Charlotte turned carefully on the platform to find Rutledge looking up at her, holding two steaming mugs. With a start, she saw that at some point he must have fed the fire in the hearth and lit the lanterns hanging on the walls against the encroaching night. He’d shed his coat, and dark smudges marred the paleness of his shirt. Her eyes darted to his panel, but as usual, he had covered it with a long sheet. She had no idea why he insisted on hiding his work, but she was certainly not going to ask and risk another tirade.

She eyed him warily, making no move to descend.

His own gaze examined her work behind her. “An impressive start, Mr. Beaumont.”

“Thank you.” Still, Charlotte hesitated, unsure what he wanted from her. Unsure she wanted to engage in any sort of conversation about any part of his life that wasn’t related to the panels behind her.

He held a mug out to her. “I come in peace.” Charlotte supposed that was as close to an apology as she was going to get. Her stomach suddenly rumbled in hunger, and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything all day, too absorbed in her work. She left her tins and charcoal on the scaffold and climbed down.

She accepted the mug from his hands, careful not to touch him, and let the warmth seep into her skin. She took a tentative sip of the steaming tea, closing her eyes briefly in appreciation. He had brewed it strong, exactly how she liked it.

“Lady Cecelia Mountbatten was my…lover.” Rutledge said it flatly—how he might describe a pebble in his shoe that had been difficult to dislodge.

Charlotte studied him over the rim, trying to determine why he was telling her this and what it was he wanted her to say. I’m sorry seemed a possibility, given his tone. She didn’t know Lady Cecelia Mountbatten personally, had never met her, but she’d overheard someone mention her many years prior. The widow of the Earl of Boyle was as famous for her dalliances with artists and actors as she was for her wealth. Though details of those dalliances had never interested Charlotte. Until now.

Now she found herself suddenly fascinated in a manner that was downright appalling.

“Did you love her?” Charlotte clamped her mouth shut too late. That had been a stupid question to ask. She refused to examine why she had asked it.

Rutledge looked at her sharply. “No. Though there was an unfortunate period of time in which I thought I did. And believed she loved me in return.”

“And the two of you are no longer on…um…ah…intimate terms?” she ventured, trying to better imagine how Charlie Beaumont would respond while ignoring the heat that she could feel climbing into her cheeks.

“No.” A shadow passed over his face. “We’re not.”