That was what Beaumont had said to Flynn in that quiet, utterly unflappable manner of his. But what Flynn was finding compelling was the juxtaposition that seemed to be Charlie Beaumont.

The eloquence of his words and the careful thought he seemed to give each sentence that came out of his mouth were not what he might have expected from a boy from Aysgarth. Though assumptions were rarely wise or valuable. Perhaps the time Beaumont had spent in the presence of rich, titled families, like the one he had traveled with to Italy, had educated him. Or perhaps his fine speech, like his artistic skill, had also been self-taught, to better appeal to his wealthy and elite clients.

Though if he was trying to appeal to wealthy clients, his appearance was an oddity. The baggy clothes that Beaumont wore did nothing to make him look older, which is what Flynn guessed was his intent. In fact, the shapeless garments made him look even younger—like a boy playing dress up. Surely when Beaumont had traveled to Italy with his rich clients, he had not dressed like that, given the effort that he had put into his speech? Surely, somewhere, he had a coat and trousers that fit properly?

And surely Flynn had better things to be worried about than what Charlie Beaumont wore. Or how he spoke.

Or how his gentleness seemed to snuff every single fight that Flynn was spoiling for.

He groaned and rubbed his temples, staring up at the empty space at the end of the nave, the walls waiting for something that truly deserved his concern and attention. Something that really did need to be…compelling.

“Mr. Rutledge.” Henry Lisbon jolted him out of his musings, and Flynn turned to find the architect walking toward him, looking somewhat harried as usual.

“Lisbon.” Flynn pushed himself away from the back of the pew he had been leaning against.

The architect held out the drawings and detailed proposal Rutledge had submitted to him that morning. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes to it all. Save for the gilding on the panel edges—no one wished to spend additional money. But the directors and the clergy, down to the last man, are thrilled with the concept. A brilliant idea.”

Flynn felt a muscle in his jaw flex. Of course they were thrilled. “I must confess, the concept idea was Mr. Beaumont’s.”

“Indeed? Then I am pleased to hear that the two of you are working together so well.” Lisbon was peering at him intently.

“Of course.” What else was he going to say?

Lisbon was still studying him closely. “You see no problems moving forward with the work?” he asked. “With Mr. Beaumont?”

What kind of question was that? “No,” Flynn said, trying to cover his irritation.

“I trust you’ve found his work to be…satisfactory?” It was said with a bit of an edge.

“Indeed.”