A Lasting Impression

then at Mr. Holbrook, before coming back to her again. “Of course it’s an original, Claire.” His guarded expression told her to lower her voice even further. “The gallery has a certificate of authenticity.”
    Claire shook her head. “Whatever papers there are, Sutton, were forged. Just like this canvas.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “I know because . . .” Seeing the question in his eyes and knowing how dedicated to the truth he was, she had no doubt what telling him the truth would cost her. She also knew it was a price she had to pay. Tears tightened her throat, all but cutting off the words. “I know because . . . I painted it.”

52

    S utton took hold of Claire’s arm and gently pulled her off to the side, hoping the curator hadn’t heard. “What do you mean you painted it?” he whispered, aware of Holbrook’s stern expression and the plainclothes investigator glaring at him from across the room.
    Tears brimmed in her eyes. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She looked down, hands knotted at her waist. “Before I came to Belmont, I . . .” She pressed her lips tight, glancing around them. “I painted forgeries,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “For my father, in our gallery. The same as my mother before me.”
    Sutton could’ve sworn the floor shifted beneath him. She’d painted forgeries? He looked at the Brissaud, then back at her. The idea was absurd. Part of him wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. Not with her looking at him like that. Like she was breaking inside. He kept his voice low. “Claire . . . you can’t be serious.”
    Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Sutton. I’m so sorry.”
    The idea that she’d painted forgeries was absurd enough. But that she’d painted this particular painting—after all they’d gone through to arrange for this landscape to be here, in this gallery, at this particular time—was almost more than he could take in.
    “Mr. Monroe . . .” Mr. Brownley approached, concern in his expression. “Is there a problem, sir? Miss Laurent seems upset, and I fear we’re drawing attention.”
    Sutton grew aware of patrons staring. “My apologies, Mr. Brownley.” Knowing what was at stake in the upcoming auction, and thinking of the months of work both the investigators—and he and Holbrook—had invested to get to this point, he knew he had to make up something. And fast. “The fault is completely mine, sir.” He spoke loudly enough that those closest could hear. “I said something that upset Miss Laurent. It was callous of me, and I offer my apologies.” He turned back to Claire and took her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Would you please forgive me, Miss Laurent?”
    Her frown lasted for only an instant. Then she nodded, confusion still clouding her eyes.
    He turned back to the curator. “Would you mind escorting my party to a more private venue, Mr. Brownley? Where I might make amends?”
    Brownley looked at the two of them, then smiled back at the patrons as though to say, “ Ah . . . young love!” “Of course, Mr. Monroe. Follow me.”
    The curator led the four of them through a side door into a meeting room, then closed the door behind him. Sutton urged Claire to sit, then claimed the chair beside her. He felt almost as shaken as she looked. Thoughts bombarded him. One, above all—if Claire really had forged the painting, what else might she have done? It was his responsibility to keep Adelicia Acklen’s estate protected, and yet he’d missed the truth about her. Completely.
    The Holbrooks sat opposite them on the other side of the table.
    “Would you care to explain what just happened out there, Mr. Monroe?”
    Sutton looked up. Irritation darkened Bartholomew Holbrook’s features. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t handle the situation very—”
    “It wasn’t Sutton’s fault, Mr. Holbrook. It’s mine.” Claire took a shaky breath. “It’s all my fault.”
    “All right, Miss Laurent”—Mr. Holbrook turned to her, looking and sounding every bit the senior attorney that he was—“you do the honors, then.”
    Sutton listened as she told Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook exactly what she’d told him moments earlier. The same brokenness etched her voice, and something twisted inside him again at hearing it.
    Mrs. Holbrook paled a shade. “ You forged that painting? A Brissaud?” She glanced at her husband. “That doesn’t seem possible.”
    But Mr. Holbrook said nothing.
    Claire’s