Sonata for a Scoundrel by Anthea Lawson Read Free Book Online Page B

haven’t much time.”
    Clara folded her arms over her worn woolen gown. Half of her wanted to stubbornly insist they depart London immediately, that she would make do with her paltry handful of dresses and petticoats. But Mr. Dubois was correct. Her poor dress would reflect badly upon the tour, and thus upon Nicholas.
    Darien Reynard’s presence on the street was not going unremarked. As the genteel bustle of pedestrians caught sight of him, they slowed, their whispers buzzing like bees. The sun slid out from behind a cloud, and the rows of fashionable shops shone, their windows dazzlingly bright, the gilt lettering above their doors sparkling. Clara caught sight of herself reflected in the pane of Weston’s: a pale-haired girl, unremarkable in her limp bonnet—despite the new ribbons.
    The reflection also showed the crowd gathering as more people veered toward Master Reynard. The ladies were chirping with excitement, and the men swept off their hats and bowed to catch his attention.
    “Mr. Reynard!”
    “How fortunate that you have graced London with your inspiration.”
    “Oh, come see, it is him. No one else has a coach like that one.”
    Mr. Dubois leaned close to his employer. “Madame Lamond’s is nearby. But perhaps we would be better off in the coach.”
    Master Reynard nodded, and tipped his hat to his admirers. “I agree,” he said in a voice pitched only to their ears. “Into the coach. Now.”
    Mr. Dubois gestured for the footman to open the doors and set the steps. He took Clara by the elbow and assisted her into the vehicle, but the speculative voices of the crowd still reached her ears.
    “Whoever might that be?”
    “Surely Master Reynard would not escort a doxy so openly about the streets of Mayfair.”
    “He is far too refined to do so. And that… person… is certainly the opposite of refined!”
    Titters of laughter accompanied the words. Face flaming, Clara scooted back on the seat until her shoulders met the padded cushions, letting the coach shield her from the sidelong glances and sharp tongues.
    Nicholas sat beside her and covered her gloved hand with his own in silent sympathy. She could not help noticing how dingy her glove was, beneath the pristine whiteness of his new one.
    Outside the coach, Master Reynard raised his voice. “I regret I must bid you farewell. We have an appointment to keep.”
    Disappointment riffled through the crowd, but he mounted the steps, lifted his hand, and ducked into the coach. The footman closed the door immediately, no doubt well used to such crowds and the master’s need to extricate himself from them.
    Clara kept her gaze fixed firmly on her knees, and the unrefined gown that covered them. Well then. She and Nicholas had known they were unprepared for the world Darien Reynard inhabited. The unkind words could not hurt her, and it was foolish to let them keep twisting and writhing in her stomach. Still, she could not venture a glance at the musician seated across from her. Had he heard the insinuations? Would he think even less of her, after hearing such things?
    If so, he showed no indication of it. His long fingers drummed on the cushion, and he did not glance at her with either scorn or disdain. For all she could tell, she was invisible to him—a speck of dust or small, buzzing fly. Inconvenient, perhaps, but easily ignored.
    The injustice stung her heart, and she turned her gaze out the window, pretending to admire the view.
    Soon enough, the coach reached their destination. They alighted from the vehicle in front of a shop with Madame Lamond spelled out in curling golden script upon the dark blue door. When Master Reynard made no move to enter the modiste’s, Mr. Dubois arched his eyebrows, his nostrils thinning with disapproval.
    “It would be best if you attended, Monsieur Reynard,” the valet said. “The results will be much more easily accomplished in your presence.”
    Master Reynard frowned, but stepped forward.
    “Very well,” he