“Don’t touch it. It will be sore for a while. And then it will itch like hell. The stitches can come out in maybe ten days, so long as it heals properly.”

“How do you know how to do this?” she asked.

He had his back to her, and she could hear the sounds of water in the basin as he washed his hands. At her question, his movements ceased before they resumed again, unhurried. He dried his hands on a rag and finally turned, his eyes the color of storm clouds. He bent and plucked a bottle of whiskey from the floor next to her bed and dragged the chair he’d just occupied toward himself. He sat, crossing his booted foot over his knee, and brought the whiskey to his lips.

“I know how to do this because I grew up in a part of London where a soul might slit the throat of another for the chance to survive another day,” he said when he lowered the bottle. “A part of London my mother left every evening so that she could sell herself to wealthy men who preferred not to stray so far into the rookeries. Doctors didn’t like that part of London either. Necessity is a powerful motivator.” He took another swig of whiskey. “Your turn for a truth, Charlie.”

Charlotte forced her features to remain neutral, unsure if he was testing her or trusting her with that sudden confession. “As a woman and an artist, the opportunities beyond tepid watercolors are somewhat lacking. I did what I had to do to obtain this commission,” she said evenly. “Necessity is a powerful motivator.”

Rutledge dropped his gaze, studying the bottle in his hands. He tapped his fingers on the glass; his forehead creased. “Does Lisbon know? That you are a woman?”

“Yes.” There was no reason to lie. Rutledge could ask Lisbon himself. “I’m not the first he’s hired.”

Rutledge seemed to absorb that. “And you didn’t think you could trust me with the truth?”

“I didn’t know you.”

“You know me now.”

“I do. And I can tell that you’re angry.” She couldn’t say she blamed him.

His answer was slow to come. “I was,” he said eventually.

Charlotte frowned. “But you’re not anymore?”

“You lied to me.” He said it more as a statement than an accusation.

“I never lied to you,” she replied haltingly. “Everything I told you was true. Except my name. That wasn’t the whole truth.” And it still isn’t, a small voice in the back of her mind accused. You haven’t yet told him that you’re a lady. Though given how he felt about titled women, she was not about to mention it now and make this worse. That truth would keep for a bit longer.

“It’s the same thing,” he said, and he wasn’t wrong.