A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  “Wait here.” He touched her arm. “I’ll get a lamp.”

  Sutton stepped beyond her line of sight, the echo of his footsteps lending the room a vast feel. “It’s late, so I’ll just give you a brief tour tonight, but you’re welcome to come back some other time. I think you’ll enjoy looking around. Especially since you’re so . . . well-informed about the world of art.”

  His comment hung in the silence, and though she recognized it as something Mrs. Acklen had said, she sensed meaning in Sutton’s tone she couldn’t interpret, not without seeing his face. “Mrs. Acklen was being overly generous when she said that, Sutton. I’m not that knowledgeable, I assure you.”

  “And I can assure you, Claire . . .” He struck a match and fed the flame to the oil lamp. The halo of light arced back and forth on the walls as he retraced his steps. “Mrs. Acklen is never overly generous.”

  Something was on his mind. She could tell by his earnest expression. And whatever it was, she sensed he’d been waiting for the right time to broach the subject. Her first inclination was to feel baited—until she recalled having used the same ploy on him earlier that evening. However unsuccessfully.

  “Mrs. Acklen was completely enamored with your contributions at dinner that night with the Worthingtons. I understand you made quite an impression.”

  Something in his voice seemed slightly off, but she couldn’t place what it was. “I’d scarcely say that. I merely attempted to join the conversation when appropriate. Which was no small feat. In fact”—she tried for a conspiratorial tone, hoping to nudge the conversation back toward lighter banter—“Mrs. Worthington is quite the conversationalist, especially following a third glass of wine.”

  Giving her a less-than-convinced look, he indicated a hallway, and she fell into step beside him. The lamplight formed a golden glow between them as they walked.

  “You’re underestimating the weight of your comments that evening, Claire. Mrs. Acklen praised your knowledge of paintings. And she’s not a woman whose praise is easily earned, as we both know. So I’m curious . . . What exactly did you say?”

  Claire glanced over at him, wondering why he was so interested. “During the course of dinner, Mrs. Worthington was discussing a number of paintings, and she attributed two of them to a certain artist. I happened to be familiar with that artist’s work and knew he hadn’t painted them, so—” she lifted a shoulder and let it fall—“I gently corrected the error and gave credit where it was due.”

  “I see . . .”

  The clickity-clack of their footsteps echoed off the walls.

  He paused by a doorway and gently took hold of her arm. “May I? It’s rather dark inside, and I don’t want you tripping over a Michelangelo.”

  Claire felt her mouth slip open. “Are you saying—”

  “No.” He smiled. “I’m playing with you. Mrs. Acklen hasn’t purchased one of his pieces. Not yet, anyway.”

  They paused by a painting, and he raised the lamp. “Marriage of Jacob and Rachel. It’s seventeenth century, by an Italian artist. I’m afraid I don’t remember the name.”

  Still smiling over his Michelangelo comment, Claire didn’t recognize the painting, and the scrawled signature didn’t help to reveal the artist’s identity. But the oil on canvas was stunning. “The colors are so rich, even in this light.”

  “This one here”—they moved a few steps—“is Venus at the Forge of Vulcan by . . .” Sutton hesitated, as though trying to remember.

  Jan Brueghel, the younger. Claire recognized the artist’s work, but she wasn’t about to say anything, not in light of his earlier mention of her knowledge of art. “It’s lovely.” But lovely didn’t begin to describe it. The detail in the brushstrokes, the movement. Flawless. She could have sat and studied it for hours.

  Sutton looked over at her then, and for reasons she couldn’t define, she got the feeling that his hesitation seconds earlier had been intentional, to see if she would fill in the blank. She quickly looked away, the loathsome weight inside her growing denser, heavier.

  He led her into the next room. “Careful, there are some crates along through here.”

  Claire maneuvered around them.

  He raised the lamp again. “And these four paintings . . .”

  Claire saw the first painting and went weak in the knees. Antonio Canaletto.

  “. . . are some of Adelicia’s favorites. The artist is Canaletto. This is the Great Canal, the next is the Church of the Salute, and then the Rialto Bridge, and then finally”—he extended the lamp out to one side—“the Church of the Friar. I tend to remember the artists and titles of the most expensive ones.”

  Claire could hardly breathe. The actual title of the first oil was the Grand Canal, but again, she wasn’t about to correct him. Grateful for the dim lighting, she did her best to mask her emotions, almost wanting to cry she was so moved at being in the presence of such masterpieces. “They’re all . . . very nice.”

  She’d copied the first painting twice and had sold it as such with her initials. At the time, she thought she’d captured the colors of the original quite well. She’d been wrong. The cloud-feathered sky was more cerulean than azure, and the Venetian buildings along the canal more misty taupe than tawny brown. She looked around the room and saw more canvases, hanging one after the other, though she couldn’t see the paintings themselves. “Are all of these originals?”

  “Yes . . . though Mrs. Acklen does own a few select copies. But only those painted by an accomplished apprentice serving under the strict tutelage of the original painting’s artist.” He laughed softly. “Would you expect the Adelicia Acklen you know to own anything less?”

  Claire felt a stab of reality. No, she wouldn’t. Why would someone like Mrs. Acklen ever desire a cheap imitation of the real thing? Much less a forgery? The painting would be worthless. Not good enough. Never good enough . . .

  Sutton held the lamp closer, and Claire resisted the urge to turn away.

  “Why is it, Claire, that you never mentioned anything about your knowledge of art before? Or of how very accomplished you are at painting? It seems like that would have come up before now. Especially with an employer like Mrs. Acklen, and at an estate like Belmont.”

  Claire sensed a definite difference in his tone this time, and she read in his eyes what his voice had only hinted at before—suspicion and distrust. And she panicked, certain he knew the truth.

  21

  Claire looked down and squeezed her eyes tight, unable to think with him watching her so closely. How had he found out? She’d been so careful not to say anything, not to let anything slip. She needed to look up, but she couldn’t. If she looked at him, he would see the truth in her face. But she had to look up. Because if she didn’t, he would know she was hiding something.

  She forced her gaze upward and saw a shred of question lingering in his eyes. Maybe he didn’t know. . . .

  Maybe he was just being an attorney and . . . doing whatever it was attorneys did. He’d told her himself that he was paid to be suspicious, and she’d been plenty evasive with him. Which, looking back, had not been a wise choice on her part.

  “Sutton, I . . .” She half expected him to say something. Interrupt her, maybe. But he didn’t. She’d never been on a witness stand before, but she felt as if she were on one now. She couldn’t tell him the truth, and yet she also would not lie. “I never mentioned it before because . . . compared to all of this”—she gestured around them, hearing the next words in her mind just before they burned with shame on her tongue—“my knowledge, like my talent . . . is nothing unique.”

  If only he knew how honest she was being with him at that moment. More so than she’d been with anyone else in her life. Even Maman. “But I’m committed to learning, to improving. Over time, and with practice. And I give you my word, it won’t interfere with my position as Mrs. Acklen’s liaison. If I get the position, of course.”

  For the longest moment, he said nothing, and Claire bowed her head, waiting f
or him to tell her that he knew about the gallery in New Orleans, and about what her family used to do, and about what she was.

  Then he reached up and brushed a curl from her temple. “Look at me, Claire.”

  Dreading what she would see, what he was going to say, she couldn’t.

  “Captain Laurent . . .” He laughed softly. “Look at me. That’s an order.”

  Slowly, she lifted her gaze, and her heart responded to him in a way it had no business doing.

  “I’ll be the first to admit,” he said. “I’m not an expert in the world of art. But take my word for it, Claire . . . your talent is anything but ordinary.”

  She let out her breath as a trickle of relief wound its way through her. And she suddenly grew very aware of the darkness around them, of how alone they were, and of just how attracted she was to this man. To his humor, his integrity, his warmth, his . . . David-like qualities.

  “I’m going to ask you a question, Claire, and I want an honest answer.”

  Realizing he was waiting on her to respond, she nodded, feeling the other shoe about to fall after all.

  “Did you, or did you not, seek the position with Mrs. Acklen with the purpose of using her social connections and reputation to further your own chances in the art world?”

  “I did not,” she answered with full honesty. “I didn’t know who Mrs. Acklen was before I arrived at Belmont. I told her that in the interview. I’d never even heard of her before I”—she hated to remind him—“eavesdropped on those women in church. I give you my word, Sutton. And furthermore, I would never do anything that would bring reproach on her good name. Or yours.”

  His focus unrelenting, he studied her, and for once, she didn’t flinch beneath his close attention.

  Finally, a ghost of a smile appeared. “I appreciate that, Claire. Thank you. Now I’d better get you back. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  He took hold of her arm again as they maneuvered their way back to the lobby. Claire felt a closeness to him she hadn’t before, and she sensed he felt it too, but couldn’t be sure. She’d won his trust, though, and was determined to keep it.

  He reached to open the door for her and paused. “I’m going to take a wild stab here, but I’m guessing that since you didn’t know who Mrs. Acklen was before you came here, you also aren’t aware of the art auction she helps sponsor every spring. Part of which features new artists and their work.”

  “New artists?” Claire asked, doing her best to sound casual, and knowing by his devilish smile that she’d failed.

  “Well . . .” He opened the door for her. “I guess that answers that.”

  “Let’s review the rules to make sure everyone understands the goal of the game. . . .”

  Pistol in hand, Sutton listened to Claire address the crowd. Lovely in her gray dress, she stood on the top step in front of the mansion, her honey-autumn curls swept up and shining in the sun. An almost palpable excitement infused the warm September afternoon and a perfect breeze accompanied a cloudless blue.

  Boys and girls pressed close on the lower stairs, already grouped in their opposing teams. They whispered to each other, smiles wide. Parents gathered in a group behind them wearing looks of youthful anticipation. Even Adelicia, dressed in a deep plum dress Sutton couldn’t remember seeing before, appeared as though she wished she, too, could take part in the hunt.

  “Remember, you must stay on course and go only where clues tell you to go.” Claire seemed as excited as the children. “Just because the girls’ team finds a clue in one spot doesn’t mean the boys will also find one there. And some of the clues may be more difficult to decipher than others. That’s especially true”—she glanced in Sutton’s direction, tilting her head knowingly—“of the clues that rhyme.”

  He smiled, enjoying the private joke, and the opportunity just to look at her. He’d considered her pretty the first time they’d met, even with her hair mussed and her dress wrinkled. And her beauty had only deepened the more he’d gotten to know her. He’d enjoyed writing and hiding the clues with her last night. How long had it been since he’d laughed like that? He couldn’t remember.

  Then there’d been those moments in the art gallery. . . .

  That fraction of a heartbeat when he’d partially lost his mind and had actually contemplated taking the woman in his arms and kissing her! He’d imagined cradling her cheek and tasting the wine from those full pink lips. He’d quickly come to his senses, of course, and knew he needed to get a rein on himself. And still did, apparently.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled.

  He and Claire were colleagues. Friendly colleagues who shared a good working relationship. And playful banter. And who could talk at length about many different subjects. But that was all. Claire had never given him any indication that she felt anything more than friendship for him. So he’d figured—up until last night—that the spirited back-and-forth between them was safe enough. But his surprising inclination toward her in the gallery was making him think otherwise.

  He needed to tell her about Cara Netta. That would help things. Yet he hadn’t been able to broach the subject. It was wrong for a man to foster daydreams about a woman when he was in a relationship—whatever that may be—with another.

  Cara Netta was kind and good and gracious and sweet, and was from a well-established family whose name opened doors at the merest mention. She was everything a man could want in a wife, and she would arrive at Belmont in a matter of days and would be expecting a proposal. One he still wasn’t prepared to extend.

  But he could be, perhaps, if the review board rendered a fair verdict. Or if the case he had formally agreed to work on with Mr. Holbrook proved to be as promising as Holbrook thought.

  The alleged incidents of art fraud were more numerous than first estimated, but gathering the necessary evidence would take the investigators time. It seemed like an almost impossible feat right now. Meanwhile, he and Holbrook were deposing clients and slowly building their case, piece by piece. And if they were to take this case to trial and win . . .

  It would change everything for him. The financial reward for the firm—and his portion of that—would go a long way to starting a thoroughbred farm.

  Pulling his thoughts back, Sutton refocused on Claire, and on the children’s faces as she described the rest of the afternoon’s activities. She’d worked so hard to make this party a success. And the fruits of her labors would go far, he knew, in rebuilding Adelicia’s relationships with begrudging peers. If Adelicia didn’t give Claire the job after all this . . .

  He thought of the letter he’d sent to his colleague in New Orleans and felt a twinge of guilt. He quickly reminded himself that Adelicia had requested the query be sent. Still, having sent that query and now growing closer to Claire as he was made him feel like he was being dishonest with her somehow. Even though he knew he was only doing his job.

  He was convinced she hadn’t known about the art auction. A person couldn’t feign that kind of surprise. Not Claire anyway. She could no more tell a lie than a bird could swim. And even though he believed everything she’d said, he also still believed she was hiding something. But he’d finally come to the conclusion it couldn’t be of huge consequence.

  Because he’d seen her sincerity. He’d felt it.

  “All right, everyone! I’ve already given each team a hint as to where your first clues are hidden, so—”

  Excited chatter rose from the youth, and Claire raised her hands to regain their attention. The chatter lowered to a simmering thrum.

  “So when the signal sounds”—she looked back at Sutton—“that will be your cue to start. The first team to gather all their clues and meet back here at the stairs is the winner, and each member of the winning team will receive a prize. Now, do you have any questions?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” William called out, standing at the head of his team. “What are the girls gonna do when the boys get all of their clues first?” His team members snickered and thumped him on the
back.

  “We’ll be waitin’ right here on these stairs for you, William Acklen. That’s what we’ll be doin’!” a spunky little blonde retorted, her smile as competitive as it was pretty. Sutton had seen William talking to the girl earlier, and though they were a little young for thoughts about sparkin’, as his grandfather had called it, he’d sensed an interest on the boy’s part.

  And the grin William sneaked her way now left no doubt.

  Amidst the laughter, Claire glanced at Sutton and nodded. He raised the pistol high.

  “On your mark . . .” she shouted.

  Sutton cocked the gun. The boys leaned forward, eyes fierce with competition. The girls gripped their skirts, readying to bolt.

  “Get set . . .”

  Children and parents held a collective breath.

  “Go!”

  Sutton fired, and off the teams went. Girls in one direction, boys in the other, laughter coming from both.

  “And to our remaining guests,” Claire addressed, “we appreciate your attendance today. While our little scavengers are out hunting for their hidden treasures, Mrs. Acklen invites you to enjoy a variety of French pastries she recently discovered on her family’s grand tour of Europe. On the tables to your left”—she gestured—“you’ll find pastries with the name and description of each, as well as the history behind them. Café au lait is available at the table by the main fountain. And on behalf of Mrs. Acklen and everyone at Belmont, thank you again for joining us for William’s eleventh birthday celebration. Bon appétit!”

  Applause rose from the parents, and Sutton smiled. Nervous as she’d been before she’d gotten up there, Claire Laurent looked as if she’d been directing troops all her life. He sidled up beside her. “Well done, Captain.”

  She grinned up at him, then turned and made a face that only he could see. “I hope the teams can figure out all the clues. If they can’t, I’m blaming you.”

  He laughed. “That’s fine, but I’m pretty sure I can’t go much lower than a corporal.”