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It’s urgent that I speak with him.”
    “When my husband will be back . . .” Mrs. Broderick whispered, blinking. She looked down at the desk, and began straightening the already tidy stacks of paper. The vague look crept back into her features. “I . . . I don’t think he’s coming back. My Samuel . . . he’s . . .” She pressed a hand to her chest and let out a cry. “Oh dear . . .”
    Claire raced to the other side of the desk, afraid the woman was about to faint. “Mrs. Broderick, are you all—”
    “Mama!” A man appeared through a side door, moving with a swiftness that belied his tall stature. “What are you doing down here?” His tone firm, he slipped an arm around his mother and patted her shoulder. He glanced at Claire, then looked back a second time, his gaze more encompassing this time, and not altogether gentlemanly as it inched downward.
    Claire knew the buttons on her bodice were fastened but couldn’t resist checking, just to be sure. When she looked up again, he looked away.
    “It’s all right, Mama,” he whispered. “I’m here. Take some deep breaths. . . .”
    Mrs. Broderick did as she was told, leaning against her son, appearing calm again.
    Claire took a step back, feeling awkward and yet responsible, and more than a little tired. The days of travel were catching up to her. “Please, let me offer my apologies. I didn’t mean to upset her.”
    “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.” He shifted his considerable weight and pointed in Claire’s direction, as though having just figured something out. “If I’m right, and I’m guessing I am . . . you’re Miss Laurent.”
    For reasons Claire couldn’t explain, she wished she could say no. “Yes, I am.” She knew she should probably be relieved that this man knew her name, because that meant he’d been expecting her, which meant she was where she was supposed to be, according to Uncle Antoine’s plan. But she couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that she was not where she belonged. Already guessing his name, she asked anyway. “And you are?”
    “Samuel Broderick. The second, ” he added in a way that made her think he was attempting to impress her. Unsuccessfully so. “I inherited this business from my father . . . who passed away a few years ago.”
    Claire gave a little nod. “I’m sorry about your father, sir. And about your husband, Mrs. Broderick.” She included the matron in her nod.
    Mrs. Broderick straightened, her attention fixing on Claire. “Do I know you, honey?”
    Claire smiled. “My name is Claire, Mrs. Broderick. We met just a moment ago.”
    It looked as though a light came on behind the woman’s eyes. “Ah . . . You’re the woman that nice man told us about. I overheard him and my son talking about you.” She took hold of Claire’s hand, looking as though she might cry again. “I’m so sorry to hear about your fa—”
    “Time to get you back upstairs, Mama!” Mr. Broderick stepped between them and took hold of his mother’s arm. “You know how you love dinner!” He guided her toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes, Miss Laurent. Then you and I can get better acquainted.”
    Claire waited, moments passing, and she fought the urge to leave. Getting better acquainted with Samuel Broderick wasn’t at the top of her list, much less even on it. She got a prickly feeling being around the man, and Maman had counseled her often enough to listen to that inner voice. If she’d had anywhere else to go—or means to pay for a hotel—she would have left without a backward glance.
    Surmising from the quality of furniture in the office and the general surroundings, she guessed that Mr. Broderick ran a profitable business. Her question was: How did operating an art gallery in Nashville figure into a partnership with a freight company?
    Broderick returned moments later and bolted the front door. Claire got a shiver as the lock thudded into