Free Sonata for a Scoundrel by Anthea Lawson

Nicholas said, expression taut. “The king .”
    Clara mastered her own apprehension and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry. Everyone will be watching Master Reynard.”
    “It will only be one piece, and you are a fine pianist,” the master said. “But I’ll do my best to perform with extra zeal and flamboyance.”
    “Perhaps you should wear a red velvet coat, as well,” Mr. Dubois said, his large nostrils flaring with distaste.
    “An excellent thought!” Mischief played about the corners of Master Reynard’s lips. “Embroidered with peacock feathers. You did pack such a coat, didn’t you Henri?”
    Outrage lifted the valet’s eyebrows, and Darien Reynard laughed, a warm, low laugh that invited them to join in. It was a laugh that resonated through Clara, a molasses-coated sound, slow and sweet and dark.
    Mr. Dubois frowned at his employer as the carriage slowed. “Monsieur, I do wish you had allowed me to sit up front with the driver.”
    Master Reynard smiled slightly at his valet, then turned to the carriage door as the footman swung it open.
    A gust of fresh, salted air blew inside, like nothing Clara had ever smelled before. She inhaled deeply, tasting the tang of adventure on the back of her tongue. Despite her worry for Nicholas and the upcoming performance, she felt something within her take wing.
    The carriage was drawn up before a grand four-storied hotel. Gray and white gulls wheeled overhead, and a shining swath of rumpled water gleamed from between the buildings. The sea!
    She longed to leap from the vehicle and run—most unladylike—past the hotel and down to the shore, where that great hushing expanse of water beckoned to her. Was it truly full of salt? Would she see fantastical creatures of the ocean leaping and dipping through the waves?
    Already the sound of the sea was moving through her in the beginning of a counterpoint, the cries of the gulls transmuting to melody. For a moment she heard Darien Reynard playing his violin, soaring on the high notes while the piano murmured and sighed like the waves behind.
    Inspiration indeed.
    “Clara? Are you coming?” Nicholas had disembarked and was holding out his hand.
    She blinked from her reverie. Gathering her skirts, she took her brother’s hand and stepped out of the carriage. Immediately a liveried attendant held a large black umbrella over her, despite the fact the rain was down to a mere sprinkling. Each of them had their own attendant, though Mr. Dubois moved so quickly to the door of the hotel that his man was forced to sprint to keep pace.
    “Come,” Master Reynard said. “We’ll get settled, and then rehearse.”
    He turned away from the carriage, where the luggage was already half unloaded by yet another set of servants, and Clara and her brother followed him into the hotel.
    Thick carpet muffled their footsteps as they stepped into the quiet lobby. An enormous crystal and gold chandelier descended from the ceiling, and the scent of lemon oil and flowers infused the air. They were ushered by their attendants up a magnificent flight of stairs and along a short hallway, where Clara and Nicholas were directed to their suite of rooms.
    “I’m just along the way, in the master suite,” Darien Reynard said. “If Peter has done his job, which I’ve no doubt he has, there will be a piano. Come in half an hour, Mr. Becker.”
    Nicholas nodded, and they watched Master Reynard proceed down the hall. His stride was free and confident, as though he were the master of the hotel and the town of Brighton. Indeed, of England and the entire world.
    “Your suite, sir, miss.” The liveried servant held open the door and gestured them inside.
    Lingering thoughts of Darien Reynard dispelled as Clara stepped into the sitting area. The room was decorated in shades of green and cream, a coal fire burned warmly on the hearth, and a bow window overlooked the park across the street. It was understated and elegant, and she was grateful