A Lasting Impression

crates along through here.”
    Claire maneuvered around them.
    He raised the lamp again. “And these four paintings . . .”
    Claire saw the first painting and went weak in the knees. Antonio Canaletto.
    “. . . are some of Adelicia’s favorites. The artist is Canaletto. This is the Great Canal, the next is the Church of the Salute , and then the Rialto Bridge, and then finally”—he extended the lamp out to one side—“the Church of the Friar. I tend to remember the artists and titles of the most expensive ones.”
    Claire could hardly breathe. The actual title of the first oil was the Grand Canal, but again, she wasn’t about to correct him. Grateful for the dim lighting, she did her best to mask her emotions, almost wanting to cry she was so moved at being in the presence of such masterpieces. “They’re all . . . very nice.”
    She’d copied the first painting twice and had sold it as such with her initials. At the time, she thought she’d captured the colors of the original quite well. She’d been wrong. The cloud-feathered sky was more cerulean than azure, and the Venetian buildings along the canal more misty taupe than tawny brown. She looked around the room and saw more canvases, hanging one after the other, though she couldn’t see the paintings themselves. “Are all of these originals?”
    “Yes . . . though Mrs. Acklen does own a few select copies. But only those painted by an accomplished apprentice serving under the strict tutelage of the original painting’s artist.” He laughed softly. “Would you expect the Adelicia Acklen you know to own anything less?”
    Claire felt a stab of reality. No, she wouldn’t. Why would someone like Mrs. Acklen ever desire a cheap imitation of the real thing? Much less a forgery? The painting would be worthless. Not good enough. Never good enough . . .
    Sutton held the lamp closer, and Claire resisted the urge to turn away.
    “Why is it, Claire, that you never mentioned anything about your knowledge of art before? Or of how very accomplished you are at painting? It seems like that would have come up before now. Especially with an employer like Mrs. Acklen, and at an estate like Belmont.”
    Claire sensed a definite difference in his tone this time, and she read in his eyes what his voice had only hinted at before—suspicion and distrust. And she panicked, certain he knew the truth.

21

    C laire looked down and squeezed her eyes tight, unable to think with him watching her so closely. How had he found out? She’d been so careful not to say anything, not to let anything slip. She needed to look up, but she couldn’t. If she looked at him, he would see the truth in her face. But she had to look up. Because if she didn’t, he would know she was hiding something.
    She forced her gaze upward and saw a shred of question lingering in his eyes. Maybe he didn’t know. . . .
    Maybe he was just being an attorney and . . . doing whatever it was attorneys did. He’d told her himself that he was paid to be suspicious, and she’d been plenty evasive with him. Which, looking back, had not been a wise choice on her part.
    “Sutton, I . . .” She half expected him to say something. Interrupt her, maybe. But he didn’t. She’d never been on a witness stand before, but she felt as if she were on one now. She couldn’t tell him the truth, and yet she also would not lie. “I never mentioned it before because . . . compared to all of this”—she gestured around them, hearing the next words in her mind just before they burned with shame on her tongue—“my knowledge, like my talent . . . is nothing unique.”
    If only he knew how honest she was being with him at that moment. More so than she’d been with anyone else in her life. Even Maman . “But I’m committed to learning, to improving. Over time, and with practice. And I give you my word, it won’t interfere with my position as Mrs. Acklen’s liaison. If I get the position, of course.”
    For the longest moment, he said nothing, and Claire bowed her head, waiting for him to tell her that he knew about the gallery in New Orleans, and about what her family used to do, and about what she was.
    Then he reached up and brushed a curl from her temple. “Look at me, Claire.”
    Dreading what she would see, what he was going to say, she couldn’t.
    “Captain Laurent . . .” He laughed softly. “Look at me. That’s an order.”
    Slowly, she lifted her gaze, and her heart responded to him in a way it had