He turned from her to study the painting, his elegant fingers drumming slowly on the head of his walking stick again. “I would agree with you, you know. That your work is better. This copy really is quite astounding,” he said. “There are very, very few in the world who would notice the minute technical discrepancies between this and a true Van Dyck.” He paused. “It must have taken you some time to paint.”

“Yes.” But time she had in spades. Months and months of exile to the countryside every year assured that. Yet each of those months was time that she was left alone with her pigments and oils, her turpentine and canvases. Months every year in which she continued to be ignored and was allowed to covertly perfect her craft and proficiency.

“Your application of asphaltum is masterful,” King murmured. “So few forgers can get that last step right.” His eyes drifted back from the painting toward her, and he fell silent.

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked into the quiet, small noises marking the passage of time as more of Charlotte’s life slipped by her.

“I’ll have the original,” King said suddenly as if coming to a decision. “Because I do not sell forgeries.”

Charlotte felt a tiny ember of hope ignite amid all the trepidation. “I can get it—”

“I don’t need you to fetch it for me, Lady Charlotte. I employ professionals for such menial tasks.” He smiled another empty smile. “You can keep your copy.”

“Then you’ll help me in exchange for the painting?”

“My assistance will cost you more than a single painting, Lady Charlotte.” He set his walking stick against the side of the desk.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. She forced herself to remain still, even as she wondered just how far she would be willing to go. Just how much she would be willing to sacrifice for the opportunity to escape—

“You look pale, my lady.” The bastard sounded like he was enjoying this.

Charlotte forced herself to hold his gaze. “A mere trick of the light, I assure you,” she replied steadily.

King moved silently out from behind the desk to stop before Charlotte. He raised his hand, his fingers stopping a breath away from her face. Charlotte could feel every muscle in her body go rigid. Yet she didn’t move. His fingertips descended, grazing the sharp edge of her cheekbone, a gesture that was terrifying for all its gentleness.

“I am not for sale,” she said, her words sounding like they were coming from a great distance.

King’s lips curled, as if he found her defiance amusing. “Everyone is for sale, my lady. For the right price.” His hand dropped, and he turned away from her.