“I suppose.” She shrugged again. “I took a handful of lessons in watercolors.” That was true. One of her early governesses had been enthusiastic if not overly talented. “But I’ve always preferred to work in oils.” Which no governess would ever have taught. Oil paints were not a medium suitable for well-bred ladies.

“Have you publicly exhibited your work anywhere?”

Charlotte almost snorted at the utter absurdity of that question before reminding herself that Rutledge was asking Charlie, not Charlotte, that question. The number of women who had somehow managed to exhibit their work at a venue like the Royal Academy in the last fifty years could be counted on one hand. “I’m afraid not.”

“How did Lisbon find you?”

Charlotte gazed at Rutledge, realizing he had been leading up to this question. “I did a piece for a mutual friend.” That explanation had worked on the Haywards.

“What sort of piece?” Apparently, Rutledge was not so easily satisfied.

“A portrait.”

“Of what?”

“A girl.” Charlotte leaned back against the table and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the bindings across her breasts pull beneath her baggy clothing. “Where are you from?”

He gave her a hard look, as if he was weighing the sincerity of her query.

“It’s not a trick question, Mr. Rutledge.”

“The art community is a small one. I would have thought…”

“Thought what? That you are that famous? Or that I am that ignorant?” She said it lightly.

“You knew I had painted the Madonna in the apse of the church.”

“Because Mr. Lisbon pointed that out to me when I arrived.”

He scowled. “London,” he said after a moment, finally answering her original question. “I’m from London.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere pleasant you’d want to hear about.”

Charlotte couldn’t say she was surprised, given her earlier suspicions. “Did you attend one of the academies?”

“I attended the same one as you, it would seem.” Rutledge looked grim.

Charlotte tipped her head, trying not to look startled. Now that surprised her. No matter where he’d grown up, his skill should have gained him entry to a collection of academies and schools. “We have something in common then.”

“I really doubt that.” There was bitterness lacing his words, a sort of anguish that made Charlotte want to take his hand and ask what he meant by that. Ask what she could do to help. She jammed her fingers farther under her arms to prevent herself from doing anything so foolish.

“Tell me how you’re going to paint your soldier,” she said instead.

“My soldier?”

“You have captured the warrior in a way I could not. I think there is a great deal of you in this.”

She could almost see Rutledge bristle. “What are you implying?”