A Lasting Impression (23 page)

Sutton sighed. “Later than I’d planned.”

“Here, let me see to him for ya, sir.” The boy grasped Truxton’s reins in one hand while making a show of holding something out in his other.

Amused, Sutton squinted in the dim lantern light as if not already knowing what was in the boy’s palm. “You find something in your digging today?”

“Yes, sir, I did. Somethin’ special.” When Zeke grinned, his whole face took part. “I told you there’s treasure buried round here.”

Sutton peered closer at the coin he held. “You’re kiddin’ me. You found that out there?”

“Yes, sir. Sure did. Found these too.” Zeke dug into his pocket again and held out a collection of spent shotgun shells. “I reckon these are from the battle that happened right here.”

Sutton nodded. “I’m sure they are.” He knew how much the boy enjoyed hearing stories about the war, especially the battles that took place nearby. But talking about those experiences was never easy for him, and he just couldn’t right now. Not tonight.

“I need to get on up to the house. Mrs. Acklen’s expecting me.” At Zeke’s nod, he gave the boy’s head a playful rub. “Congratulations on finding that coin. And thank you for seeing to Truxton. You always do a good job. And Truxton likes you.”

The boy grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

Sutton took long strides, the muscles in his legs tightened up from the ride from town. He loosened his tie and angled his neck from side to side. The mansion loomed ahead, the open windows in the front study aglow with lamplight. The curtains billowed in the breeze. As he grew closer, he thought he caught the murmur of feminine voices.

He pictured Claire again from that morning, when he’d asked her about whether or not she liked the opera. Recalling her response, he again felt properly chastised. She’d tried to mask her true feelings, but pretense wasn’t her forte. She said she didn’t have any interest in attending the opera, but that wasn’t true. And it made him feel smaller inside somehow, for not appreciating something that she longed to experience.

Another image of her arose, and he grinned, remembering her pretending to choke. Adorable. She’d been so proud of herself, which made it even more comical. He’d tried his best not to stare at her over breakfast, but it hadn’t been easy. He’d thought she was pretty the first time he’d seen her in the church, all mussed up and with her dress wrinkled.

But this morning in the kitchen . . .

She’d been downright intoxicating. That fresh look of sleep about her, the dimples when she laughed, the way she’d hopped right in beside him to cook the eggs. She hadn’t even seemed to notice when their bodies brushed against each other in the process—he exhaled—but he sure had. He noticed details about her that a man who had an understanding with another woman shouldn’t.

It wasn’t that he never thought about Cara Netta. It was just that he never thought about her the way he thought about Claire Laurent. The realization wasn’t reassuring.

Bits of conversation drifted toward him through the open window as he climbed the front steps.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s exactly how I’m picturing it. I’m also imagining . . .”

“That idea actually appeals to me, Miss Laurent. The boys competing against the girls . . .”

Sutton shook his head. Adelicia
would
find that appealing. The woman had a competitive streak a mile wide. He had an inkling Claire did too. Heaven help these two women if they ever got into a competition with each other. Claire would probably allow her employer to win, as well she should, though he couldn’t be certain. Mrs. Acklen would simply go for broke and never give up.

What a combination . . .

If only Adelicia had hired someone a little more homely. Someone who didn’t have “that way” of looking at him that made him feel more like a schoolboy than a grown man. But it wasn’t only Claire’s loveliness that attracted him. He was often in the company of beautiful women, yet they didn’t linger in his thoughts the way Claire Laurent did. They didn’t make him want to invent excuses to see them again.

It wasn’t prudent, he knew, his being so attracted to her. First, she was an employee of Mrs. Acklen’s. Second, he was supposed to be watching her—which he was certainly doing, but at least in part for his own personal reasons.

The entrance hall was dark, save for the lamps in the small study. Their flickering glow cast a sliver of light onto the statue before the fireplace, giving
Ruth Gleaning
an almost ghostlike quality. He understood why Adelicia had purchased the statue. It was exquisite. But it still surprised him that she’d placed it in such a prominent place, where everyone entering the home would see it. A rather bold choice.

Looking more closely at the sculptor’s lifelike detailing, he remembered the Biblical account and imagined what Boaz’s reaction would have been to such a display, however unintended by dear, innocent Ruth. The poor man wouldn’t have stood a chance against
Ruth’s
doleful gaze and her lovely physical
attributes,
for lack of a better—

“Good evening, Mr. Monroe.”

Startled at the voice behind him, Sutton turned. “Mrs. Routh . . .” He smiled to mask his jumpiness. Somehow the woman always managed to sneak up on him. “I didn’t realize you were here, ma’am. How are you this evening?”

“I’m well, sir. Thank you.” She dipped her head in a subservient manner. “I heard you arrive and wanted to make sure you weren’t in need of anything before I retire for the evening.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Routh. But no, I don’t need anything. I’m simply here to meet with Mrs. Acklen. Then I’ll be retiring myself.”

“Very well, sir. Good evening, then.” She took two steps and paused, then turned back. “I’m wondering, sir, if . . . I might pose a question.” She lowered her voice. “One I prefer be held in strictest confidence.”

“Of course, Mrs. Routh.”

She gestured for him to follow her into the grand salon. Sutton was accustomed to Mrs. Routh’s careful nature. A widow, the woman had been Adelicia’s friend—and social equal—before the untimely death of Mrs. Routh’s husband, Francis, several years ago. Since then she had been a faithful employee to Mrs. Acklen.

He’d questioned the arrangement at first. Having a good friend as an employee often spelled disaster. But the woman performed her head-housekeeper duties with excellence and kept the mansion in tip-top condition. She held a loyalty for Adelicia as well—and with good reason. But sometimes that loyalty led her to suspect trouble where there was none. Like now, he guessed.

Mrs. Routh stopped by the staircase, looked around, and leaned close. “It’s about—” she glanced back toward the entrance hall—“the new hire.”

His interest piqued. “Miss Laurent?”

She nodded, reluctance etching the lines of her face. “I don’t wish to overstep my bounds, sir, but . . . I’m simply wondering what we know about her.”

Had he not known better, Sutton would have thought she was fishing for gossip. But not Mrs. Routh. Honest and upright, she expected everyone else to toe the same line. “Has Miss Laurent acted in such a way that causes you to question her intentions?”

A stricken look crossed her face. “No, sir. And please don’t hear me insinuating that the young woman has done anything improper. It’s just that, well . . . Take this morning, for instance. I found her in the central parlor looking at one of Mrs. Acklen’s statues. Just standing there,
staring
at it.” She raised an eyebrow.

“You found her staring at a statue?” Sutton curbed a grin.

“The one of the little girl.”

Sans Souci.
Adelicia had purchased it in Rome on their trip. “Perhaps she was simply admiring it.”

“That’s what I thought too. At first. Then she crouched low and started searching around the base.” She leaned closer. “When I questioned her, she said she was looking to see who had sculpted it.”

Sutton smiled, able to imagine the scene between the two women quite well. “Maybe that’s what she was doing.”

Mrs. Routh eyed him as though he were naive, and then it occurred to him what she might be insinuating.

“Are you suggesting, Mrs. Routh, that you believe Miss Laurent has . . . less than honorable motives in being here at Belmont?” He couldn’t begin to estimate the worth of Adelicia’s art collection. Not only the statues and paintings, but the jewelry, the century-old books, and family heirlooms, the gifts from foreign dignitaries. He’d been after her for years to catalog everything, which would take weeks to do properly.

But Claire Laurent, an art thief? The thought was laughable.

Mrs. Routh suddenly looked away, guilt shading her expression. “I’m sorry, sir, for even broaching the subject. It was wrong of me to do so without a firm—”

Sutton touched her arm. “Mrs. Routh . . . it’s never wrong of you to bring a concern to me when it involves Mrs. Acklen’s welfare. I appreciate your care and concern, as does Mrs. Acklen. And rest assured, we closely evaluate every person who’s hired to work at Belmont.”

With an acquiescent nod, Mrs. Routh bid him good night, yet Sutton felt a twinge of unease walking back to the entrance hall, knowing he hadn’t “closely evaluated” their most recent hire as thoroughly as he usually would have. At least not before she’d begun working there. Mrs. Acklen’s hasty decision had seen to that.

He’d mailed the letter to his colleague in New Orleans, as requested, but it would be at least a couple of weeks before he could expect to hear anything. He’d considered sending a telegram. But the last time they’d done that with potentially delicate news, the findings had ended up as fodder for gossip. So until he received his colleague’s reply, he would simply watch Claire more closely. And if he discovered her hauling statues out the front door in the middle of the night, he would confront her about it straightaway.

The thought made him grin.

Muffled voices came from within the study, and he drew closer.

“So tell me in greater detail about the pastries, please. Do you know how to make the
Napoléons
?”

Recognizing the subdued enthusiasm in Adelicia’s voice, Sutton stepped closer to the study and found the door partially open. Whatever ideas Claire had finally come up with, Adelicia liked them. Liked them a great deal. Though he doubted she would openly convey that at this point. Generous at heart, Adelicia wasn’t quick to trust. And he couldn’t blame her after what she’d been through.

Which reminded him of the letter in his pocket.

He stepped around the corner and knocked on the door. It inched open. “Good evening, ladies.”

Claire knelt by Adelicia’s chair. Their heads lifted in unison.

“Good evening, Mr. Monroe.” Adelicia waved him into the room. “You must have had a very busy day.”

“Yes, ma’am. You could say that.”

Adelicia locked eyes with him, and held. And without saying a word, he knew she was aware that he had bad news. But he also knew it would wait until Claire had taken her leave.

Adelicia’s smile never faltered. “You missed a lovely dinner with the Worthingtons. Cordina outdid herself yet again, and Mrs. Worthington was especially fond of the new statue in the foyer.”

Sutton eased down into one of the diminutive parlor chairs, finding it a little confining, as usual. “Did she offer to purchase it from you?”

“Actually, she did. In her own subtle way.” Adelicia’s eyes narrowed. “I graciously refused, of course.”

Sutton shook his head, then turned his full attention to Claire, as he’d wanted to do ever since walking into the room. “What’s this I hear about
Napoléons
?”

Claire’s eyes lit. She put a finger to her lips. “It’s one of the desserts we’re having at William’s party.” She whispered as though someone might be eavesdropping around the corner. “I’ve written the recipe for Cordina”—she looked back at Adelicia—“and I’ll arrange a time to help her make them early this week, along with everything else. A sort of . . . trial run for the desserts, so to speak.”

Sutton caught the secretive look Claire gave him, and smiled. Adelicia did too, he knew, but she wanted to know what news he had as badly as he didn’t want to tell her.

As if sensing the silent exchange between them, Claire rose. Sutton did likewise. Only then did he notice her dress. Or, more rightly, the way the dress looked on
her.
The rich charcoal gray set off her blue eyes, and the rest of the dress set off everything else. Realizing he was staring, he redirected his focus, only to meet Adelicia’s all too observant gaze.

He cleared his throat and had to remind himself to swallow. “You look lovely this evening, Miss Laurent. Is that a new dress?”

She smoothed a self-conscious hand over the front, giving him a smile that made him wish he’d gotten there hours earlier. “Yes, it is.” She glanced at Adelicia. “Seeing as my trunks haven’t arrived yet, Mrs. Acklen encouraged me to purchase something a little more suitable to wear for dinner tonight, and . . . for still being in mourning.”

Subtle meaning softened her voice, and Sutton nodded, remembering she
had
just lost her parents.

“Well . . .” Claire turned. “If you’ll both excuse me . . .” She started gathering items from a side table. All things pertaining to William’s birthday party, from the looks of them. “I’m going to say good night.”

Adelicia stood. “Of course, Miss Laurent. It
is
getting late. Thank you again for your contributions at dinner this evening. I had no idea you were so well-informed about the world of art.”

Sutton looked up, the comment standing out to him and gently prodding his doubt.

“Oh . . .” Claire looked away. “I’m not that well-informed, ma’am. But I do have an appreciation for art. For painting, in particular.”

“So I can see.” Adelicia picked up something from the table. “Mr. Monroe, have you seen what Miss Laurent has planned for one of the party favors? They’re quite nice.”

“Quite nice.”
That was high praise from Adelicia. She placed a toy in his palm. He’d seen children playing with the thick wooden discs when they were in Europe. A string was wrapped around the middle and the goal had seemed simple—to allow the disc to drop, then with a flick of the wrist, recoil again. A burgundy
A
had been painted in an elegant script on the side. Personalized, as it were.