Wordlessly, Charlotte returned to the bookcase and pulled the cloth from the second painting. She let the fabric fall to the floor, and the silence that followed was absolute. The woman in this painting gazed past her nude reflection in a mirror, as if searching for someone just beyond the frame. Her fingers played wistfully with a single strand of pearls at her throat, each tiny orb as lustrous as her skin. She sat against a background of deep midnight, a robe of rich garnet covering her lap, both the perfect foil for her fairness.

“You know what this is,” Charlotte said into the deafening silence.

“Yes,” King replied quietly, his eyes not straying from the painting. “I was told that this version was lost. And it was certainly not in the attics of Jasper House. My men would have found it.”

“No,” she said. “It was hidden in my rooms. My aunt had ordered it destroyed. Nudity of any sort offends her.”

King hadn’t yet moved. “This isn’t a forgery.”

“No,” Charlotte agreed, unsure if that was a question. “I have not yet attempted a Titian.”

The clock in the corner ticked on.

“There are two conditions that go with this painting,” Charlotte said into the quiet.

She saw King’s hand tighten on the top of his walking stick. “Conditions from a woman who comes begging my favor?”

“I trust a lost Titian should recompense any insult.”

His impenetrable gaze slid back to her then.

She didn’t wait for him to respond. “One, at no point in time should my name ever come up in conversation outside this room,” she said, repeating the words he had said to her what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Invent an acquisition story for this work that does not involve me.”

“And the other?” He looked almost amused now.

“When you sell this painting, you will not auction it off like a pretty mare in a Tattersalls ring.”

His amusement slipped, and red-gold brows rose. “And just what, Lady Charlotte, do you propose I do with it?”

“Sell it to someone who understands the deeper story that lies within this canvas.”

“Which is what?” He was studying her keenly.

“That love cannot be found in a beautiful reflection.”

King regarded her, his austere features revealing nothing of his thoughts. “Very well,” he said. “I will meet your conditions, and your Madonna will grace the walls of the Royal Academy within a fortnight hence. With all the appropriate fanfare.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve changed, Lady Charlotte,” King said abruptly.

“Yes,” she replied, because it was the only thing she could say.