Mrs. Acklen turned, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “That would be lovely, Miss Laurent. Thank you. But wait an hour, perhaps two. I’d appreciate time to rest.” She reached the doorway and looked back. “And do remember to bring a cup of tea for yourself too, when you come.”
“I’m glad you stopped in, Mr. Monroe.”
Sutton turned at hearing Bartholomew Holbrook’s voice. “I just came by to get some files and check my mail, sir. I left an envelope from Mrs. Acklen for your wife with the receptionist. But she told me you were out for the afternoon.”
Holbrook waved for Sutton to join him in his office, then for him to close the door. Sutton did and claimed one of the two leather chairs opposite the senior law partner’s desk.
“I’m doing my best,” Holbrook said, “to stay out of sight and get some work done.” He held out a file. “An investigator hired by our client dropped this by earlier today.”
Sutton flipped through the folder that contained another list of cities and dates with titles of art pieces listed beside them. Some, but not all, of the titles had dollar amounts by them. “I don’t want to be pessimistic, sir, but we already have lists like this. We need to identify the people involved.”
“Yes, Mr. Monroe, but each time they turn up a new city and a new piece of art, that gives the investigators another opportunity to uncover another shred of truth. And it increases their chances of finding this . . . invisible partner who’s coordinating the sales of all these fraudulent paintings, and who knows the people painting them. These are small steps, I grant you. But it’s in the tiny details that people make mistakes. A name written in a guest register, a cross word spoken to a concierge who has a very good memory.” Holbrook tapped his temple. “Something will turn up. And very soon. I can feel it!”
Sutton wished he shared Holbrook’s enthusiasm. The whole case was moving too slowly for him. What they needed were names. Mainly that of the man pulling the strings at the top. The rest would follow. If they could only learn his identity . . .
After their meeting, Sutton retrieved the files he needed and checked the mail on his desk. Nothing from the colleague in New Orleans. What was taking the man so long? But there was a letter from his mother. Her shaky handwriting told him much.
Checking the time, he tore open the envelope.
He smiled at her descriptions of what it was like living with her older sister, Lorena, and at how she accused his aunt of limiting the number of cookies she ate after dinner to two, though his mother had made them herself. She described how the wind blew louder in North Carolina than in Nashville, and contained a funny odor. And how the women at church were ignorant of appropriate hat attire and how ostrich feathers would never go out of fashion, no matter what the preacher’s wife said.
He shook his head. Oh, Mother . . .
He knew to take her descriptions and divide their seriousness by half, if not more. His mother had always been given to exaggeration and moments of eccentricity, but following his father’s death, those tendencies had greatly worsened. He read on . . .
Then suddenly came to his feet. “No,” he whispered, reading the last sentences to himself aloud. “ ‘So I have told Lorena that if she dares look at me again in that insolent fashion, I shall move back to Nashville straightaway. If you have not yet finished rebuilding our new house, then I shall beg shelter from Mrs. Acklen. As you know, she and I were once the dearest and best of friends, and I am certain she would welcome me to her bosom with great sisterly affection and kindness. With all my love, dearest Willister, Mother.’ ”
He groaned and dropped back into his chair.
His mother—God love her, and so did he—had almost driven Mrs. Acklen to drink the short time she had visited before. And Mrs. Acklen customarily abstained from alcohol. The two women never had been close. They’d hardly known one another. It was his father who had known the Acklens and who had spoken of them at dinner so often, which is where he guessed his mother was somehow forming the opinion that she and Adelicia were friends.
But that, too, was a figment of his mother’s innocent, but overwrought, imagination.
Sutton checked the date on the letter written almost a week ago. He reached for pen and paper and authored a kind but hurried reply.
An hour later, hoping his mother wasn’t already on her way to Nashville, Sutton stood in line at the post office. He handed the clerk his letter and she handed him an envelope.
“This just arrived for you, Mr. Monroe.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Prescott.” He checked the return address—New Orleans. Finally . . . But he didn’t want to read the contents in a crowded lobby. He slipped the envelope inside the pocket of his suit coat.
He started down the street toward the law office, where he’d left the carriage, then paused for a moment, contemplating what he’d been thinking about doing for some time now. Everything he owned, or had once owned, rested on the review board’s decision, and he was weary of waiting. Of lying awake at night and wondering, worrying.
Jaw clenched tight, he turned and strode toward Colonel Wilmington’s office.
The New Orleans hand stamp on the envelope in his suit pocket, along with the name included in the return address, left no question about the contents. The only question . . . Was he prepared to learn his colleague’s findings about Claire?
When he reached the end of the street, he turned right and kept walking. He and Adelicia had done the right thing in requesting the report. Still, he felt as if he’d gone behind Claire’s back to do it. Especially after their time together on the ridge.
To say he was taken with her was putting it lightly. Earlier that morning, when the LeVerts were leaving, and she’d raised that haughty little eyebrow at him. . . .
He smiled to himself, certain the woman had no idea what effect she had on him. Which was a good thing. Especially considering that his primary obligation in this instance—understanding they were both Mrs. Acklen’s employees—was to Adelicia, and to protecting her interests.
He thought of the contents of the envelope again.
Whether Claire was aware of it or not, of all the employees who worked at Belmont, she was in a position to do Adelicia the most harm. As Adelicia’s liaison, Claire was privy to information—both personal and business—that no one else was. Besides him. And Claire had the added insight of reading and responding to Adelicia’s private and social correspondence, as well as managing her personal calendar.
But most importantly, she had won Adelicia’s trust. Completely. That had been clear to him today. What had also been clear was that Adelicia’s motivation behind hosting the upcoming reception was twofold.
He didn’t doubt Adelicia’s sincere desire to honor Madame LeVert. But he had an inkling of how the woman’s mind worked. Octavia LeVert was the most beloved belle in all of Dixie, and Adelicia’s own reputation had suffered in the past couple of years. First due to the cotton fiasco, then when news of her European travels became widespread. And having the mansion redecorated while on the trip hadn’t helped matters either.
He slowed his steps as he approached the next intersection. He waited for a carriage to pass, then continued on to the left. What concerned him most was that while Adelicia was working to repair her reputation—utilizing Claire’s skills to accomplish that—Claire was, in turn, hoping to benefit from Adelicia’s fine standing in the community to achieve her personal goals. Each woman was, in effect, using the other.
And here he was, wedged right in the middle of them both. He glanced up.
The government building loomed ahead, appearing more ominous than the last time he’d visited—the only other time. His stomach knotted.
Inside, the lobby bustled with employees and patrons, the air stagnant and stale. Sutton made his way to the staircase and to the second floor. He approached Colonel Wilmington’s secretary, certain she wouldn’t remem—
“Mr. Monroe.” She smiled. “You’re back.”
Sutton cleared his throa
t, surprised. “Yes, ma’am, I am. And I’d like to see Colonel Wilmington, if he’s available.”
“He’s in his office, Mr. Monroe, but . . .” She glanced behind her at a closed door that bore a placard with the colonel’s name. “He’s with someone right now. Would you like to wait? It shouldn’t be too long.”
With everything in him, he wanted to leave. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait.”
“May I inquire as to what you’re seeing the Colonel about?”
“A legal matter. I’m . . . with Holbrook and Wickliffe.” Which he was, in a way. Just not in relation to this particular visit.
He declined the secretary’s offer of coffee or tea and took a seat. His mind raced even as his heart beat heavy and sluggish in his chest.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty.
Becoming more tense by the second and needing to occupy his mind, he pulled the envelope from his pocket and opened it. If there was something he needed to know about Claire, he decided he wanted to know sooner rather than later. For Adelicia’s sake, as well as his own.
The report, written in letter style, was surprisingly brief for having taken so long to compile. He scanned it. Claire’s parents, Gustave and Abella Laurent, were originally from France. He’d already known that. About two years ago, they’d moved to New Orleans and had operated a local—he frowned—art gallery.
An art gallery . . . That was something he hadn’t known. And that Claire had failed to mention. He read on. . . .
The gallery was occupied by a gift shop now, the building space having only been leased by the Laurents. The gallery had been one of “lesser consequence,” the report read. Sutton would check with his colleague to be sure, but he guessed that meant it had associated with lesser-known artists, a fact which would have limited Gustave Laurent’s ability to trade stock with the larger galleries, as Sutton had recently learned while preparing for the upcoming trial.
But her association with the art gallery explained where Claire had learned how to paint. At least in part. Her mother, Bella Laurent, died of tuberculosis eight months ago. Claire had told him that. And—Sutton smiled to himself—Bella Laurent had been an artist. Of course she had. Another reason why Claire was so gifted. Gustave Laurent died of—Sutton stumbled over the next words—“an injury resulting from a knife wound sustained during a robbery.” And the robbery of the gallery, no less.
Claire definitely hadn’t mentioned either of those facts.
He’d never asked her about how her father had died, so she hadn’t purposefully hidden anything from him. Still, that seemed like a detail one might mention. Then again, when people inquired about his father, did he willingly offer the details surrounding his death?
Swiftly laying that question to rest, Sutton retraced his memory about Claire’s arrival at Belmont.
She arrived around the second week of September, which was about when her father had died, according to the report. And which also coincided with what she’d told them. She’d been forthcoming about her father’s death during the interview, and about his death being unexpected too.
He mulled that over, reading on through the last paragraph.
Claire had attended boarding school for several years. His colleague had actually traveled to the most recently attended school to speak with the headmistress. The woman had described Claire as “a quiet, shy sort of girl, exceptionally gifted in the arts but lacking in self-confidence.” He couldn’t believe it. That was exactly what Adelicia had said about Claire following their first meeting. “It’s belief in herself that she lacks.”
That didn’t seem to fit the Claire he knew now, and yet . . .
Upon first meeting her, he might have described her in terms somewhat similar to those. He turned the page over, but that was the end of the report. It definitely left some loose ends that needed tying up. But his biggest concern was, why would Claire have failed to say anything about her parents owning an art gallery?
He scanned the report again, his attention snagging on a possibility. Of lesser consequence . . . Perhaps in light of Belmont’s elegance and Adelicia’s own extensive art collection, she’d been ashamed to reveal her own lesser connection with art. That possibility fit with her behavior the evening he’d inquired about the dinner with the Worthingtons, but still . . .
A pang of guilt hit him, and he stared at the letter in his hand.
If he were going to be completely forthcoming with Claire, he would need to tell her about inquiring into her background. Not that other employees had been told. But this was different. Claire wasn’t like any other employee. But surely she would understand. It was his job, after all. He’d made it clear to her from the very beginning that part of his responsibilities at Belmont centered around protecting Adelicia’s interests. But . . .
That was before they’d grown as close as they had, and before he’d kissed her. The mere memory of that kiss riled emotions that sent heat skimming to his collar.
Corralling his thoughts, he mentally circled the parts of the letter that needed further answers—if only to satisfy his own curiosity—but decided that nothing within the report’s contents even came close to confirming Mrs. Routh’s suspicions about Claire. So the chances of Claire Laurent absconding with Ruth Gleaning during the dark of night still remained in the category of humorous.
He checked his pocket watch and had all but decided to leave when the office door opened. A man exited, nodding to the secretary as he left.
The secretary rose and held up a hand, indicating to Sutton to please continue waiting. She stepped inside the colonel’s office and returned a moment later, looking at him, and yet not, at the same time. “Colonel Wilmington will see you now, Mr. Monroe.”
Sutton knew it could be his imagination, but he got the feeling she knew something about him now that she hadn’t only seconds before.
Each step forced, he walked into the colonel’s office.
“Mr. Monroe.” Colonel Wilmington met him a few steps inside the office. He gave a short nod, arm extended. “I’m Colonel Wilmington, and I can guess why you’re here, sir.”
Gripping the man’s hand, Sutton thought of something his father had told him when he was still a boy. “It’s not just how firm a man’s handshake is that defines him, son. Any fool can have a strong grip. It’s the way a man meets your eyes, or doesn’t, that tells you who he is. That says whether he’s dealing with you honestly or not.”
And the earnestness in the colonel’s face, the solid grip of his fingers that hung on to Sutton’s just a tad too long, hinting at reluctance and regret, told Sutton everything he didn’t want to know.
35
Claire climbed the staircase leading from the grand salon to the second floor, one eye focused on the heavy silver service weighting the tray in her hands, the other on her footing on the plush red carpet. And all beneath Queen Victoria’s regal gaze.
Halfway up, where the staircase divided and branched to the left and right, the portrait of England’s monarch loomed larger than life, as though the queen herself were waiting to see which direction Claire would choose. Claire wished she could stop and examine the painting. She’d never seen it up close before. But the tea service grew heavier by the second, and Mrs. Acklen was waiting.
The split staircases were works of art in themselves—rich mahogany woodwork and intricately carved white spindles. Twin alcoves tucked into the curve of the walls, one on either side, boasted a marble bust of a man, and the other, a vase of freshly cut shrub roses.
Choosing the left staircase, she continued to the second-floor gallery and found it quiet. Rows of narrow rectangular windows below the ceiling line ran the length of the gallery, allowing ample sunlight. Another staircase, smaller, continued upward. To the cupola, she guessed. Oh, how she would love to go up there too. She could only imagine the view . . .
But would be able to imagine it a lot better if her arms weren’t aching!
She carefully lowered the tray onto a side table, mindful to keep
it level. No wonder Cordina had eyed her when she’d volunteered to carry the tray up herself. The heavy silver teapot, filled to the brim with steaming water, probably weighed ten pounds by itself. Not to mention the tray, the cups and saucers, sugar and milk, and the plateful of fresh tea cakes.
Looking both ways, making sure the hallway was empty, Claire popped one of the tea cakes into her mouth. Not a very ladylike thing to do, but oh . . . Cordina’s tea cakes were delectable. Tiny little cakelike cookies covered in powdered sugar. Like Southern beignets. How the woman managed to get them so moist and all the same—
“May I help you, Miss Laurent?”
Nearly choking, Claire turned.
Standing in a doorway a short distance down the hall was Mrs. Routh. Claire would’ve sworn the woman could walk through walls. Frantically chewing, her cheeks packed, she held up a forefinger, embarrassed, trying to swallow, wishing for tea but knowing if she stopped to pour herself a cup that would only make matters worse.
Finally, she managed to choke down the cake. “Mrs. Routh . . .” Breathing as if she’d run a footrace, she wiped the corners of her mouth, aware of the suspicion in Mrs. Routh’s stare. “Mrs. Acklen requested that I meet her in her personal quarters, and”—Claire glanced around—“I was just looking for her bedroom.”
“Really?” Mrs. Routh closed the distance between them. “Because it appeared as though you were consuming a tea cake, Miss Laurent.”
Instinctively, Claire started to apologize, then caught herself. She had done absolutely nothing wrong. Why did she always kowtow to this woman? But she knew why—because she didn’t have the courage to stand up to her. Like the sliding of a bolt into a latch, something shifted inside her.
She squared her shoulders and her gaze. “Mrs. Acklen requested that I meet her in her private quarters, Mrs. Routh. I offered to bring her tea, and yes, I helped myself to a tea cake just now. Which, I am certain, is not a sin.” Claire blinked, not believing she’d actually said the words aloud. And without a single stutter. More than a little proud, she tried not to show it.
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