Lisbon made a face. “That’s too bad. I could have saved her the trip. I was just there.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a missive sealed with a blob of scarlet wax, a small emblem of a crown pressed into its surface. “This was waiting for her.” He passed the letter to Flynn. “I trust you can see that she gets this?”

“Of course,” Flynn replied. Idly, he turned the letter over in his hands, L. C. Beaumont written in neat, precise script across the front. Idly, he wondered what the L stood for.

“I wanted to thank you again for your progressive objectivity, Mr. Rutledge,” Lisbon said. “There are many men who have and would have refused to work with a woman. Your decency and honor once her identity was revealed are to be commended.”

Flynn continued to stare down at the neat lettering, quite sure Lisbon wouldn’t think him honorable or decent if he knew just how much of Charlotte Beaumont had been revealed. And how much she had enjoyed every minute of it. Repeatedly. He had made sure of that.

“Given your tribulations with the Lady Cecelia and her ilk, I wasn’t sure you would be quite so forgiving,” Lisbon said.

Flynn raised his head, frowning. “Charlotte has absolutely nothing in common with Lady Cecelia,” Flynn said, a little harsher than he had intended.

“I’m glad you could recognize that,” Lisbon said with a brisk nod, “given the trouble she went through to hide both her gender and her title for this opportunity.” The architect jammed his hat back on his head. “I must be off again. See that our Charlie gets her letter, aye?”

Flynn might have nodded, but ice had crystallized in his veins and everything seemed to have slowed. Betrayal cut deep, confusion and hurt and anger bleeding from the gaping wound.

Outside, the wind rattled a shutter somewhere, and sleet continued to batter the windows. Minutes passed. Or maybe it was hours.

“Flynn?” The sound of his name brought his head around. Where Lisbon had been, Charlotte now stood, pink faced from the cold, wrapped in a warm coat and looking at him with concern. “Are you all right?”

“You lied.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What is your name?” he hissed.

“Flynn, what—”

“What is your name?”

“Charlotte. Beaumont.” Her face had gone pale. “Why are—”

“Your whole name.”

Her warm eyes dropped to the paper in his hands. He could see a muscle working along the side of her cheek. “Lady Charlotte Beaumont,” she said evenly. “Daughter of the Earl and Countess of Edgerton.” Her eyes climbed back to his. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

It was suddenly hard to breathe. She wasn’t at all who she had pretended to be. Every whispered promise, every shared confidence, every piece of what he had believed to be real had been built on a foundation of lies. He had been played the fool.

Again.