said, “but if I am trapped into going, Mr. Becker must come, too.”
“Certainly,” Nicholas said. “But please, call me Nicholas. Mr. Becker is my father. It feels beyond strange to hear that name addressed to me.”
“You’ll become accustomed to it,” Master Reynard said.
Taking Clara by the arm, Mr. Dubois ushered her into Madame Lamond’s. The shop smelled of roses and silk, and Clara blinked at the lustrous bolts of cloth displayed about the room. Once again the enormity of their change in station struck her, adding a tight hitch to her breath.
The bell over the door tinkled with their entrance, and a handful of stunningly dressed ladies turned to regard them. Their gazes slid dismissively over Clara and fastened on the gentlemen behind her. Most especially on Darien Reynard. They moved toward him in a cluster, a handsome blonde woman in the lead, who halted so close that her skirts crowded Clara’s own drab gown. The woman laid her hand on his arm, her eyelashes fluttering.
“My dear Master Reynard! Such a delight to encounter you again, after our lovely interlude last year. I hope you will be in London long enough to…” She leaned forward, her voice dropping, “…repeat it.”
“Lady Barlow.” Master Reynard inclined his head. “Though nothing would give me greater pleasure than to take tea with you again, I’m sorry to say I am leaving town directly.”
Clara did not think he sounded sorry in the least. The other ladies giggled behind their gloved hands, and Lady Barlow’s smile veered into a pout. Her sharp blue eyes fastened on Clara.
“And who is this?” Her voice was sugary, but Clara heard the blade beneath. “What an unusual style of dress. Is she Irish?”
The watchers laughed again, though this time Clara was on the receiving end of that barbed mirth. She lifted her chin. Whether anyone knew it or not, s he wrote the music Darien Reynard used to dazzle the world. She would ignore the cuts and slights, and armor her soul with the secret of her talent.
“Excuse us.” The master picked Lady Barlow’s hand off his sleeve. “Is Madame Lamond available?”
“Master Reynard!” A curtain at the back opened, and a thin-faced woman emerged. She hurried forward and made him a brief curtsy. “I am at your service, sir.”
“I do not doubt it,” he said. “But I defer to Mr. Dubois to inform you of the particulars.”
“Henri, my darling!” The modiste turned to Mr. Dubois, kissing the air to either side of his face. “How kind of you to visit my humble shop, though it is the best one can find outside Paris, you must agree. Now, who is this beauty you have brought to me?”
“Allow me to introduce Miss Clara Becker,” Mr. Dubois said. “Sister to this gentleman here, the composer Nicholas Becker.”
“Indeed,” Master Reynard nodded. “Mr. Becker is a man of rare talent, whose works I will soon be featuring in all my performances.”
The announcement sent a rush of whispers through the elegant ladies, and Lady Barlow’s expression took on a decidedly acquisitive cast. Clara did not like the way the woman was eyeing Nicholas.
“Very nice to meet you both,” the modiste said. “The whole town is talking of last night’s concert, but I am sure you did not come here to discuss music. Now, what do you require?”
“Not much,” Clara began.
“Everything,” Mr. Dubois said.
“And when will you need this everything?” Madame Lamond asked.
“We depart London this afternoon,” Master Reynard said. “I have every faith in your abilities, madame.”
“This afternoon?” A wash of panic colored Madame Lamond’s careful accent. “But… you ask much of me, maestro.”
Clara sent Madame Lamond a sympathetic glance. The gentlemen obviously had no notion of the amount of work that went into making a dress—especially the complex and fashionable gowns the town ladies were wearing.
“Henri insists you are the very best modiste in all London,” Master
“Certainly,” Nicholas said. “But please, call me Nicholas. Mr. Becker is my father. It feels beyond strange to hear that name addressed to me.”
“You’ll become accustomed to it,” Master Reynard said.
Taking Clara by the arm, Mr. Dubois ushered her into Madame Lamond’s. The shop smelled of roses and silk, and Clara blinked at the lustrous bolts of cloth displayed about the room. Once again the enormity of their change in station struck her, adding a tight hitch to her breath.
The bell over the door tinkled with their entrance, and a handful of stunningly dressed ladies turned to regard them. Their gazes slid dismissively over Clara and fastened on the gentlemen behind her. Most especially on Darien Reynard. They moved toward him in a cluster, a handsome blonde woman in the lead, who halted so close that her skirts crowded Clara’s own drab gown. The woman laid her hand on his arm, her eyelashes fluttering.
“My dear Master Reynard! Such a delight to encounter you again, after our lovely interlude last year. I hope you will be in London long enough to…” She leaned forward, her voice dropping, “…repeat it.”
“Lady Barlow.” Master Reynard inclined his head. “Though nothing would give me greater pleasure than to take tea with you again, I’m sorry to say I am leaving town directly.”
Clara did not think he sounded sorry in the least. The other ladies giggled behind their gloved hands, and Lady Barlow’s smile veered into a pout. Her sharp blue eyes fastened on Clara.
“And who is this?” Her voice was sugary, but Clara heard the blade beneath. “What an unusual style of dress. Is she Irish?”
The watchers laughed again, though this time Clara was on the receiving end of that barbed mirth. She lifted her chin. Whether anyone knew it or not, s he wrote the music Darien Reynard used to dazzle the world. She would ignore the cuts and slights, and armor her soul with the secret of her talent.
“Excuse us.” The master picked Lady Barlow’s hand off his sleeve. “Is Madame Lamond available?”
“Master Reynard!” A curtain at the back opened, and a thin-faced woman emerged. She hurried forward and made him a brief curtsy. “I am at your service, sir.”
“I do not doubt it,” he said. “But I defer to Mr. Dubois to inform you of the particulars.”
“Henri, my darling!” The modiste turned to Mr. Dubois, kissing the air to either side of his face. “How kind of you to visit my humble shop, though it is the best one can find outside Paris, you must agree. Now, who is this beauty you have brought to me?”
“Allow me to introduce Miss Clara Becker,” Mr. Dubois said. “Sister to this gentleman here, the composer Nicholas Becker.”
“Indeed,” Master Reynard nodded. “Mr. Becker is a man of rare talent, whose works I will soon be featuring in all my performances.”
The announcement sent a rush of whispers through the elegant ladies, and Lady Barlow’s expression took on a decidedly acquisitive cast. Clara did not like the way the woman was eyeing Nicholas.
“Very nice to meet you both,” the modiste said. “The whole town is talking of last night’s concert, but I am sure you did not come here to discuss music. Now, what do you require?”
“Not much,” Clara began.
“Everything,” Mr. Dubois said.
“And when will you need this everything?” Madame Lamond asked.
“We depart London this afternoon,” Master Reynard said. “I have every faith in your abilities, madame.”
“This afternoon?” A wash of panic colored Madame Lamond’s careful accent. “But… you ask much of me, maestro.”
Clara sent Madame Lamond a sympathetic glance. The gentlemen obviously had no notion of the amount of work that went into making a dress—especially the complex and fashionable gowns the town ladies were wearing.
“Henri insists you are the very best modiste in all London,” Master
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