A Lasting Impression

heard of you either. But despite that, I find myself sitting here, in this room, speaking to you now. And I’m beginning to believe that some of the events that led me here—or perhaps all of them, I don’t know—happened on purpose.”
    Mrs. Acklen listened wordlessly. And somewhere in between the faint glimmer in the woman’s eyes and the downward tilt of her delicate chin, Claire sensed a spark of renewed interest. And she grabbed it, determined to make the most of the opportunity.
    However fleeting or ill-fated it might prove to be.

    Sutton stood on the other side of the open doorway, in the central parlor, intent on protecting his employer’s interests.
    Though hidden from the ladies’ view, he was certain Miss Laurent knew he was there. He’d given her a look that said he would be listening.
    He didn’t trust her.
    And though he found what she was saying now—about arriving in Nashville yesterday—credible enough, he didn’t believe her statement about never having heard of Belmont or Mrs. Acklen. He fingered the folder in his hand. He’d been told that particular story before.
    How many fortune seekers had he chased off in the past? And how many times had complete strangers shown up on the front porch claiming to be related to Adelicia? Or what of the parade of ne’er-do-well Northerners who came armed, portfolios at the ready, with their “no-lose” investment opportunities. Even far-reaching family members occasionally came calling under the guise of wanting to reconnect with a “loved one.” Adelicia Acklen being that loved one. And yet each time they all wanted the same thing.
    Money. And one of his responsibilities was to make sure they didn’t get it. Or that they got only what Mrs. Acklen desired that they have.
    Granted, on the surface, Miss Laurent didn’t seem like one of those charlatans. Still, something about her felt . . . not quite right. That could be due to his knowledge that she’d spent the previous night in the First Presbyterian Church—and on Adelicia’s personal cushioned pew, no less.
    Something Miss Laurent had failed to mention thus far.
    “After I left the train station, Mrs. Acklen, I discovered that the lodgings where I had planned to stay were . . . regrettably unsuitable. So . . .”
    Regrettably unsuitable. The exact description she’d used with him that morning. Not that this meant she was lying. . . . It simply seemed like too much of a coincidence to him. Her showing up in town when she did, and then at the mansion, on the last day of interviews. Not to mention she was French. Hardly a coincidence, given that Adelicia, as most everyone knew, loved anything French.
    The woman had adored Paris. That’s where she’d gotten the idea to hire a personal liaison in the first place—after his none-too-gentle suggestion that she do so. She needed the talent of a female counterpart who shared her interest in planning parties, creating guest lists and menus, selecting flower arrangements for tables, and creating the artistic aura that Adelicia demanded for her evenings of elaborate entertaining.
    Hence, the liaison.
    “So when I saw the church building, I decided to check the doors to see if it was open. And . . .”
    Sutton’s train of thought stopped cold. So Miss Laurent was telling Adelicia about the church. Then again, of course she would. Because she would know that if she didn’t tell her, he would. He listened, finding her next statement hard to believe.
    She’d entered through a storeroom door that had been left unlocked? That seemed unlikely. Reverend Bunting was a thorough man. Bunting wouldn’t have mistakenly left a door open.
    Sutton smiled as Adelicia questioned the validity of that statement too.
    “Yes, ma’am, I give you my word. I found the door unlocked. And as it turns out, that doesn’t seem to have been an accident. Reverend Bunting told me that . . .”
    Unexpected laughter coming from the tête-à-tête room drowned out Miss Laurent’s words, and Sutton frowned at the interruption. Who else was Adelicia entertaining this afternoon? The woman was becoming a veritable socialite. And he knew who to blame for that—
    Cara Netta’s mother, Madame Octavia Walton LeVert. She and Adelicia had fast become intimate friends.
    “So I am to understand, Miss Laurent, that you slept in the church last night?” Incredulity edged Adelicia’s tone. She wasn’t a woman easily won over.
    “Y-yes, Mrs. Acklen. That’s what I’m saying.