“How old are you?” Flynn demanded.

“You first.” The response was cool.

God help him, the whelp had an insolent tongue to boot. If he didn’t need this commission, if he hadn’t been forced to— Flynn stopped before his mind could go down that pointless path. Again.

The boy cleared his throat. “Look, Mr. Rutledge, it seems we got off on the wrong foot. I only wished to introduce myself and say that I am looking forward to working with an accomplished artist such as yourself—”

“Where is Lisbon?” Flattery would get this pup nowhere. And nowhere was exactly where Beaumont would be going once he got to the bottom of this.

“I believe he is still working at the rear of the nave.”

Flynn stalked by the boy, the soles of his boots echoing on the stone floor. This was not the nursery of some country house that they were painting with bunnies and birds. This was a work that would be judged by those who had the means and the power to offer him a key to their world. A world where he could stop struggling and have access to everything that artists like Thomas Lawrence or John Crome did.

“Lisbon.” Flynn spotted the architect leaning over a set of schematic drawings that had been laid out across a narrow table just inside the wide doors. Behind him, a handful of masons were working to prepare the area where the painted panels would be mounted.

Henry Lisbon looked up, his expression of slight distraction giving way to a frown when he saw Flynn approaching. “Rutledge.” Lisbon’s green eyes skipped past his shoulder, and Flynn glanced back to find that Beaumont had followed him. Of course. Because that is what puppies did.

“I see you’ve met Mr. Beaumont,” Lisbon said. “Please tell me you’ve come to share your design ideas with me.” There was an edge to his words. “The bishop has been asking for more detailed drawings.”

“May I have a word?” Flynn tried to arrange his face into what he hoped was composed reason.

Lisbon glanced down at the drawings. “Go ahead.”

“In private?”

The architect’s frown deepened, and he made a noise of impatience. “You have two minutes.”

Fine. This wouldn’t take one. Flynn followed Lisbon’s substantial frame back down the aisle until they reached the first transept pillar.

“Is there a problem, Rutledge?” he asked, pushing dark hair in need of a barber from his face with irritation. He couldn’t be more than five or six years older than Flynn, but silver had started to streak his temples.

“Charlie Beaumont.”

The architect dropped his hand. “What about him?”

“Who is he? Where did he come from?”

Lisbon put his hands on his hips. “This isn’t Almack’s, Rutledge, and I am not your damn chaperone. I thought I’d leave the introductions and the getting-to-know-you part to the two of you.”