“I’m not interested in more forgeries.” His fingers were drumming on the silver top.
“And I’m not interested in showing you any.”
Curiosity flickered. “You have my attention once again, Lady Charlotte,” he replied.
“The Royal Academy.”
“What of it?”
“If one wished to have a painting exhibited, could you make that happen?”
King gazed at her. “I never took you as vain, my lady.”
“Answer the question.”
Pale eyes narrowed. “Have a care, Lady Charlotte.”
“Please answer the question,” she amended tonelessly.
A faint line appeared in his forehead. “Of course I can.”
Charlotte closed her eyes briefly before she turned and lifted the smaller of the two canvases. She pulled the wrapping from it and set it against his desk, feeling his eyes following her. She stepped back.
King’s eyes lingered on her before he turned his attention to the painting. “Very evocative,” he said slowly. “Masterful use of light and color. A contemporary piece, yet I see shadows of Raphael in this.”
Charlotte only nodded, her voice suddenly choked by the sadness and regret that rose hard and fast.
“But not your work, I think,” King continued, stepping closer to the painting.
She shook her head. “I have merely borrowed it for a time.”
“It surpasses everything currently on those pretentious Somerset walls,” he murmured.
“I know,” Charlotte managed. “That’s the idea.”
King turned to gaze at her in consideration as the Madonna continued to stare down in adoration at her son. “I can see it done.”
“Thank you.”
“Tsk, you get ahead of yourself with your gratitude.” He smiled an empty smile. “You have not yet provided me with something that makes my service worthwhile.”
Wordlessly, Charlotte returned to the bookcase and pulled the cloth from the second painting. She let the fabric fall to the floor, and the silence that followed was absolute. The woman in this painting gazed past her nude reflection in a mirror, as if searching for someone just beyond the frame. Her fingers played wistfully with a single strand of pearls at her throat, each tiny orb as lustrous as her skin. She sat against a background of deep midnight, a robe of rich garnet covering her lap, both the perfect foil for her fairness.
“You know what this is,” Charlotte said into the deafening silence.
“Yes,” King replied quietly, his eyes not straying from the painting. “I was told that this version was lost. And it was certainly not in the attics of Jasper House. My men would have found it.”
“No,” she said. “It was hidden in my rooms. My aunt had ordered it destroyed. Nudity of any sort offends her.”
King hadn’t yet moved. “This isn’t a forgery.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed, unsure if that was a question. “I have not yet attempted a Titian.”
The clock in the corner ticked on.
“There are two conditions that go with this painting,” Charlotte said into the quiet.
She saw King’s hand tighten on the top of his walking stick. “Conditions from a woman who comes begging my favor?”
“I trust a lost Titian should recompense any insult.”
His impenetrable gaze slid back to her then.
She didn’t wait for him to respond. “One, at no point in time should my name ever come up in conversation outside this room,” she said, repeating the words he had said to her what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Invent an acquisition story for this work that does not involve me.”
“And the other?” He looked almost amused now.
“When you sell this painting, you will not auction it off like a pretty mare in a Tattersalls ring.”
His amusement slipped, and red-gold brows rose. “And just what, Lady Charlotte, do you propose I do with it?”
“Sell it to someone who understands the deeper story that lies within this canvas.”
“Which is what?” He was studying her keenly.
“That love cannot be found in a beautiful reflection.”
King regarded her, his austere features revealing nothing of his thoughts. “Very well,” he said. “I will meet your conditions, and your Madonna will grace the walls of the Royal Academy within a fortnight hence. With all the appropriate fanfare.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve changed, Lady Charlotte,” King said abruptly.
“Yes,” she replied, because it was the only thing she could say.
She would not discuss how Flynn Rutledge had changed her. She would not examine the love and the joy that had set her heart and her mind soaring. She would not dissect the trust and the faith that had made her believe—truly believe—that she could do more. That she could be more. She would not dwell on the knowledge that she had been gifted with all those things and had let them all slip away. Because in the end, she hadn’t been brave or confident or courageous. In the end, she hadn’t reinvented herself at all. In the end, she had been a coward.
She withdrew the original missive that he had sent her and set it on the desk. “May we get on to the business at hand?”
King watched her for a moment more before he moved, settling himself behind his desk. “By all means, Lady Charlotte.”
“I prefer Charlie. Charlotte, if you must.” She held her head high, as if that gesture could overcome the relentless pain that had lodged deep within her heart and would never leave. “Lady Charlotte posted a letter to London from Coventry informing her family that she was seeking her fortunes abroad. Lady Charlotte, as she once was, no longer exists.”
“Very well.” His eyes slid from her hair to her baggy coat and trousers once more.
“Good. I understand you have a painting for me to forge.”
* * *
Flynn looked around the cramped space of his rented London rooms.
There was nothing that he wished to take with him. Nothing that he regretted leaving behind.
Liar, a little voice in his head whispered. He was leaving love behind.
His eye fell on the small canvas that lay flat on the top of a table, the figure of Adam reaching out to be touched. Unable to help himself, he picked it up. He hadn’t known what to do with it. He still didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy it, nor could he bring himself to pack it away. Instead, he found himself gazing at it more than was healthy or smart. Because every time he looked at the painting, doubt crowded in, making him question his decisions.
He closed his eyes, unwilling to think on it any longer. No matter her protestations and declarations, love meant trust. Trust meant truth. And in the end, Lady Charlotte Beaumont hadn’t been able to give him that. He needed to forget her.
He set the painting inside an open trunk and slammed the lid with too much force. Charlotte Beaumont was nothing but a mistake.
Then why was this so hard? And why did leaving feel like the mistake?
There was a soft knock on his door, and Flynn almost tripped in his haste to answer it. God, he needed a diversion. Any sort of diversion. He yanked open the door.
And recoiled. Any diversion but this.
“Flynn,” Lady Cecelia greeted, stepping into the tiny flat. Her pretty mouth made a predictable moue of distaste at the small confines before she smiled at the sight of his trunks. “Thank God. You’re finally moving. It’s about time. I’ve always told you that these rooms are beneath you.”
Flynn didn’t budge from the door, as baffled as he was repelled at her presence. “What do you want?”
Cecelia fluttered her lashes and sauntered back in his direction. “That’s not much of a welcome for an old friend, Flynn.” She reached out an expensively gloved hand and stroked his forearm.
Flynn stepped back. “We are not friends.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly before they widened again. “Don’t be like this, Flynn. We both know
that we were quite spectacular together.” She advanced another step closer. “We could be again,” she breathed.
“I’m sure your Italian count might have an opinion on that,” he said coldly. “Good day, my lady.” He held the door a little wider.
“That Italian does not possess half the skill you do,” she purred, seemingly undaunted by his rudeness. “In the studio or otherwise.” Her sooty lashes were fluttering again. “I admit, I should never have let you go.”
“You didn’t let me go, Cecelia. I left.”
She waved her hand as if she hadn’t heard him. “I always knew you were destined for great things, Flynn.”
“Well, right now, I am destined for Italy. And I need to finish packing. Goodbye.”
She blinked, this time in what looked like genuine surprise. “Italy? What are you thinking?”
“That Italy is far away from London.” And you, he refrained from adding.
“But you can’t leave. Not now.”
Flynn was hanging on to his patience by a thread. “Watch me.”
“But you’re famous. Together, we’ll be feted like royalty.”
“I can assure you, Cecelia, that I am no more famous now than I was a year ago. Just a whole lot smarter.”
She was shaking her head. “Now is not the time to be humble, Flynn,” she snapped. “Not when you have princes offering patronage. Now is the time for you to embrace your celebrity.” She preened slightly. “And I will be there at your side every step of the way.”
Flynn was frowning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I certainly don’t need you anywhere, least of all at my side.”
Cecelia laughed, and it wasn’t a pretty sound. “Come now, Flynn. Start acting like a gentleman and not an ignorant urchin from the stews. Your exhibit that’s opening at the academy this afternoon will only get you so far—”
“I beg your pardon?” Flynn felt himself go hot and cold all at the same time.
Cecelia’s lips twisted. “Manners, Flynn. They must be as flawless as your work. I believe I’ve mentioned this in the past, and it’s clear that I need to do so again.” She poked a finger at him. “You need me now that you’re going places. Though I would suggest that you stay away from exhibiting subjects that have a religious context in the future.”
There was a dull roaring in his ears that had almost completely drowned out the sound of her voice. He could feel the edge of the door cutting into the palm of his hand, and he held on, afraid that if he let go, he might simply spin away. The room around him seemed to steady then, and a curious calm descended. He straightened, his limbs oddly numb but obeying the commands of his mind nonetheless. “I have to go,” he mumbled, urgency propelling him through the door and down the stairs, heedless of Cecelia’s furious shrieks.
He had to go. Before he made another mistake.
Chapter 14
The Royal Academy’s exhibition hall, housed in Somerset House, was thronged.
Those of the upper classes who hadn’t traveled to a country pile for Christmas were out in droves in the city, seeking their own entertainment. And a new artist, one who was rumored to have garnered the attention of royalty at home and abroad, was always a draw.
Flynn had no idea where those rumors had come from, nor did he care. He skirted the crowd, his hat pulled low over his brow, his eyes fixed on the far wall where a massive knot of people milled, gesturing and chattering. He ignored the noise, slipped through the crush, and came to an abrupt stop, robbed quite suddenly of breath.
His Madonna had been hung in the center of the hall above a raised dais used only for the most illustrious of exhibitors. High above him, winter light streamed in from the windows and fell across the painting, illuminating the Madonna’s gentle expression with an unearthly brilliance. It was dramatic, it was celebrated, and it was everything his mother had always wanted for him. The gift he had always wanted for her to reward her unflagging love and belief, even if she never had the chance to see it.
Charlotte had done this, he knew. He didn’t know how or when, though those details could be guessed at. What wasn’t fathomable was why. Why had she done this for him after everything? After he had walked away from her?
Because she loved you, the voice in his head hissed. And you didn’t believe her. Didn’t believe in her.
Didn’t allow her to make a mistake.
He raised his hands to his face and pressed his fingers into his eyes hard enough that spots danced. He cursed and let his hands fall, spinning quickly enough to startle a flock of well-dressed matrons who were pressing toward the dais. He ignored the infuriated gasps as he shoved his way back through the crowd. He would fix this. He would find her and—
“Mr. Rutledge.”
The man was standing just inside the hall, as though he had been waiting for Flynn. He could have been a Tudor prince, given his expensively tailored clothing, his aquiline features, and the confident ease in which he moved, an ebony walking stick held loosely in his hand.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Flynn replied.
“Hmmm.” The man made no effort to introduce himself but merely gazed in the direction of the portrait on the far side of the room, impossible to see now behind the crush. “I must say, your work did not disappoint. Haunting. Compelling. You have bent the light to your will with a mastery very few possess.”
“Thank you.” Flynn frowned. “But if you’ll excuse me, I—”
“Leaving in such a hurry?” The man tapped his fingers on the head of his walking stick. “I would have thought you’d wish to linger. Bask in your newfound success, as it were. Even without the rumors of royal patronage, you’ll have lords and ladies falling all over themselves for a piece of you. It was, after all, the purpose of this exercise, was it not?”
“No. It wasn’t the purpose at all.”
“Ah.” Pale blue eyes probed his. “I wondered.”
Flynn bit back a retort. This man didn’t know him, and Flynn certainly wasn’t about to explain himself to him, whoever he was. Nor was he going to waste any more time. He needed to find—
“Charlie Beaumont.”
For an agonizing moment, Flynn thought his heart might have stopped in his chest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Charlie Beaumont. I understand that he was your partner for the St. Michael’s commission.”
Flynn felt a peculiar feeling winding through him. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“You might find it of interest then to know that I have since hired him,” he replied, ignoring Flynn’s question.
“For what? Where?” Flynn was trying to keep his expression neutral, but even he could hear the rough desperation in his voice. “Where is s—he?”
“Ah. I wondered at that too,” the Tudor prince murmured, almost too quietly for Flynn to hear. “He was here, as a matter of fact. You just missed him,” he said more clearly. “If you hurry, you might catch—”
Flynn didn’t hear the rest. He was already running.
* * *
The carriage was as fine as any Charlotte had ever seen in her life.
But given King’s blatant predisposition for fine things, she shouldn’t have found this surprising. Sleek and well sprung, and painted a glossy ebony with scarlet trim, it was only missing a coat of arms. Not something that a boy from Aysgarth, dressed in a loose pair of trousers and a baggy coat with a canvas bag slung over his back, should ever have at his disposal.
Charlotte handed her bag to the goliath of a driver, dressed just as sleekly in ebony livery, and tried to offer him a word of thanks. It came out as a strained whisper because the emotion that was threatening to suffocate her was making it equally difficult to speak.
She had stayed in that hall only long enough to see that the Madonna had been hung as she had wished. Long enough to hear the rumors swirling through the expensively dressed crowds speculating about the man behind the painting and arguing over who might have discovered him. Long enough to know tha
t, if nothing else, Flynn would know that she had loved him.
And then she had escaped to the carriage that waited for her, because the tide and the ship that would take her from England waited for no one. She climbed into the plush, darkened interior and reached for the door, only to have it yanked open, away from her grasp. A body hurtled through the opening into the carriage, and the door snapped shut. Charlotte swallowed a shout of startled alarm.
“Don’t go.” Flynn was crouched in front of her, his hands braced on either side of her legs, breathing hard.
Charlotte closed her eyes, willing her breathing to steady and wondering if she might be imagining this. She opened her eyes and discovered he was still there, illuminated by the daylight filtering in along the edges of the closed curtains. A familiar brew of terror and ecstasy bubbled up to fill her chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying not to make another mistake,” he said hoarsely.
“Another mistake?”
“My first mistake was letting you go once. I’m not going to repeat it.” His eyes were the color of pewter in the dim light, filled with anguish.
Charlotte looked down at her hands, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard that she feared they would crack. “In all fairness, I made the first mistake.”
His fingers caught her chin, forcing her eyes back up to his. “And it was yours to make and mine to forgive. And I didn’t. And for that, I ask your forgiveness.”
“This is a very circular conversation,” she sniffed, a sound that was half laugh, half sob escaping. “All these mistakes and forgiveness.”
“Yes. Because we’re going to make more mistakes,” he said. “And we’re going to forgive them. Because that is what people who love each other do.”
Charlotte caught her breath, her throat tightening even further.
“I love you. All of you. Charlotte, Charlie, Lady Charlotte. Whatever you wish to call yourself, it matters not to me.”
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