always gracious, even after a long day’s travel, she knew the constant press of fame wore on him. The deepening of the crease beside his mouth, his eyes narrowing slightly as he dealt with yet another gushing female. Clara had seen it often enough.

But tonight he looked relaxed and at ease; and far too handsome.

She glanced about, hoping for distraction. It would not do for her to spend the evening uselessly sighing over Darien Reynard. Luckily, distraction was simple enough to find in the marquise’s salon.

A pale, dark-haired woman stood in animated conversation with a haughty-looking gentleman. Ordinary enough, until one realized the woman was wearing an evening coat and trousers! Scandalously peculiar, yet no one else seemed to remark on it. Trousers. How would it feel, to be shed of skirts? She would have to borrow a pair from Nicholas—and why had she never thought of it before?

“Ah.” Darien noticed the object of her attention. Not surprising, though Clara was doing her best not to gape. “Baroness Dudevant. If she lights up a cigar, try not to emulate her.”

“A cigar?” Clara blinked at the notion. What an odd, mannish woman this baroness was. “Trousers are one thing, but I’ve no desire to try
that
. Is she a musician?”

“A writer, though she only pens little pieces for magazines as far as I know. But she appreciates good music, and has some interesting ideas about spirituality.”

A jolt of jealousy went through Clara, sharp and hot and completely unexpected. “Does she? Do they include women picking up the dubious and unsavory habits of men?”

“You find men dubious and unsavory?” Laughter laced his voice, and she felt her cheeks flame.

“I said their
habits
. Which not all men share.”

“If I ever take up smoking cigars, I shall endeavor not to do it in your presence. But what is wrong with wearing trousers? I think gentlemen would look quite odd in skirts.”

She laughed at the image he invoked, and let the last shreds of jealously dissolve. “But think how grand you would be in performance, your skirts swishing to and fro as you played.”

“Unkind.” He leaned closer. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing you in trousers, Miss Becker.”

His voice sent a shiver through her. Unfair of him to smile at her so, his eyes glinting with humor. To flirt with her in the crowded anonymity of a Paris salon. She stared back at him and his expression shifted, an intensity tightening his features while their gazes held. Held. The memory of reckless kisses burned in the air between them.

At last Clara remembered how to breathe, and Darien looked away.

“The piano is in the next room,” he said.

She swallowed and attempted to make her tone light. “Then by all means, let us visit it.”

An unremarkable melody filled the awkward silence between them as Darien led her to a settee near the piano. He settled beside her at a scrupulously correct distance, and Clara tried not to wish that he were nearer. She was too aware of the heat of him, his scent, the way his elegant, long-fingered hands were clasped loosely together.

“Master Reynard.” A sandy-haired man sitting near them leaned forward. “Will you be playing this evening?”

“Of course,” Darien said. “How can one come to la marquise’s and not play? I would be outcast in Paris forever.”

The fellow pursed his lips and glanced at the young man at the piano. “Let us pray our lugubrious Hungarian friend finishes soon. I would like to hear some real music.”

A woman seated behind Darien giggled. “Ah, Liszt is not so bad. If he would only apply himself, he could be great.”

“Yes, madame, we all know where you would like him to apply himself,” the gentleman said.

She swatted him on the shoulder with her fan. “You are only jealous because
you
have no talents that interest me. Now hush. I am trying to enjoy the concert.”

The man rolled his eyes in mock disgust, but subsided.

Clara listened, and found she was in agreement with the woman. Mr. Liszt played passably, with the sloppy technique of someone whose natural talent had taken them a certain distance, then left them there. Hard work would move him forward, if he were ever inspired to it. And she heard a hint of something interesting in the melody he played, like a silver glimmer of trout in deep water. If the man were patient and skilled, some day he might be able to fish up something wild and dancing and lovely.

Perhaps she could say as much to him, without revealing herself as a composer. She glanced at Darien, and found he was watching her, his eyes unreadable as dark agates. No, it was too risky. The fellow at the piano would have to find his own way.

Soon enough, Mr. Liszt brought his playing to a close. Clara made a point of clapping loudly, though her gloves muffled the effect. It seemed as though the dour-looking young man could use the encouragement.

“Lovely!” the marquise said, sweeping up to the piano and gifting the assembled listeners with a glorious smile. “It is a pleasure to hear everyone, of course, but tonight we are particularly lucky to have Darien Reynard with us. And his talented new composer, Nicholas Becker. Please, take your seats, and do move closer together so that others may join us when they hear the maestro begin.”

She watched, nodding her head as the empty seats filled.

Darien rose, and Clara caught his sleeve. “Play well.”

Oh, what a silly thing to say. As if he needed her good wishes.

“I will, thank you.” His eyes smiled at her. “Your brother has composed another fine piece. The beginning is especially glorious.”

A ripple of joy expanded outward from her heart, quietly circling her entire body. She’d written that part for him—the bright and breathless melody that the thought of his kiss had evoked. And he had felt it.

“Yes,” she managed. “I think so, too.”

His smile moved down to his lips, and she suddenly couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t bear the fierce longing that slipped free. She laced her fingers tightly together in her lap. If she met his gaze, she was certain her secrets would be laid bare, and he would recognize her as the composer.

Foolish, but he
had
heard the echo of their kiss in the music, and she was afraid.

After a heartbeat he moved away, and she let out a long breath. Her fears were only fancies of the imagination. Darien had no cause to suspect anything. She would do well to remember that, and not behave in a way that raised his curiosity. Ah, but she was torn. She was no longer invisible to him, he’d made that clear enough on the ferry to Calais. Yet she could not become known to him either, no matter how she might wish it. It was as if she balanced on the edge of a cliff and felt the pull of the air, the promise that just once, she could fly. Take one step into the sky, and become airborne.

But the gravity of her deception was inescapable. The only flight possible was in secret, in her compositions.
La Colomba
would have to be wings enough.

With that thought, the music began. The room immediately hushed as Darien Reynard danced with the notes, his bow sweeping smoothly over the strings, his expression holding an intensity that any woman would yearn to have trained on them. Clara squeezed her hands together and leaned forward. As he traveled the melody, she was beside him, the notes etched in her soul even as he etched them in the air, matching perfectly.

A part of her noticed that Nicholas was playing very well, but only Darien could hold her attention. Her heartbeat matched the pulse of the music, the high notes pinpricks of tears at the back of her eyes. When the mood of the piece changed it was a relief to let go of the glory. The notes tumbled and spun away from the memories of stolen kisses and back onto safer ground, where winter rain filled the skies of France and dreams belonged only in the dark, solitary hours of night.

The last chord sounded, and the silence was a vast held breath. Clara could hear the diminishing echoes of the strings inside the piano. Darien stood motionless, the tip of his bow barely touching the instrument, and Nicholas’s head remained bowed over the keyboard.

Then the room erupted. People sprang to their feet, the vigorous applause nearly drowned out with cries of praise. Several chairs were knocked over, and one woman spilled wine on her skirts, but did not seem to care overmuch. Clara moved backward, against the general surge toward Nicholas and Darien. She did not need to hear the approbations.
La Colomba
had flown well.