Light Fantastique by Cecilia Dominic

rain.”
    â€œMadame St. Jean is doing something in the theatre,” Iris said. “She said for no one to come in until she finished. You’re welcome to join us at the townhouse for lunch.”
    Marie sent Iris a sharp look. “Or perhaps you should wait here until the others arrive, warn them as well not to disturb Maman .” She steeled herself against his crestfallen expression.
    â€œAh yes, Madame needs to work her magic,” he said. “It is part of her genius, so I will wait here. I disturbed her once and shall not allow anyone in my orchestra to make the same mistake.”
    Maestro Bledsoe stiffened beside Marie, and she guessed he felt Frederic’s barb, that as concertmaster he should take the lead. “I will stay here as well,” he said. “Mademoiselles, please go to the townhouse. I shall join you as soon as I can.”
    Marie and Iris linked arms and turned on to the sidewalk. Marie couldn’t resist one last glance behind her, and as she expected, the maestro and Frederic stood a few feet apart and appeared to evaluate each other.
    â€œWill there be a fight?” Iris asked. She, too, stared at the men, and Marie directed her gaze forward lest they bump into a lamp-pole or tree.
    â€œDon’t be dramatic. That’s my job. Plus, they won’t risk their hands.”
    â€œIt’s romantic, don’t you think?” Iris grinned up at her. “Two artists vying for your attention.”
    â€œNot those two. I don’t want the one, and I don’t trust the other.” But she caught the disappointment on Iris’s face. Right, she’s craving romance she’s not getting. Taking this role is going to cause me nothing but trouble.

Chapter Six
    Théâtre Bohème, 2 December 1870
    Johann and the other violinist eyed each other. Johann still held his violin and glanced at the sky to see if it would, indeed, rain.
    â€œWhat is your relationship to Mademoiselle St. Jean?” the other man asked.
    Johann allowed his astonishment to show. “Perhaps we should start with our names and move on to more personal questions after. Proper etiquette and all.”
    â€œI am Frederic LeClerc.” He didn’t hold a hand out to shake. “And I am going to marry Mademoiselle. And I know who you are, English swine.”
    Johann gestured for LeClerc to follow him so they stood under the canopy of the portico by the side entrance to the theatre. “No sense in getting our instruments wet as we sort this out. How do you know of me?” I’ve made it a point not to be known here.
    LeClerc shrugged as only the French do. Johann reminded himself to stay patient. “Word gets around, Maestro. Especially when someone with money is curious.”
    Now the iciness in Johann’s lungs had nothing to do with the chill breeze that heralded the start of a deluge. The sound of sleet mixed with rain made him glad he was under cover, but a sense of being exposed caused him to step behind one of the pillars and out of view of the street.
    LeClerc studied him with a shrewd look. “Oh yes, Monsieur Bledsoe , someone has been very interested in knowing where to find you.”
    â€œAnd who would that be?”
    Another man ran from the rain and joined them, and Johann prepared to defend himself if necessary.
    â€œLuc,” LeClerc greeted the newcomer with a handshake and spoke in French, which Johann knew well enough to follow. “Where is Martin?”
    The new man pulled a clarinet case from under his oilskin cloak. His hair and mustache dripped in spite of his attempt to dress for the weather. “He’s on his way. Why are we standing out here?”
    â€œMadame.”
    â€œAh.” He seemed to accept that as sufficient explanation. “And who is this?”
    â€œMaestro Johann Bledsoe, our new concertmaster.”
    Johann cringed against his given name. He’d been using the pseudonym of Harry