Flynn searched the boy’s words for sarcasm or judgment but found only distant civility. Which made him feel even worse. He closed his eyes briefly. He was being absurd and had only succeeded in making an utter fool of himself. Even if Beaumont knew exactly who he was and had heard every scandalous, duplicitous detail, it was long in the past and irrelevant to the here and now. He needed to pull himself together.

“You will be pleased to hear that Lisbon has endorsed our proposal,” Flynn said, trying for a more conciliatory manner. “All the detailed plans save for the gilding on the edges.”

“That is indeed pleasing.” Beaumont’s voice was devoid of inflection.

“He is anxious for us to start.”

The boy turned away from him. “As am I.”

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Charlotte successfully avoided Flynn Rutledge for the next two days.

Well, perhaps avoided was a bit of an exaggeration for two people sharing the same space, but at no point in time did they trade any words other than a good morning and a good night. As it was, the days passed in a blur, Charlotte completely losing track of the time, as she was often wont to do when she became immersed in a project. Minutes and hours ceased to have meaning. She was aware of nothing save for the scratch of charcoal over the smooth oak surface, the crinkle of paper as she consulted her detailed sketches, and the soft creaking of the wooden boards on the scaffold as she moved across them.

It wasn’t until her eyes started to ache at the end of the second day that she realized she had lost almost all of her natural light.

She sat back, balancing on the middle span of the scaffold, her cramped muscles protesting loudly. She winced, but even the discomfort couldn’t diminish the rush of pleasure she felt as her eyes roamed over her work. The initial sketch across the panel was complete, black lines waiting to be brought to life by color. Her fingers, tired as they were, already itched for her brushes.

“Lady Cecelia Mountbatten.”

Charlotte jerked, her pulse skipping. While she worked, she had mercifully forgotten about Flynn Rutledge and his mercurial temper. Had she known how defensive and furious he would get over those drawings, she wouldn’t have come within ten feet of them. She hadn’t had any interest in a confrontation then, and she certainly didn’t want to confront him now. “I beg your pardon?”

“The woman in the drawings.”