Charlotte approached the table, her eyes falling on the drawing. “Oh,” she whispered. It had been executed in charcoal, the lines sure and deft as the image of an archangel rose up against a constellation of stars. This, however, was not the angel she had created, staring up at the heavens, clutching his sword. This seraph glared out from the page, his expression wild and fierce, convincing her he was prepared to fight to the death. He wielded a curved sword before him, raised in either defense or aggression—it was impossible to tell. A ragged cloth was draped over a shoulder and belted at the hips, displaying broad expanses of muscle, straining and flexing. It had elements that she had seen in works by Raphael and Reni, but the romanticism that softened the edges of those paintings was absent here. This was visceral and real and…violently emotional. And made her wonder just what Rutledge had drawn upon from within to create it.

I’ve seen children on the street wield blades to defend a crust of moldy bread with more authority.

Charlotte wondered if Flynn Rutledge had been one of them.

She ran the tip of her finger along the edge of the paper. She could almost feel the defiance and the determination emanate from the paper itself.

“You haven’t said anything.” Rutledge still hadn’t looked at her.

“It’s actually quite arresting,” she said, taking the coward’s way out and stealing his words.

He made an indecipherable noise.

“Why didn’t you show this to me yesterday?” Charlotte asked.

“I didn’t have it yesterday. I did that last night.”

“Ah.”

“I’m not saying you’re right,” he said, finally turning. “About depicting St. Michael as a savior and as a soldier.”

“But you’re not saying I’m wrong either.” She hid a smile.

“I think there is room for both.” He pinned her with a steely gaze. “Where are you from, Mr. Beaumont?”

“I’m sorry?” The question caught her off guard.

“Where are you from? Where did you study?”

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. She’d practiced answers to these questions with Clara. Every answer was a version of the truth. Just like the story she had spun yesterday when she had slipped and made her thoughtless comment about the Sistine Chapel. It had been the only time she’d ever traveled with her family, grudgingly included for ten glorious weeks. And it had almost betrayed her here.

“Aysgarth,” she said, answering his question. And hoping that Flynn Rutledge was not familiar with the tiny village. Or the fancy manor house that loomed on its outskirts.

A sandy-blond brow rose. “Yorkshire?”

“You’ve been?” Charlotte asked with trepidation.

“No. But I can read a map as well as the next man.”

Relief trickled through her.

“You didn’t tell me where you studied.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Nowhere.”

“Nowhere,” Rutledge repeated with heavy skepticism. “You’re telling me you are completely self-taught?”