Read Sonata for a Scoundrel for Free Online Page B

reply. Should she curtsey? Was there a certain type of curtsey that answered such a bow? If so, she had already failed the first test, and she had not even stepped out her own front door.
    “I am Henri Dubois.” He paused, as if expecting some sort of recognition. When none was forthcoming, he gave a shrug and continued. “Monsieur Reynard sent me to gather you and your brother. You are ready?”
    “Ah…” She glanced over her shoulder to see Nicholas descending the stairs, his expression quiet and determined. “Yes. We are ready.”
    The fellow bowed, from the waist this time, and smiled at her brother. “You are the composer, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
    Papa stumped in from the parlor, and the Frenchman again doffed his hat and introduced himself. He glanced about the entryway, and Clara guessed his sharp gaze missed very little.
    “If you are ready to depart,” he said to Nicholas, “I will summon the footman to bring your trunks down.”
    “Our… trunks?” Nicholas shot her a sidelong look.
    “Yes, yes.” Mr. Dubois beckoned to the servant waiting beside the vehicle. “We must load the coach and be off. One does not keep Darien Reynard waiting.”
    “But we don’t—” she began.
    Papa stepped forward. He nodded to Clara’s valise, then the traveling case beside Nicholas. “This is all they will bring. A footman is not needed.”
    “This? This is your luggage for a month of travel?” Henri Dubois’s brows climbed alarmingly high, then snapped back down into a frown. With the tip of his walking stick he prodded Clara’s worn valise as if were a dead thing. “No, no. It will not do.”
    “It will have to,” Papa said, ignoring the man’s disbelief.
    Clara gave Mr. Dubois a rueful smile. “Perhaps we can add to our wardrobes as we travel, if necessary.”
    “If necessary! What do you have in there—a change of stockings? But now, we must go. Say your farewells.” He turned to the burly footman. “Take our guests’ handbags. And pray, do not strain yourself.”
    Mr. Dubois followed the servant out to the coach. A tremor of fear, of lightness, ran through Clara. She turned to Papa and kissed his cheek.
    “Be well while we’re gone. We’ll be home before you miss us. And don’t chastise Cousin Mary. I’ve instructed her to feed you amply and keep the house as warm as she likes.”
    “Hmph. Impractical.” His voice was gruff. “Write me of your travels. Look after your brother. And Clara, both of you,” he gripped her arm, “be careful.”
    “We will, Papa.”
    “Don’t worry.” Nicholas shook his father’s hand, then let Clara precede him down the walk.
    Mr. Dubois was beckoning to them from inside the coach. “Come, come.”
    Her boots felt soled with lead as Nicholas handed her up into the vehicle. Everything was illuminated with a dreamlike quality: the gleaming lamp sconces, the luxurious leather seats, the gold tassels on either side of the curtains. The interior smelled of polish and privilege. Nicholas settled beside her and she reached for his hand, seeking the one thing that was familiar.
    Across from them, Mr. Dubois gave a satisfied nod. As the coach rolled into motion, he closed his eyes, and to all appearances began to nap.
    Clara pushed aside the blue velvet curtain at the window and gave Papa a final wave. Their father silently held up one hand, then leaned on his cane, his expression settling back into its usual stern lines. She turned on the seat, watching his motionless figure grow smaller, until they rounded the corner and she could no longer see him at all. She let the swath of velvet fall closed.
    They were truly embarked now.
    She felt as though she were enclosed in a small, elegant boat. The familiar landmarks slipped away, and she was unmoored, carried along by currents she could not chart. Where would they sleep this night? What would the next month hold? She had very little idea of the towns and cities they were due to visit.