A Lasting Impression
carriage and offered his assistance, glancing at the cigar shop behind them. “This where you wanted to go, Miss Laurent?”
“No.” Claire smiled, surveying the street, hoping not to see any familiar faces. “But I’d rather walk from here. I won’t be long.”
“All right, ma’am.” He tugged on his hat. “I’ll be waitin’ right here for you, ma’am.”
She thanked him and made her way toward the Brodericks’ storefront, slowing her pace the closer she got. Taking a deep breath, she peered around the corner and inside the shop. Mrs. Broderick sat at the front desk just as she had at their first meeting.
Feeling more than a little conspicuous, Claire waited. Heart pounding, and seeing no sign of Samuel Broderick the second , she opened the door and stepped inside. It felt as if weeks had passed since she’d been here, instead of days.
Mrs. Broderick looked up. “Good afternoon, dear. How may I help you?”
Claire watched for a spark of recognition in the woman’s eyes. “How are you today, ma’am?”
Mrs. Broderick’s expression turned bothered. “I’d be much better if we weren’t so busy.”
“Yes.” Claire glanced around the empty shop. “I can see that. By chance . . . is there anyone else here?”
“No, dear, there’s not. I’m afraid I’m the only one . . .” A stricken look came over her. “Oh dear . . . I’m not supposed to tell anyone that. Oh, gracious me . . .”
“It’s all right.” Claire reached over and patted her hand. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” She glanced at the staircase that led to the second floor. Mrs. Broderick clearly didn’t remember her and wouldn’t after this visit either, she felt certain. “I’m wondering, ma’am, if anyone has turned in a reticule in the last few days. Or . . . perhaps a locket of some kind?”
“A locket . . .” Mrs. Broderick started searching the top of the desk. “I used to have a locket. But someone took it.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Claire glanced out the front window again before moving around the desk, feeling only a touch of guilt over what she was about to do. After all, it was her reticule. “Mrs. Broderick, would you like to go upstairs for a while? You might feel more comfortable there.”
The older woman nodded. “I do like it better up there. It’s not so busy. And people don’t take things.”
Mrs. Broderick teetered as she stood, and Claire slipped an arm about the woman’s frail shoulders to steady her. They navigated the stairs with little issue, and once the matron was settled in her rocker, Claire got her a glass of water and the woman sipped, then leaned back and closed her eyes.
Claire discreetly searched Mrs. Broderick’s room, then left the door ajar and tiptoed down the hallway, listening for the slightest sound. She searched the bedroom where she’d left her reticule, then what appeared to be Samuel Broderick’s quarters, eager to be out the second she stepped inside. She searched the other bedrooms last, but her search proved fruitless.
She turned to leave when a door at the end of the hallway caught her eye. A linen closet, maybe—just where a man might stash a woman’s reticule. She covered the distance on tiptoe and winced as the door creaked open. It was not a linen closet. It was another bedroom, and men’s toiletries littered the top of the bureau.
But it was the familiar leather satchel on the chair—with the initials a.d. —that raised the hair on the back of her neck. He’s already here. In Nashville.
Suddenly feeling as though she were being watched, Claire turned to look behind her. But no one was there. She started to close the bedroom door, eager to leave, when she hesitated. She wouldn’t get another chance to search his room again. Because once she left she was never coming back. Trembling and with perspiration trickling beneath her chemise, she searched every drawer, every cubby, even his leather satchel, careful to put every item back in the same place.
It wasn’t the thought of facing Antoine DePaul again that frightened her so much. He was a swindler and a liar, and expert at both. And despite how he’d slapped her that one time, she was confident he wasn’t a violent man. But with a word he could ruin her, and her opportunity at Belmont. And something told her that once he knew she wasn’t going to paint for his benefit anymore, he would do just that.
And he would revel in it.
No reticule. No locket watch. Nothing of her
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