A Lasting Impression (26 page)

He hid his clue, and once back outside, they found the sun dipping low in the west, swathed in a haze of pink. Ever the gentleman, Sutton offered his arm before they descended the steps, and Claire briefly slipped her hand through, half wishing she could leave it there when they reached the walkway. But she didn’t.

Her thoughts returned to something he’d said before. “Your father . . . He’s a physician?”

“
Was
a physician.” His voice mirrored the hush of approaching night. “He died during the war.”

“Oh, Sutton . . . I’m so sorry.” She slowed her steps. But when his gait didn’t follow suit, she hurriedly matched his pace again. “Was he killed in battle?” she asked after a moment.

He didn’t answer immediately. “No,” he whispered. “He was not.”

She kept her focus ahead, waiting to see if he might say something more. “And . . . may I ask about your mother? Is she still living?”

His sigh held the semblance of a smile. “Yes, my mother’s still living. But not here in Nashville. She lives with my aunt Lorena, her older sister, in North Carolina. She moved there after my father’s death. Remaining in Nashville was too difficult for her. My mother has always had more of a . . . delicate emotional nature. Which only became more so after my father’s passing.”

Claire nodded, wondering about the “delicate emotional nature” comment, but believing she understood, at least to some extent, the part about his mother finding it difficult to remain after his father died. She couldn’t imagine still being in New Orleans right now, living above the art gallery, with both her father and Maman gone.

Spotting the art gallery ahead, she smiled. He hadn’t forgotten.

The two-story brick building loomed dark and stately, large enough to be a hotel, and certainly grand enough in appearance. At least on the outside. Darkness hid the precise definitions of the structure, but she already knew them by heart, having seen the building often enough since arriving at Belmont.

Airy, elegant balconies reminiscent of European architecture accented the front of the building, and white columns framed the main entrance, drawing the eye upward to an observatory that crowned the splendid edifice. Sutton withdrew a key and slid it into the lock.

“Your humble home,” she said quietly.

“Hardly. Half of the building houses the art gallery. The rest comprises five guest suites for Belmont’s visitors, along with quarters for their servants.”

“All of whom like to bowl, of course.”

“But only with bears,” he countered, not missing a beat. He swung open the door. “After you, Captain.”

Claire stepped inside, then paused, unable to see anything in the darkness. Windows lined the front of the building, but thick draperies—all drawn shut, she’d discovered earlier that week—blocked out the natural light. For the protection of the paintings, she knew. But the curtains also served double duty in stifling the curiosity of nosy onlookers. Like her.

“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

C
laire 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 for 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.”