Free Sonata for a Scoundrel by Anthea Lawson Page B

high window, the light gleaming on its graceful curves. A Turkish-style rug softened the tiled floor before it and an array of soaps and lotions graced the shelf to one side. It was the most elegant thing she’d ever seen. Though she had to admit, some of the appeal lay in the fact that should she desire a bath, she would not be the one to heat and carry the water. That was a luxury she could come to appreciate.
    The clock in the sitting room gave a gentle chime, and Clara recalled herself. She ought to go hear how Nicholas and Master Reynard were progressing with the Air . But first…
    Her reticule lay untouched where she had left it in the sitting room. Clara took it into her bedroom and locked the door. Graphite and notebook in hand, she notated the sweet, poignant melody that had swirled about her in the carriage. Darien Reynard’s melody.
    After a moment she turned the page and scribed the gull’s song, and the sigh and rush of the waves. There. Those bits were down on paper now, and she needn’t worry about losing them. She tucked her graphite away and glanced around the room. It wouldn’t do to leave the evidence of her composing out in plain sight, or even in her reticule, where an inquisitive servant could discover it. She pressed her lips together. The bed. Heavens knew there were enough pillows to conceal almost anything.
    The linens were wonderfully soft against her hand as she slipped her notebook deep into the pile of pillows. But she had delayed too long. It was time to go hear Darien Reynard play her newest work.

 
     
    CHAPTER EIGHT

     
    In recent years, critics have found Master Darien Reynard’s playing, while still brilliant, lacking in spirit. However, his recent performance at King’s Theatre showed a new, revitalized Reynard, at the top of his form in both technical virtuosity and musical heart. One can only hope this is a lasting change.
    -Ariosa Reviews
     
    T he next evening, the black coach deposited Clara, Nicholas, and Master Reynard beneath the dome-topped portico of the Royal Pavilion. The white marble glowed translucent in the twilight, as if lit from within. Nicholas hesitated beside the familiar bulk of the coach, and Clara could not blame him. The exotic building before them seemed more like a prison than a palace.
    Tonight, Nicholas would play before the king.
    But it would do her brother no good to give in to her own anxiety. She gave him an encouraging smile and slipped her arm through his.
    “Come,” Master Reynard said, a slight furrow between his brows.
    He strode forward, and liveried servants hurried to swing the tall double doors wide. The three of them were ushered into a large, octagonal foyer featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the last reflection of silvery dusk.
    Clara took a deep breath as she stepped over the threshold. She shivered, but the act of entering the Pavilion, however fantastical a place, had no transformative effect. She was not magically changed into a princess from a fairy tale.
    Master Reynard marched ahead, violin case in one hand, his bearing supremely confident. She and Nicholas were carried along like flotsam in his wake.
    “Look,” her brother whispered, jerking his chin up.
    She blinked up at the ceiling, which resembled the draperies of a huge, exotic tent. A curious, boxy chandelier glowed at the apex, and tassels hung down at the corners, nearly sweeping the floor.
    “It’s quite a spectacle,” Master Reynard said, handing his greatcoat to the hovering servants. “The former king spared no expense to build his pleasure dome, as you’ll see.”
    As the master drew her brother’s attention to the fanciful brass fireplace, Clara slowly unfastened her pelisse. It had just arrived that morning, part of a posthaste delivery from Madame Lamond’s. Clara’s touch lingered on the silky fur trimming the edges before she gave it up to the servant. She would appear truly vulgar if she carried her overgarment about the pavilion,