Charlotte remembered to breathe as King returned to the other side of his desk. He once again stopped, the fingers that had caressed her face now sliding over the top of a gilded box set on the edge of his desk. The ruby ring on his little finger glinted a macabre bloodred. “Consider my assistance a retainer for your future services, my lady. Your artistic services,” he clarified silkily. “A painting of my choosing to be executed to my satisfaction. Skilled forgers are far more difficult to procure than skilled whores.”

Charlotte felt suddenly weak, as though she had just emerged unscathed from a reckless, dangerous battle she hadn’t been sure she would survive.

“Do you agree to the terms, Lady Charlotte?”

The hope that had been snuffed suddenly flared again. “Yes, of course. Whatever you need. I promise.”

A red-gold brow rose slowly, as if measuring the sincerity of her response. “Be careful what you promise, my lady. Circumstances can change and make promises difficult to keep.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. “Of course.”

“I do not tolerate disloyalty. Nor do I suffer fools, or those who possess loose lips and wagging tongues. Such individuals are invariably silenced at the bottom of the Thames, and neither your gender nor your title will offer you protection.”

“I understand.” And she did. It should horrify her, this entire conversation and her willingness to embrace the shadows of a world where she understood little. And perhaps she was selling her soul to the very devil, but it was better than continuing on the way she had been for the past twenty-three years of her life. She needed to do this. Break herself out of her cage. There was no white knight thundering to her rescue, ready to sweep her away and make her dreams come true. That was on her. And no matter the cost, it would be worth it, ten times over.

“For your sake, I hope so.” King pulled a desk drawer open and withdrew a sheet of paper. “You’ve heard of the Haverhall School for Young Ladies?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes,” Charlotte replied. Everyone had heard of Haverhall. The most exclusive finishing school for young ladies in all of Britain. A place where only the most elite and most wealthy of families sent their daughters to prepare them for a life as a society wife. A school that had been deemed a waste of time and money for Charlotte by her parents, given her dismal prospects.

“Then you will be familiar with the school’s headmistress? Baron Strathmore’s sister, Miss Clara Hayward?”