A Lasting Impression (49 page)

Huge cast-iron sugar kettles dotted the grounds, nestling fires to coddle guests in warmth while they strolled the garden paths or awaited entrance into the main house. Or, later, to warm them when they traded the crowded rooms and hallways of the mansion for a moment of cool night air. He took it all in. Claire Laurent was brilliant. And Adelicia Acklen would be the talk of the town for months—if not years—to come. Whatever walls she’d erected between her and her peers in the past, tonight would go far in tearing them down.

Just as Claire had instructed, every window in the main house was awash in candlelight, and the stately harmonies of a brass ensemble—the lead trumpet’s trills clear and strong, not missing a beat—drifted toward him.

He’d last seen her a couple of hours ago, relatively calm and making certain everything was carried out to the last detail. When she’d excused herself to get ready, she’d looked as excited as Adelicia and the LeVerts, who had been holed up in the second-floor bedrooms of the mansion all afternoon.

He’d seen Cara Netta briefly last night at dinner, after their arrival, and relations between the two of them had been strained. Even Madame LeVert and Diddie had acted a little cool toward him. He understood, but he still held that he’d made the right decision.

For everyone.

Seeing Claire’s handiwork at every turn, he thought again of his conversation with her in the library, and of what her father had said to her. He had trouble believing it. He believed
her
. His difficulty came in understanding
how
a father could say such a thing to his daughter. And judging from the pain in Claire’s eyes, he would wager that Gustave Laurent’s words had hurt her more often than not.

In light of that discovery, he’d decided not to tell her about the report on her background. All of his questions had been answered, and his concerns—like Mrs. Acklen’s—were laid to rest.

“Monroe!”

Sutton turned and spotted Mr. Holbrook strolling up the drive with his wife, Mildred, on his arm. “Good evening, sir, Mrs. Holbrook.” He fell into step beside them.

Mildred’s eyes twinkled in the golden glow of lantern light. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Mrs. Acklen has truly outdone herself this time. None of us will ever dare throw a party in Nashville again!”

Sutton felt a swell of pride. “Mrs. Acklen’s personal liaison, Miss Claire Laurent, arranged everything this evening, down to the last detail. I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments to her, Mrs. Holbrook.”

“I’d appreciate a personal introduction to this Miss Laurent, if that’s possible. To tell her myself.”

Sutton nodded. “I believe I can arrange that.”

“Any word from your dear mother recently?” Holbrook asked.

“I received a letter two days ago.” Sutton heard his name across the way and nodded a greeting to arriving guests. “She’s doing well. And, at least for now”—he gave them a look, knowing they understood his mother’s eccentric nature—“she says she’s contented there with her sister and won’t contemplate a visit to Nashville until next fall.” To his immense relief.

The entrance to the mansion was crowded, but they eventually made their way inside, and as the music from the brass ensemble on the front lawn fell away, the sweet strains of the stringed orchestra in the grand salon reached out to greet them.

Cinnamon sachets and pillows adorned the tables and chairs, lending a homey scent. Potted camellias and confectionary centerpieces accented the tables, and poinsettias added splashes of color to every room.

Guests clustered around
Ruth Gleaning,
their murmurs and raised eyebrows abounding. Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook stopped to admire the
Sleeping Children,
but Sutton continued on. He caught a glimpse of Adelicia and Mrs. LeVert on a raised dais on one end of the grand salon, where they greeted guests. Beside them, Diddie and Cara Netta did likewise. Adelicia looked radiant in the dress she’d worn when presented at Napoleon’s court.

The women looked like royalty, which, in Nashville society, he guessed they almost were. They were engulfed by guests, and he was pleased to notice the number of men already pressing for Cara Netta’s attention.

Pausing, he peered over the crowd, searching for Claire. Then like the parting of the Red Sea, the crush of guests dispersed into various other rooms, emptying the hallway. And there she stood—

At the entry to the grand salon, dressed in an opalescent blue dress, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her
bare
shoulder.

Sutton’s breath seeped from his lungs. For as long as he lived—and at the moment he prayed that would be a very, very long time—he would never forget how beautiful she looked tonight. And that inviting look on her face . . . Playful, enticing, as if she had a secret she shouldn’t tell, but would—with coaxing—to him.

In six long strides, he was beside her, wishing he could nuzzle the soft column of her neck or the creamy curves of her shoulders. As it was, he lifted her hand to his mouth. “You . . . are . . . radiant,” he whispered, and bestowed a soft kiss.

A blush crept into her cheeks. “And you . . . are right on time.” She lowered her voice. “I’m scared to death. I don’t know anyone in this room.”

“Sure you do. You know me.”

She tilted her head to one side and smiled, but he sensed her nervousness. He offered his arm and she accepted, moving to stand closer beside him.

He made a show of looking at her. “That dress is stunning on you.”

She swayed from side to side, causing the beaded tassels on her bodice and sleeves to dance. “Isn’t it pretty? It was a gift from Mrs. Acklen last night.”

Sutton did his best not to stare where he shouldn’t. He’d seen a woman’s bare shoulders before. The grand salon was full of them. But he’d never seen Claire’s. Not with her being in mourning. It surprised him a little that Adelicia would encourage her to wear such a dress. Then again, he doubted anyone outside this household knew about her parents’ deaths, and no one inside would begrudge her this night, and this dress. Not after all she’d done since coming to Belmont.

He leaned closer and caught a whiff of lilac in her hair. She’d gathered up her curls for the most part, but some hung loose, framing her face and falling down her back. The effect was intoxicating.

“Mr. Monroe?”

He turned. “Mrs. Holbrook . . .” He quickly made introductions between her and Claire, wondering where her husband had drifted off to. He wanted to introduce him to Claire as well.

Claire curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holbrook.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Laurent. When Mr. Monroe told us you were responsible for all of this, I knew I needed to meet you. I’m in charge of the Nashville Women’s League, and we’re having our annual spring tea this coming—”

“Mrs. Holbrook.” Sutton shook his head, halfway curbing a grin. “How often have you reprimanded your husband and me for conducting business at these events? And here you go—”

“I was simply making a connection, Mr. Monroe.” Mrs. Holbrook batted her eyes. “So just you never mind and let us ladies talk for a minute. Go find my husband and keep him out of mischief.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am. But first, may I have a private word with Miss Laurent?” At her consenting nod, he drew Claire off to the side. “Would you give me the honor of saving the first dance for me,
mademoiselle
?”

“Oh . . .” Claire pouted. “I’m sorry,
monsieur
.” Then she smiled. “I saved you the first two.”

This woman . . .
“Do you know the meaning of the word
throttle
, Claire?”

“I do. It’s what I’d like to do to you nearly every other day, Willister.”

Sutton delivered her back to Mrs. Holbrook and walked away with a grin.

Cup of cider in hand, Sutton found Bartholomew Holbrook occupying a prime corner in the grand salon—a raised stair that provided a perfect view of the dance floor. The man had a glass of champagne in one hand and two of Cordina’s tea cakes in the other. Lemon, from the looks of them.

Mr. Holbrook sipped the champagne, his attention on the guests. “You haven’t told Mrs. Acklen yet, have you?” His deep voice was a whisper.

“No, I haven’t.” Sutton didn’t have to ask what he meant, and he, too, kept his focus on the room, mindful of who was standing within earshot.

Holbrook lifted his glass in silent greeting to a gentleman walking by. “The review board’s decision will be public record soon, Mr. Monroe. Possibly as early as next week. And as we both know, news travels fast.”

“I’ll tell her soon. I didn’t want anything to spoil this evening for her.”
Or for Claire
, he thought, dreading having to tell her the news even more than telling Adelicia. He hoped it wouldn’t make him appear lesser in her eyes, as it did in his own.

Mr. Holbrook looked over at him. “Forgive my wife for wading into the pool of gossip, and me for splashing in her puddles, but she told me she learned that you and Miss Henrietta Caroline LeVert have dissolved your understanding.”

Sutton nodded, not surprised that word had spread. “It was for the best.”

“Would that acknowledgment be shared by both parties?”

Coming from anyone else, the question would have seemed like prying. But this man was as close to a father as Sutton had. “Yes, sir. Or it will be, given time.”

Holbrook merely nodded, swirling the champagne in his glass. “Any news on the cotton fiasco?”

Sutton took a sip of the cider, tasting something a little stronger than
spice
in the brew. “We should know something by March. I’m traveling to New Orleans at the first of the year to check on things.”

“If you need assistance, I’m available. I always enjoy a warm beignet.” With a grin, Holbrook bit into a tea cake.

Sutton smiled and looked about for Claire. He spotted her across the room, and his senses heightened. So much for her being nervous about not knowing anyone. Five—no, make that six—men swarmed around her, their infatuated grins better suited to a schoolyard than a grand salon. Claire said something, and all the men laughed. She shook her head at one of them in particular, then glanced in Sutton’s direction, and Sutton gathered the man had asked for either her first—or second—dance.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous. All but one of the men was old enough to be her father, yet he knew that didn’t matter in the least. Two of them were widowers. And all of them, without exception, were wealthy.

He spotted Lucius Polk speaking with Adelicia, and though he hadn’t planned on broaching this subject with Holbrook tonight, he decided the timing was right. Because
should
Adelicia marry again, his managerial position at Belmont would come to a swift end. “Sir, a while back you mentioned you were fairly certain you could make a position for me at the law offices. Do you think that opportunity might still be available . . . sometime in the near future?”

Mr. Holbrook shifted his weight. “In the future, yes. In the near future, unfortunately . . . no.”

Sutton looked over at him.

“With the exception of the lawsuit we’re working on together,” he said low, “the number of cases in the firm has dwindled in recent months. It’s just a sign of the times. Same for everyone. But something happened that, frankly, I didn’t see coming. Wickliffe’s son-in-law will be starting at the firm within the week. The young man is an accountant by trade but couldn’t find work. New wife and a baby on the way . . .” Holbrook shook his head. “Jobs are scarce, and family takes care of family, you know.” He stopped, as though just realizing what he’d said. “I’m sorry, son, I didn’t mean for that to sound—”

“Don’t, sir. Please. I understand.”

“Your position here at Belmont hasn’t altered, has it?”

Knowing he couldn’t very well tell him about Adelicia contemplating a third marriage, Sutton shook his head. “No, sir. My position hasn’t changed.”

“Good, good.” Holbrook gripped his shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it. Because I think it might be a while before our offices can bring anyone else in on a primary basis. There may be work from time to time, mind you. And if we win this case we’re working on, that could also change the landscape considerably.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your consideration.” And he did, but Sutton couldn’t shake the feeling that he was balancing on a three-legged stool, with two legs already kicked out from underneath him, and the remaining leg cracked and held together with string.

“Is the name Samuel Broderick familiar to you, Mr. Monroe?”

“No, sir. Should it be?”

“He runs a shipping company here in town. Took it over from his father a few years back. I knew Samuel the first quite well. Fine man. Served on several city committees with him. But his son . . .”

“Fell far from the tree?”

Sutton caught the way Holbrook’s eyes narrowed.

“The jury within me is still deliberating that point. But if I were to wager a gamble, not only would Mildred have my wrinkled old hide, but I’d put everything I have on Broderick being rotten to the core.”

“And your basis for that wager would be . . . ?”

“Hunch, mostly.”

Sutton laughed, assuming this exchange dealt with their current case. “Which will hold up well in court, sir.”

“You’d be surprised how many cases I’ve won through the years with only a hunch to go on at first.” Holbrook started on his second tea cake.

Sutton continued to watch Claire from across the room. “Can you tell me about this hunch of yours?”

“I believe”—Holbrook’s voice lowered—“that Samuel Broderick is partnered with someone in the shipping of fraudulent art. And that the man he’s partnered with could well be associated with the gallery in New York that sold our client the fake Raphael.”

Sutton turned to look beside him. “All that, from a hunch?”

“Yes, but mind you, Mr. Monroe”—Holbrook winked—“we have no solid evidence. Yet.” He bit into his tea cake and turned back to watch the crowd.

But Sutton could only stare. If what Bartholomew Holbrook just told him proved true, that could be the lead the investigators had been searching for. Which could provide the evidence he and Holbrook needed in order to proceed with their case.