He raised his hands to his face and pressed his fingers into his eyes hard enough that spots danced. He cursed and let his hands fall, spinning quickly enough to startle a flock of well-dressed matrons who were pressing toward the dais. He ignored the infuriated gasps as he shoved his way back through the crowd. He would fix this. He would find her and—

“Mr. Rutledge.”

The man was standing just inside the hall, as though he had been waiting for Flynn. He could have been a Tudor prince, given his expensively tailored clothing, his aquiline features, and the confident ease in which he moved, an ebony walking stick held loosely in his hand.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Flynn replied.

“Hmmm.” The man made no effort to introduce himself but merely gazed in the direction of the portrait on the far side of the room, impossible to see now behind the crush. “I must say, your work did not disappoint. Haunting. Compelling. You have bent the light to your will with a mastery very few possess.”

“Thank you.” Flynn frowned. “But if you’ll excuse me, I—”

“Leaving in such a hurry?” The man tapped his fingers on the head of his walking stick. “I would have thought you’d wish to linger. Bask in your newfound success, as it were. Even without the rumors of royal patronage, you’ll have lords and ladies falling all over themselves for a piece of you. It was, after all, the purpose of this exercise, was it not?”

“No. It wasn’t the purpose at all.”

“Ah.” Pale blue eyes probed his. “I wondered.”

Flynn bit back a retort. This man didn’t know him, and Flynn certainly wasn’t about to explain himself to him, whoever he was. Nor was he going to waste any more time. He needed to find—

“Charlie Beaumont.”

For an agonizing moment, Flynn thought his heart might have stopped in his chest. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Charlie Beaumont. I understand that he was your partner for the St. Michael’s commission.”

Flynn felt a peculiar feeling winding through him. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“You might find it of interest then to know that I have since hired him,” he replied, ignoring Flynn’s question.

“For what? Where?” Flynn was trying to keep his expression neutral, but even he could hear the rough desperation in his voice. “Where is s—he?”

“Ah. I wondered at that too,” the Tudor prince murmured, almost too quietly for Flynn to hear. “He was here, as a matter of fact. You just missed him,” he said more clearly. “If you hurry, you might catch—”

Flynn didn’t hear the rest. He was already running.

*  *  *

The carriage was as fine as any Charlotte had ever seen in her life.