She would not discuss how Flynn Rutledge had changed her. She would not examine the love and the joy that had set her heart and her mind soaring. She would not dissect the trust and the faith that had made her believe—truly believe—that she could do more. That she could be more. She would not dwell on the knowledge that she had been gifted with all those things and had let them all slip away. Because in the end, she hadn’t been brave or confident or courageous. In the end, she hadn’t reinvented herself at all. In the end, she had been a coward.

She withdrew the original missive that he had sent her and set it on the desk. “May we get on to the business at hand?”

King watched her for a moment more before he moved, settling himself behind his desk. “By all means, Lady Charlotte.”

“I prefer Charlie. Charlotte, if you must.” She held her head high, as if that gesture could overcome the relentless pain that had lodged deep within her heart and would never leave. “Lady Charlotte posted a letter to London from Coventry informing her family that she was seeking her fortunes abroad. Lady Charlotte, as she once was, no longer exists.”

“Very well.” His eyes slid from her hair to her baggy coat and trousers once more.

“Good. I understand you have a painting for me to forge.”

*  *  *

Flynn looked around the cramped space of his rented London rooms.

There was nothing that he wished to take with him. Nothing that he regretted leaving behind.

Liar, a little voice in his head whispered. He was leaving love behind.

His eye fell on the small canvas that lay flat on the top of a table, the figure of Adam reaching out to be touched. Unable to help himself, he picked it up. He hadn’t known what to do with it. He still didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy it, nor could he bring himself to pack it away. Instead, he found himself gazing at it more than was healthy or smart. Because every time he looked at the painting, doubt crowded in, making him question his decisions.

He closed his eyes, unwilling to think on it any longer. No matter her protestations and declarations, love meant trust. Trust meant truth. And in the end, Lady Charlotte Beaumont hadn’t been able to give him that. He needed to forget her.

He set the painting inside an open trunk and slammed the lid with too much force. Charlotte Beaumont was nothing but a mistake.

Then why was this so hard? And why did leaving feel like the mistake?

There was a soft knock on his door, and Flynn almost tripped in his haste to answer it. God, he needed a diversion. Any sort of diversion. He yanked open the door.

And recoiled. Any diversion but this.