Sonata for a Scoundrel by Anthea Lawson Page A

anxious existence.
    Darien spoke, an undercurrent of tension beneath his words. “There is no excuse for my behavior. I offer my most sincere apologies, Miss Becker. And Nicholas, I swear to you I will not touch your sister again. Stay. We have just begun. Don’t let this dreadful mistake be the end of things.”
    “It is the end,” Nicholas said with a sharp shake of his head. “Clara and I will return to London at first light. And you, sir, are not welcome to perform the compositions of Nicholas Becker ever again.”
    “But—” Clara began.
    “No.” Her brother cut her off. “We will go immediately to the hotel and pack our belongings. The clothing, of course, belongs to Master Reynard and will remain behind.”
    Darien’s face was set, unreadable in the dim light. He made them a bow—very correct, very formal. It was clear he knew that arguing with Nicholas would gain him nothing.
    “I will summon the coach for you,” he said. “The footmen will escort you from the Pavilion. Good night.”
    He moved past them without meeting Clara’s eyes, strode across the terrace, and disappeared back into the Royal Pavilion. Silence, heavy with failure, filled the air between her and her brother.
    “Nicholas.” Clara stared into his eyes, beseeching. “I have been imprudent tonight, but truly, it was not Darien Reynard’s fault. In fact, he saved me from worse trouble…”
    She could not continue, could not risk seeing her brother storm back into the gallery, intent on confronting the knaves who had led her outside. Better that was left unsaid. She would not embroil Nicholas in a senseless duel to protect her honor.
    He jammed his hands into his pockets, rumpling the elegant line of his coat. “Damn the money, anyway. Your virtue’s worth far more.”
    “My virtue was not in danger.”
    She tried not to dwell on how she had felt in Darien’s arms, the feel of his fingers moving over her bare skin as he tasted her lips. The kiss he had called a “dreadful mistake.” She shivered.
    “It’s too cold out here.” Nicholas pulled his hands from his pockets and took Clara’s elbow, steering back toward the terrace. “High time we were quit of this blasted place.”
     
    ***
     
    Dare tossed an extra cravat into his traveling bag, and ignored the look on Henri’s face.
    “You will not accompany me,” he said. “Don’t argue.”
    “But, monsieur.” Henri lifted his hands in dismay. “Your boots, your coat—”
    “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. The only way to convince Nicholas Becker to continue on the tour is to remove myself from his immediate vicinity. I have faith in you, Henri. If anyone can talk Nicholas around, it’s you.”
    Eyes dark with worry, Henri shook his head. “You place too much trust in me, monsieur. What shall I tell him?”
    “Anything, so long as he agrees to stay on.” Dare tucked his shaving kit into the bag and closed it firmly. “But I will also write a letter, if you wish.”
    “Please do so.”
    The writing desk in the suite held paper, pens, and ink. The force of Dare’s impatience splattered the ink across the page, and he made himself slow, forming his angular words more legibly.
    Nicholas,
    Without you and your compositions, this tour is nothing. I entreat you to reconsider. Do not throw away your chance at greatness. Think of what you will be giving up. This door will not open again.
    Take your sister back to London, but do not abandon the tour. Henri will accompany you in escorting your sister home, and then you can rejoin me in Southampton. I will increase your salary commensurately.
    Again, my sincere apologies.
    - Darien Reynard
    Henri took the letter with a doubtful expression. “Monsieur. Were I Miss Becker’s brother, I would not like to continue my association with the man who took such liberties with my sister.”
    “Damnation, Henri! It was just a kiss.” Dare would never admit to anyone how quickly he had lost control of