A Lasting Impression

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.
    Feeling both women watching him, waiting for his reaction, he nodded. “It’s nice. Very nice.”
    “It’s a