“Mannish,” Charlotte supplied. “I’ve heard that word already applied to my appearance more times than I can count. My jaw is too square, my face too wide. My height too cumbersome, my figure too sparse. Your task should not be difficult.”

“Predictable fools,” Rose hissed under her breath, and Charlotte was momentarily taken aback at her venom.

“It’s never bothered me,” Charlotte murmured.

Rose impaled her with a long look.

“That much,” she added more truthfully.

Rose looked as though she wanted to say something further though her sister interrupted.

“Perhaps you should get started,” Clara suggested tactfully.

“Yes,” her sister agreed, making a visible effort to temper her animosity on Charlotte’s behalf. Rose reached out and fingered a long strand of hair that had come loose from its pins. “Are you ready to be introduced to a new Charlotte?”

Charlotte took a deep breath, the prospect of that freedom positively intoxicating. “I’ve been ready my whole life.”

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Flynn Rutledge shifted on the uncomfortable pew and gazed up at the massive windows that soared up into the heavens. His eyes roamed the colored glass, windows crafted with a delicate detail that artisans centuries ago had perfected. It was almost dizzying, the way the brilliant morning light streamed through the collage of color, dappling everything around him like a field of wildflowers. He let his head fall back, the sheer grandeur and size of what had been built by human hands so long ago almost as humbling as the skill in which it had been done.

Flynn sighed and straightened, glancing down at the sketchbook he held in his hands, frowning at the empty pages. Amid all this majesty, he was going to have to come up with something magnificent if he was going to accomplish anything over the next months. God knew it would be up to him to save this damn project. The corners of his mouth drew down farther.

Charlie Beaumont. The name of the man Lisbon had given him as the other artist Flynn would be working with. He’d never heard of him. Nor had any member of the Royal Academy he’d questioned, though there was no way to tell if any of those sanctimonious blackguards were being honest with him. But the apprentices Flynn had asked had offered the same answer, and none of them had any reason to lie. This Beaumont had seemingly appeared out of thin air, unknown. And if Flynn had never heard of him, how was he supposed to believe that this man had sufficient talent for this commission?