A Lasting Impression Page 38

  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.

  Holbrook stopped chewing. “That young woman there . . .” He indicated with a discreet nod. “The pretty one flanked by admirers. Do you know who she is?”

  Mind churning, Sutton trailed his gaze, then smiled. “In fact, I do. That’s Miss Claire Laurent, Mrs. Acklen’s personal liaison. She’s the young woman your wife requested to meet.” Claire looked at him then and gave him a playful look, and Sutton could hardly wait for the music to start.

  Seconds passed, and he felt the older gentleman’s stare.

  “If I were blind, Mr. Monroe, I might inquire as to whether you knew that young woman well.”

  Sutton couldn’t hide his grin. “Miss Laurent and I are . . . close acquaintances.”

  “Ah . . .” Holbrook nodded.

  “What’s the ah for, sir?”

  “No reason. I was merely wondering.”

  “You never merely wonder about anything, sir.”

  “On occasion, Mr. Monroe, with someone that pretty . . . I actually do.” Smiling, Mr. Holbrook popped the last bite of tea cake into his mouth.

  The orchestra music faded, and the director turned and announced for guests to find their partners for the first dance. The traditional waltz.

  Sutton maneuvered through the crowd easily enough. It was fighting his way through the wall of Claire’s enthusiasts that proved most difficult. But the second his eyes met hers, she cut a path toward him. He escorted her to the dance floor and bowed to her. She curtsied and gave him a smile he tucked away for later.

  And though he’d never been overly fond of receptions or balls, tonight he welcomed the music, and the dance, and the chance to hold this woman in his arms.

  43

  For weeks, Claire had imagined this moment. The never-ending list of tasks behind her, save one—not to step on Sutton’s foot as they danced. Her left hand on his right shoulder, she looked up at him, silently counting. One-two-three, two-two-three, three-two-three, four-two three.

  “Stop counting,” he whispered.

  “I’m not counting.”

  “Your lips were moving.”

  She gave him a look, and he smiled.

  His fingers tightened around hers. “Just follow my lead.”

  The pressure of his hand on her back increased and he drew her closer. Their bodies weren’t touching, but on occasion, as they turned, his thigh brushed against hers. He was so handsome in his black cutaway and paisley ascot, a dark lock of hair falling across his forehead. And those eyes . . .

  “You . . . look . . . divine,” she whispered.

  He laughed softly. “I can safely tell you that no one has ever said that to me before.”

  “Well, it’s true. You’re the most handsome man in the room.”

  Again, that smile. “What about the men in the central parlor? Or those outside?”

  She feigned contemplation. “I haven’t had opportunity to give them study. I’ll do that and let you know once I have.”

  The waltz ended and the quadrille began. And by the time the last chord of the livelier music had ended, Claire had found her rhythm and wasn’t eager to relinquish Sutton. But not changing partners would have been considered rude. Of them both.

  Her dance card was almost full, and after four more dances, with four different men, she was ready for some fresh air and a cool drink. She bowed and thanked her dance partner, Mr. Waverly, an older gentleman who smelled of hair tonic and mothballs and who gained enormous pleasure from telling her about the many lucrative businesses he owned.

  Claire discreetly took her leave of him and picked up a cup of cranberry punch on her way outside. The night air was heavenly, and she paused on the front steps to take in the view.

  The effect of lantern light on the estate grounds was mesmerizing, prettier than she’d imagined it would be. Everything had come together beautifully. She’d sampled delicious tea cakes, meatballs, stuffed mushrooms, and other appetizers until it was a wonder she still fit in her dress. And the midnight supper Cordina was preparing with the extra hired help would be every bit as delectable.

  Claire took a breath and exhaled, stretching her shoulders. Mrs. Acklen had told her not to worry about the expense, and she hadn’t. She’d observed Mrs. Acklen throughout the evening, and she seemed pleased enough. Claire had seen her and Lucius Polk dancing together earlier, but surprisingly, only once. And come to think of it, Mr. Polk hadn’t been invited to dinner at Belmont in recent weeks. . . .

  Another swell of guests arrived, and Claire moved off to the side. She stood in the darkness, shielded from the glow of coach lamps, not ready to go back inside.<
br />
  “I was shocked too, when I learned the news.” A woman’s voice drifted upward from the lawn below. “And now he’s left with nothing, I hear. Which I’m certain is why she put a hasty end to it. As well she should have, considering her wealth. He’s far below her station now.”

  “But did you hear about his father?” a man replied, his tone a husky whisper. “He was a traitor to the Confederacy. True, he might have refused to sign The Oath, but he was a sympathizer.” The man said the word as though it were vulgar. “He doctored the Acklens’ Negroes, right here at Belmont, is what I hear. I wager Mrs. Acklen didn’t know that. And here she is, still harboring the man’s son beneath her roof. He’s reaping the sins of his father, if you ask me. . . .”

  The voices faded and the breath in Claire’s lungs went flat. She tried to see the couple below, but darkness obscured their retreat. Sutton. It had to be him they were talking about. But what they’d said didn’t make sense. Unless . . . He’d gotten word from the review board and hadn’t told her yet.

  But he’d promised to tell her once he heard.

  Realizing how long she’d been gone, she walked back inside only to find Cordina and the servers carrying platters of food up from the kitchen to the formal dining room. Savory aromas of roasted beef and turkey wafted toward her. She checked a nearby clock. Almost midnight. Cordina was never late.

  “Miss Laurent?”

  “Mr. Stanton!” Her second dance partner that evening, Andrew Stanton was smooth on his feet, especially for his age. Not that he was old, but Claire guessed he was forty-five, at least. She smiled, having enjoyed his company earlier and remembering how she’d heard his prayer in church and had then taken it for her own. “I hope you’re having an enjoyable evening, sir.”

  “Yes, I am. And largely due to your talents, Mrs. Acklen informs me.”

  “Not at all.” She gave a dismissive shake of her head. “I’ve merely learned that one of the secrets to being successful lies in knowing which person to ask for what advice.”

  He laughed. “It took me nearly forty-eight years to learn that, Miss Laurent. Which means you’re far ahead of me.”

  Forty-eight. She hadn’t been off by much.

  He gestured. “I was thinking of getting something to drink and wondered—”

  “Oh! Of course, Mr. Stanton.” She should have already offered. Not only was he one of Adelicia’s honored guests, he was one of the wealthiest men in Nashville. “I’d be happy to get you something. Would you prefer a cold drink or perhaps some warm cider?”

  His smile came slowly, shyly. “Actually, Miss Laurent, I would be honored if you would allow me to get a drink for you. Then perhaps we could find a quiet corner to visit. If your dance card and responsibilities allow, of course.”

  His request slowly sank in, and Claire didn’t know what to say. She didn’t really want to accept, yet she couldn’t exactly say no. “I would like that very much. Thank you.”

  “Hot or cold?” he asked.

  “Cold, please. Most definitely.”

  Claire watched him walk away and gradually grew aware of stares from guests standing close by. She wondered what they were thinking.

  “Here you are, Mademoiselle Laurent.” Sutton appeared at her side, a glass of champagne in each hand. He held one out. “I hope you’re thirsty.”

  “Sutton, I—” She started to take it from him, then saw Mr. Stanton returning. With a glass of champagne in each hand.

  Sutton moved closer. “Are you feeling all right, Claire? You look a little—”

  “Here you are, Miss Laurent!” Mr. Stanton handed her the drink. “Mr. Monroe, how are you this evening?”

  Relieved they already knew each other, Claire took a long sip from the stemmed glass, uncomfortable in the moment.

  “I’m well, Mr. Stanton. It’s nice to see you again, sir.” Sutton stealthily slipped one of the glasses onto the table behind him.

  “Likewise.” Mr. Stanton sipped his champagne, not seeming to notice anything out of the ordinary. “I was complimenting Miss Laurent a moment ago on the reception. It’s magnificent. And I’ve heard some telling reports on you this evening as well.”

  Sutton’s expression sobered. “Is that right, sir?”

  Seeing Sutton’s reaction left no doubt in Claire’s mind that what she’d overheard earlier was true. Wondering why he’d kept the news from her, she scrambled to fill the void in conversation. But Mr. Stanton beat her to it.

  “Mrs. Acklen speaks very highly of your services too, Mr. Monroe.” Andrew Stanton raised his glass. “No wonder she’s doing so well with you two at the helm beside her.”

  Sutton’s laugh came out tight. “And you well know, Mr. Stanton, the only one at the helm around here is Mrs. Acklen. I merely hoist the sails when she tells me to.”

  “And I merely swab the deck,” Claire added, raising her glass.

  They all three laughed.

  “Well . . .” Sutton bowed. “If you’ll both excuse me.” He shifted his focus to Mr. Stanton. “Your kind indulgence of my company has been appreciated, sir.”

  Mr. Stanton shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Monroe.”

  Sutton left without a backward glance, and Claire felt an odd sense of separation in the pit of her stomach.

  “Shall we?” Mr. Stanton gestured toward the small study.

  They visited together over champagne and then over dinner until the orchestra signaled a toast. Along with the other guests, Claire and Mr. Stanton crowded into the grand salon as Mrs. Acklen thanked everyone for their attendance and for their repeated compliments on the “wonderland of lights” in the gardens.

  “And now,” Mrs. Acklen continued, “I’d like to present our most esteemed guest of honor, Madame Octavia Walton LeVert”—applause rose from those gathered—“with a token of my deep appreciation for her personal friendship and for all she’s done for the city of Nashville.”

  Claire felt a flush of pride as Mrs. Acklen presented Madame LeVert with her memory book. Madame LeVert flipped through the pages, tearing up, then expressed an emotional thanks.

  Mrs. Acklen held up the book and described what was inside, then looked in Claire’s direction. “I’d like to thank my trusted personal liaison, Miss Claire Laurent, for crafting this extraordinary gift for my dear friend, and for her ingenuity in coordinating this grand event for us this evening.”

  Applause sounded, and Claire curtsied, appreciating Mrs. Acklen’s public acknowledgment of all she’d done. She caught Mr. Stanton’s quiet “Here, here” as well as the kind nods around her, and she drank in the moment.

  Mrs. Acklen proceeded to call for the toast in honor of Madame LeVert, and glasses of champagne were distributed. Along with everyone else, Claire lifted her glass in salute, searching the crowd for Sutton, wanting to share the moment with him.

  Sensing someone’s attention, she turned and met the gaze of an older gentleman standing across the salon. It took her a moment to place him without the tall black hat, but—in a flash—she remembered where she’d seen him. And the joy inside her evaporated.

  He raised his glass, his smile friendly, not the least bit menacing, and yet she felt a quiver of warning, remembering the day she’d seen him at Broderick Shipping and Freight. Then again on the steps of Holbrook and Wickliffe Law Offices. Claire saw Mildred Holbrook standing close beside him and like a precarious line of dominoes, snippets of seemingly unrelated bits of information fell into place, and she was reminded again of how tenuous her situation was.

  Why, if God had brought her to Belmont, as Eli said, was she constantly reminded that she didn’t belong?

  At a quarter past five in the morning, following the last waltz, the crowd of guests had thinned, but only barely. Claire tucked her hand into the crook of Sutton’s arm. “I don’t think anyone wants to leave,” she whispered, so no one else could hear.

  “You have only yourself to blame. You threw too grand a party.”

  She smiled, wishing she could pull
him aside and tell him what she’d overheard about him earlier that evening. Not only so they could talk about it, but so he would know that the review board’s decision was public knowledge, or soon would be.

  And yet, she realized it was his right to tell her when he was ready.

  She glanced around, keeping watch for the older gentleman she’d seen during the toast—Mr. Holbrook, she assumed. With any luck, they wouldn’t meet again. And if they did, he might not remember where he’d seen her. But even if he did remember, she told herself, it was no crime to visit a shipping company.

  Sutton touched her arm. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  “Certainly.” She watched him disappear into the central parlor.

  “Miss Laurent, you organize a wonderful party.”

  Claire turned to see Mildred Holbrook—and the man beside her—and felt herself tense. “Thank you, Mrs. Holbrook. I hope you both had a wonderful time.”

  “Oh, we did, my dear. As I told Adelicia earlier, this reception will be remembered for years to come.” Mrs. Holbrook gestured beside her. “I don’t believe you and my husband have met yet.” She made the introductions.

  Mr. Holbrook bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Laurent.”

  “And you as well, sir.” Claire curtsied, wanting to believe he didn’t remember her, and yet the keenness in his eyes hinted otherwise.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Holbrook gave a little gasp. “I need to get my coat.”

  “Please . . .” Claire said, welcoming the excuse to leave. “Let me get it for you. It’s no trouble.”

  “Nonsense.” The older woman patted Claire’s hand. “I know right where it is.”

  With a sinking feeling, Claire watched Mrs. Holbrook go.

  “So, Miss Laurent”—Mr. Holbrook studied her—“how are you enjoying being Adelicia Acklen’s personal liaison?”

  “Very much, sir.” Claire briefly met his gaze. “I appreciate the opportunities she’s given me.”

  “I’ve heard from a very reliable source that you’re doing a splendid job.”

  “Thank you, sir. It certainly is keeping me busy.” Claire assumed the “very reliable source” was Sutton, knowing they worked in the same law firm.