Sonata for a Scoundrel Read online

  Nicholas leaned out to view the crowd, his eyes bright. “Everyone is here. There’s Mr. Cramer from the publishing company, and Henry Bishop. I hear he’s working on a new opera.”

  “Hush,” Papa said. “They are putting out the lights.”

  Dimness descended and Clara let out her breath. Anticipation pulsed from her toes upward, coiling bright and warm in her chest. Only moments now, and she would see him perform. Darien Reynard. She tasted the syllables of his name as though they were chocolate upon her tongue.

  The gaslights at the front of the stage flared and a hush spread through the audience, the last conversations sputtering out.

  A man walked onstage and Clara leaned forward—but no, it was the accompanist, an older, sandy-haired man who took his place at the piano. He swiveled and looked back into the wings, and the audience burst into expectant applause.

  Now Darien Reynard strode forward, claiming the appreciation as his due, and there was no mistaking that this was the man. Violin tucked easily under one arm, he moved with a contained grace, his tall, broad-shouldered frame poised and full of energy. A shock of wavy black hair nearly touched his shoulders, and his elegant coat was even darker—pure shadow, as though the light could find no purchase upon it.

  He surveyed the crowd, gaze penetrating, then halted at center stage and flicked a glance up toward their box, almost as if he could he see them in the dimness. Clara moistened her lips, barely breathing, until his attention sheered away.

  His mobile, sensual mouth set in a half smile that only added mystery to his handsome face, Darien Reynard inclined his head to the audience. He set his instrument on his shoulder. With a dramatic sweep of his right arm he raised his bow, then held it motionless above the strings. Instantly the murmurs and rustles ceased.

  The first chord sprang from the instrument and rippled into the air, followed by another, another, as he caressed his violin, the notes throbbing with passion. The piano joined in, and the music moved into a sprightlier theme. Clara’s heart beat in time; ached and sighed while the figure on the stage led her forward into rapture and mystery. This, this, was how she heard music. A doorway into another land, a place where everything was luminous with emotion.

  He was never still. Even in the andante sections he swayed, as though the music was weeping through him, the notes pulled forth from his body through the gleaming golden wood he held in his hands. Clara was certain her eyes were not the only ones blurred with unshed tears.

  The final movement burst like constellations through her, jubilant sprays of notes flung out over the audience. He took the melody at a blistering speed, the bow now flying over the strings so quickly she half expected to see smoke following in its wake. The music exploded about her, rushing upward as Darien Reynard drove the piece forward. The accompanist could barely keep up with him as Beethoven’s Sonata No. 9 thundered to a breathtaking close.

  Instantly the audience sprang to its feet, shouting approval, the rush of sound raw and graceless compared to what had just gone before. Clara rose, program fluttering to the floor, and applauded as loudly as she could through the muffling of her gloves. Glorious. Simply glorious.

  “That was Beethoven as he ought to be played,” Nicholas said. “Reynard could repeat it for the second half and I’d be well satisfied.”

  Even Papa unbent enough to agree, though his approval was tacit. “The acoustics up here are improved.”

  “It was much more than better acoustics,” Nicholas said. “That was a master at work.”

  Clara nodded. She could not speak yet, not while Darien Reynard’s playing still echoed through her, but she was in complete agreement. She had never heard anything so splendid.

  “I’m going to fetch some refreshment.” Nicholas turned to her. “Coming?”

  The thought of journeying through the glittering crowd that swirled outside their box made the skin between her shoulders tighten.

  She shook her head, preferring to sit quietly and savor the memory of the man and his music. Clara glanced up toward the gilt ceiling, imagining that the notes were still gathered there, spinning and dancing in the shadows. If she listened closely perhaps she could catch their bright echo.

  She closed her eyes, but there were too many voices between her and the trapped strands of melody. Snatches of conversation floated past.

  “…in Madrid he couldn’t even go out in the street, the crowds followed him everywhere…”

  “…the crown princess fainted at his performance. Of course now it is the fashion for everyone to faint at his feet.” A feminine giggle. “I wouldn’t mind swooning anywhere upon his person, I declare. Such a magnetic man!”

  It was true enough. Darien Reynard was impossibly handsome, even without the power of his musical mastery. She did not think any woman could avoid being captivated by him.

  Nicholas returned with tea and she sipped at her cup. The warmth of the beverage joined the memory of music still curling about her, the heat of the theater wrapping about them. She was warm from her head to her toes. It was a delicious sensation.

  Finally, the house lights were extinguished again and the crowd became an expectant, eager presence in the softly lit dark. This time Darien Reynard strode alone onto the stage, as self-assured as a man entering his own kingdom. He held up his hand, and the audience obediently stilled.

  “Ladies. Gentlemen.” His voice was rich and resonant, filling the space as effortlessly as his playing had done. “It is not on the program, but this evening I have a special treat for you.”

  The audience buzzed happily. Darien Reynard waited for silence to fall again.

  “Tonight, I am pleased to introduce the work of a composer, little known, but of great talent. This piece moves me deeply, as I know it will move you.”

  A hum of speculation moved through the crowd at his words, and Clara straightened. She did not often have the chance to hear new compositions.

  Darien Reynard gave a single nod. “I give you Rondo, by Nicholas Becker. Attend.”

  She fell back against her seat, astonishment pinning her to the velvet. Rondo? Her Rondo?

  The first notes confirmed it. Heat flashed through her as the music she had penned surged from Darien Reynard’s violin. She was insensible to everything but the man before her, the genius who played her very soul out into the open, who took the sweet, spiraling melody of her piece and transmuted it into pure emotion.

  Yearning etched the air as he leaned into the notes, his unruly hair falling about his face. Clara breathed with the movements of his bow, and the entire audience breathed with her. She suddenly believed all the rumors. If he wished, the riveting figure before them could steal all their souls without a single protest.

  The last note faded into stillness, an awed hush of perfect quiet. Her heart beat, knocking against the silence, three, four times. Then cries of “bravo!” and wild applause thundered down, like a dam giving way before the torrent. Darien Reynard held his head high and let it wash around him, seeming unconcerned that the force of such adulation might sweep him away. Surrounded by the tumult, Clara sat transfixed, unable to make even a pretense of clapping.

  Her music. Her very heart.

  Then Darien Reynard raised his arm, palm upwards, and gestured to the box where they sat, bidding the composer to rise and take a bow. Without meaning to, without any thought at all, she gathered herself to stand. Only the weight of Papa’s hand landing heavily on her shoulder kept her in her seat. Turning her head, she met Nicholas’s eyes.

  Wonder and pride shone there. And then guilt. His gaze slid away from hers and he stood, cheeks growing pink as he acknowledged the applause washing over him, the shouts of approval.

  Darien Reynard nodded, a sudden smile flickering across his face. Throat tight, Clara swallowed and tried to remember what was most important. It didn’t matter that Nicholas must be the one taking the credit. Darien Reynard had played her music. Played it before all of London, and played it splendidly.

  E
yes burning, she smiled, while her heart twisted equally with pain, with joy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Master Reynard Captivates!

  All London is abuzz in the aftermath of the maestro’s stunning performance—and the sudden elevation of Mr. Nicholas Becker’s compositions into the public eye. One hopes the attention will not go to the previously unknown composer’s head…

  -The London Engager

  “Are you certain this is the place?” Dare looked out the window as his coach rolled to a halt.

  Underfed children played in the street beneath sagging roofs, and a blanket of coal soot dimmed all the colors to dullness. It was too much like the neighborhood he had clawed his way out of at a young age, vowing never to return to such poverty. Memories perched on his shoulders like hunched ravens. With a deep breath, Dare shook them off.

  “Yes. Becker lives there, with his father and sister.” His agent, Peter, nodded to the faded house before them. He crossed his legs and made no move to leave the vehicle. “Dare, are you quite certain you wish to proceed?”

  Frustration beat a rough rhythm through Dare, though he was careful to make no outward show of it. He valued Peter. In truth, his agent was one of the few people who would speak honestly to him—bluntly, if necessary.

  “I must. We will convince Becker.” Dare’s hands ached from clenching.

  He slowly unknotted his fingers. Control. He was in control. He had proven himself against life for decades now, although it had been years since he’d wanted something so badly and been unable to simply impose his will and achieve it. But he could not kidnap Becker and throw him into the coach, away from these dreary environs. No, he must have the man’s cooperation.

  Dare wrenched open the coach door and dropped to the ground before the footman could set the steps. He could not bear another moment of inaction.

  “Come,” he said to Peter.

  A larger fear pressed against Dare than dusty memories of his miserable childhood. Was Becker indeed the musical genius he hoped? What if he had spent the entirety of his inspiration on that single composition, the Rondo? What if there was no more?

  The thought spiked painfully through Dare. What if there was no more?

  Three months ago he had been performing for an exclusive group in the Duke of Salzburg’s drawing room. The duke, a music aficionado who collected little-known works, had placed the music before him.

  “How about something obscure and English?”

  The audience had laughed, but quickly hushed as Dare played the first notes. The music that had lain silent and waiting on the page leapt to his instrument and then into the room, taking life as it took flight, a spiraling twist of melody that held them all spellbound. The brilliance and power of the music caught him by surprise. It was unlike anything he had ever played before. Each note vibrated through him, shook away the soul-deep unhappiness lodged in his heart, the memory of the sacrifices he had made.

  When he reached the end, he began again. They told him later that he played it three times in succession. Each time the music gained in power and emotion, becoming more and more his own. At the end he simply set down his violin and walked out of the room. There was nothing else to be said. The Rondo had spoken for itself.

  That night he retired to the opulence of the duke’s best suite. Late, a woman had slipped into to his chamber. A click of the latch, soft footsteps, a cool touch on his forehead followed by a warm, lingering kiss. She was one of the duke’s guests, a softly curved woman with dark, unbound hair. He could not remember her name, but it did not matter. He lifted the covers and she slipped in beside him. Warm, feminine, willing.

  He had moved on and into her, languorous and dreamy, the music of the Rondo still alive and singing in him. They strove together, naked bodies by candlelight, yearning for fulfillment, finding that moment of bliss in the arms of a willing stranger.

  She was gone from his chamber when he woke, but the Rondo sang on.

  Word of his performance in the duke’s drawing room spread like flames through dry summer fields. In great halls, in theaters and palaces, they clamored to hear him perform this new work, the Rondo. Each time he played it was a new birth. He stood before the multitudes and found his way into that pure, perfect heart of the music. Then he led the audience there, giving them a taste of heaven, leaving them at the end, eyes shining, voices hoarse from cheering.

  This was why he had made that impossible choice so many years ago—and lived with the raw burden of its consequence ever since. Music. Not love, but music.

  He must find Nicholas Becker. The conviction had grown until it had filled all the spaces of his waking. He must find the composer and see what else the man was capable of. With this music, Dare could be redeemed. He felt it in the depths of his soul.

  Their destinies were connected, whether Nicholas Becker knew it or not.

  And now here Dare stood, on a worn stoop in a decaying quarter of London. Beside him was Peter, who had steadfastly cancelled twenty-five performances and booked twenty new ones to bring them to this place. Here he stood, Darien Reynard, called the greatest performer of his generation, with his heart hammering in his throat. Unable to lift his hand to knock. The powerlessness infuriated him.

  What if he had come all this way and there was no more?

  “We won’t find out anything by standing on the doorstep.” Peter stepped past him and rapped loudly at the door. “And stop scowling so fiercely,” he added. “You don’t want to frighten the poor man to death.”

  After an endless pause, an older gentleman answered, his thin silver hair combed back from his stern features. “Yes?”

  Peter inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Mr. Becker. Please excuse the unannounced visit. Mr. Reynard would like to have a word with your son. Is he at home?”

  The older man’s gaze went to Dare, and his eyes widened. “Master Reynard! We are honored. Come in, both of you.” He pulled the door wide and called back over his shoulder, “Mary! Bring tea.”

  Dare exhaled and strode past Peter into a chilly entryway that smelled of mildew. Mr. Becker gestured them into a sparsely furnished parlor where a handful of coals smoldered on the hearth, lending the barest hint of warmth to the air.

  “I will fetch Nicholas.” Leaning on his cane, the father turned and stumped up the staircase.

  Dare listened to the fading notes of the father’s passage, the muted sound of voices. Soon. Soon. To distract himself he glanced about the room. The walls were bare, only brighter squares on the dingy wallpaper to show where pictures had once hung.

  A piano dominated the back half of the parlor. He went to it and ran his fingers along the cool mahogany, wrestling back the impatience that coiled through him.

  “A Broadwood.” He nodded to Peter. “No doubt Becker missed meals to purchase the thing.” Compared to the mismatched chairs and faded settee, the piano stood out like a sapphire in a box of cheap jewelry.

  His agent raised his brows. “That instrument cost a pretty penny.”

  No doubt Peter was calculating the exact number of pennies it had cost, and the things the family had clearly gone without in consequence.

  Dare shifted his attention back to the keyboard. Had Becker sat in this very spot to compose the Rondo? The melody tingled in Dare’s fingertips. When a single piece of music had such power, just think what the man might be capable of.

  And then consider what he, himself, could do with that music.

  “Sir!” A young man hurried down the stairs. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I am Nicholas Becker.”

  Dare stepped away from the piano to shake the composer’s outstretched hand. Nicholas Becker—at last.

  Becker’s clasp was firm, though he flushed and dropped his gaze to Dare’s shoulder after his initial greeting. His disheveled hair was the color of wheat, and his dark blue eyes held an expression both reserved and sincere. An odd disappointment moved through Dare. Once again, this was not what he had expected, although he could not
say precisely what he had expected.

  Perhaps it was that the man was so young. He didn’t seem capable of composing the intense melodies that had caught Dare’s interest.

  The father followed more slowly, his cane thumping down the treads. “Offer our guests a seat.”

  “Yes, please sit.” Nicholas Becker gestured to the well-worn settee. “This is just… It’s an unexpected pleasure to have you here, sir. My sister will join us shortly. She is eager to meet you, as well.”

  “Of course. I would be delighted.” Dare knew his voice was cold. He did not want to sit about, meeting sisters. “Let me introduce my agent, Mr. Peter Widmere.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the composer said. He waited for his guests to settle, then perched in one of the armchairs opposite. His fingers were laced taut. “Thank you, maestro, for the concert tickets. And for playing the Rondo. You performed it splendidly.”

  Dare looked the young man squarely in the face. “The Rondo is worthy of a far wider audience. It has met with acclaim on the Continent—at least, with the select audiences who have had the opportunity to hear it.”

  Nicholas Becker’s eyes opened wide, and he looked to his father.

  “Thank you,” he said at last. “We had no idea.”

  “Have you…” Dare’s shoulders tightened, and he leaned forward. “Have you written more?”

  He felt Peter shift beside him. It was too blunt, but the question had been burning inside him for so long it could not remain unspoken a moment longer.

  “More?” Becker sounded as though a mouse had lodged in his throat. The look in his eyes seemed more panic than pride.

  “Other compositions,” Dare said. “Have you written other compositions?”

  “Um… well, yes,” Becker said. “Other published pieces. If that is what you mean.”

  It was not quite, but Dare nodded.

  “May we see them?” Peter’s tone was dry.