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grin lit his face. “Everything has changed, Clara. Everything!”
    He took her hand and pulled her into an impromptu polka. “We are going to Scot-land,” he sang as they whirled about the room, “with Darien Rey-nard.”
    The floorboards creaked under their feet, and Clara laughed, dizzy and breathless. Papa pounded his cane, ostensibly to make them stop, but nonetheless keeping perfect time with their steps.

 
     
    CHAPTER FIVE

     
    With Master Reynard in London, ladies have been observed going to great lengths to snare his attention. Yesterday, in Hyde Park, Miss L_M_ flung herself into his path; and Lady B_ was spotted tapping at his windowpane in the dead of night—one would hope with no success!
    -Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler
     
    C lara ran her fingers over the silver-backed hairbrush that had belonged to her mother, then tucked it into her valise. She had packed everything she needed; nearly everything she owned, in truth. Her two everyday dresses, her spare chemise and petticoats, her nightgown. Giving in to vanity, she had purchased new ribbons for her bonnet, though they had taken the last of her coins. She fastened the valise closed, glanced once more about her bare room, and stepped into the hallway.
    With a pang, she passed the empty corner where their grandfather clock used to stand. Now they had to rely on the timepiece downstairs, which barely tinkled the hours instead of ringing them out with calm authority.
    “Nicholas.” She paused beside his half-open door. “Are you ready?”
    “Nearly.”
    She heard him open a drawer, then shut it again with a clunk.
    “I’m taking my valise downstairs. Master Reynard’s note said ten o’clock, and it’s rising the hour.”
    “I know.” The drawer closed with a bit too much force. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
    Soon. Soon. Excitement twined with anxiety, the knotted tension coiling up from the soles of her boots. Every step forward from here would be a step into the unknown.
    She had hardly slept the last two nights, trying to imagine what it might be like to tour with such a pre-eminent musician. Before her brother lost his students, he used to describe the grandiose houses to her, the ease and opulence that were simply a way of life to the gentry.
    But Darien Reynard was not mere gentry. No, that was like comparing an eagle to a flock of swans. Which she supposed made her and Nicholas little brown wrens. She could not imagine how they were going to fly.
    She hurried down the stairs and set her worn valise in the entryway, just in time to catch the unmistakable clatter of a coach arriving.
    It was time.
    Fingers suddenly cold, she pulled her gloves on, then tied her bonnet beneath her chin. The fresh blue ribbons formed a crisp bow, distracting from the faded brim—at least, she hoped so. Through the parlor window she glimpsed the coach door swing wide.
    “Nicholas!” she called up the stairs, then pulled their front door open. A cold breeze rushed inside, the west wind shivering beneath low gray clouds.
    A figure emerged from the vehicle and her breath stilled. But no. The slight, dapper-looking gentleman could never be confused with Master Reynard. She waited, but no one else stepped out of the coach.
    She breathed a sigh of relief, like a marionette whose strings had suddenly gone slack. The maestro had not come to fetch them himself. Of course not. Instead there was this fellow, dressed with fastidious elegance in checked trousers, a russet coat, and a striking green cravat. He had a thin, beakish nose with large nostrils, and bright brown eyes that assessed her as he strutted up to their door, his ebony walking stick tucked under his arm.
    When he reached the entryway he swept off his top hat, made not of the usual beaver, but some odd, silvery fur. He made her an extravagant bow, one foot pointed and extended before him.
    “Miss Becker, I presume?” His voice bore a Continental accent. French, perhaps?
    She nodded, unable to muster a