“It’s been there for generations. No one in my family has ever believed that portraits of children are worthy of wall space. Or have any value at all, really.”

“Except you.”

“It’s a Van Dyck, for pity’s sake,” Charlotte retorted, forgetting herself.

“It is indeed.” King took two steps closer to her.

Charlotte steeled herself against the urge to take two steps back. If these were her last moments, she would live them no more a coward than she would a liar. King had been right. Extreme measures had brought her here, and determination and desperation would see this out, come what may.

“Tell me, Lady Charlotte, why not just bring me the original?”

Because here in London, she didn’t have access to it. Because time had been of the essence and a lengthy journey up to Aysgarth and back would have taken too long. “This was in my possession,” she said honestly. “The original was not.”

This time, the beautiful man smiled, though it fell short of his eyes. “And what, exactly, is it that you need money for so desperately that it would be worth your attempt to defraud me?”

And now they had come full circle. Because this wasn’t about money. It never had been. It was about her life and the way she was watching it crawl by from the confines of the empty, gilded cage she resided in.

She raised her chin a notch and met his gaze directly. “I don’t want money.”

Something shifted in his pale eyes. “Indeed? Well, you certainly have my attention, Lady Charlotte.”

She wiped her damp palms on her plain skirts. “I want a job. St. Michael’s. Coventry. The Renaissance-styled murals that have been commissioned for the church.”

King regarded her coolly. “Hmm.” He turned abruptly and wandered back behind his desk. “I’ve always felt a rather odd affinity toward that particular saint. A great warrior, vanquishing those who deserve it. Yet descending at the hour of death to offer each soul a chance to redeem itself.” He stopped. “Redemption is highly underrated, don’t you think, Lady Charlotte?”

She gazed back, feeling the perspiration trapped against her skin. “Yes.”

“I am familiar with the project. I understand that there are two artists to be hired for the work. I also understand that the architect overseeing the project has already selected one.”

“Yes. And I would like to be the other. My work is as good as or better than anything currently on display at the Royal Academy. But—”

“You are a woman,” he finished for her.

“Yes.” A woman and a lady. Slowly suffocating under the crushing limitations that both imposed.