The Lady in Red

by Kelly Bowen

  Rutledge didn’t seem to notice. “And I suppose you have suggestions for those things as well.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Some.” She shuffled back just a little farther for good measure. “Lisbon will want a detailed proposal.”

  Rutledge sighed but moved to extract a blank sheet of paper from the pile of drawings he had left on the end of the table. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter 5

  The juxtaposition of these sketches is what will make the completed work compelling.

  That was what Beaumont had said to Flynn in that quiet, utterly unflappable manner of his. But what Flynn was finding compelling was the juxtaposition that seemed to be Charlie Beaumont.

  The eloquence of his words and the careful thought he seemed to give each sentence that came out of his mouth were not what he might have expected from a boy from Aysgarth. Though assumptions were rarely wise or valuable. Perhaps the time Beaumont had spent in the presence of rich, titled families, like the one he had traveled with to Italy, had educated him. Or perhaps his fine speech, like his artistic skill, had also been self-taught, to better appeal to his wealthy and elite clients.

  Though if he was trying to appeal to wealthy clients, his appearance was an oddity. The baggy clothes that Beaumont wore did nothing to make him look older, which is what Flynn guessed was his intent. In fact, the shapeless garments made him look even younger—like a boy playing dress up. Surely when Beaumont had traveled to Italy with his rich clients, he had not dressed like that, given the effort that he had put into his speech? Surely, somewhere, he had a coat and trousers that fit properly?

  And surely Flynn had better things to be worried about than what Charlie Beaumont wore. Or how he spoke.

  Or how his gentleness seemed to snuff every single fight that Flynn was spoiling for.

  He groaned and rubbed his temples, staring up at the empty space at the end of the nave, the walls waiting for something that truly deserved his concern and attention. Something that really did need to be…compelling.

  “Mr. Rutledge.” Henry Lisbon jolted him out of his musings, and Flynn turned to find the architect walking toward him, looking somewhat harried as usual.

  “Lisbon.” Flynn pushed himself away from the back of the pew he had been leaning against.

  The architect held out the drawings and detailed proposal Rutledge had submitted to him that morning. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes to it all. Save for the gilding on the panel edges—no one wished to spend additional money. But the directors and the clergy, down to the last man, are thrilled with the concept. A brilliant idea.”

  Flynn felt a muscle in his jaw flex. Of course they were thrilled. “I must confess, the concept idea was Mr. Beaumont’s.”

  “Indeed? Then I am pleased to hear that the two of you are working together so well.” Lisbon was peering at him intently.

  “Of course.” What else was he going to say?

  Lisbon was still studying him closely. “You see no problems moving forward with the work?” he asked. “With Mr. Beaumont?”

  What kind of question was that? “No,” Flynn said, trying to cover his irritation.

  “I trust you’ve found his work to be…satisfactory?” It was said with a bit of an edge.

  “Indeed.”

  “And he has, for all his youth, thus far conducted himself in a professional manner as I, and our clients, expect?”

  His teeth clenched. “Yes.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” The architect pulled his coat closer around him. “You’ll advise me when there is a preliminary mock-up of the panels?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Flynn tucked the drawings under his arm. “We’ll get started immediately.”

  Flynn retreated from the church, his strides eating up the ground. Despite his initial discontent, a familiar feeling was starting to unfurl, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. The thrill of a new project soared within him, accompanied by the anticipation of being able to do what he loved more than anything in the world. Confidence that he possessed all the skill to make it as incredible as he wished it to be. Eagerness to simply…create, now that he had a direction.

  With a bit of a start, he realized that he was suddenly grinning like a fool.

  Flynn shoved open the door of the makeshift studio. “Good news, Mr. Beaumont—” He stopped abruptly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Charlie Beaumont jumped slightly though he didn’t turn. He had a number of Flynn’s sketches laid out before him, the sketches that Flynn had failed to put away earlier and had carelessly left on the end of the table.

  “She’s quite beautiful,” Beaumont murmured quietly. “Who is she?”

  Flynn stalked to the table and swept the sketches into his hands in a single movement. “None of your goddamn business,” he snarled. He gathered the rest of his drawings and stuffed them back into his satchel. “You had no right to look at them. No right to touch them.”

  “You left them on the table,” Beaumont pointed out mildly.

  “That didn’t give you leave to pry.” He was almost shouting, even as he realized that his anger was aimed inwardly. Truth was, he should have burned those drawings long ago.

  “My apologies, Mr. Rutledge.” Beaumont retreated back toward the panels. “It was not my intent to cause you grief over so personal a matter.”

  “It’s not personal, dammit,” he snapped. At least, not anymore. Cecelia had made that abundantly clear. Belatedly, and with no little dismay, Flynn wondered if Beaumont’s efforts to convince him he was a stranger had been a ploy. Wondered if the boy was already privy to the rumors that seemed to dog Flynn everywhere he went. If he already suspected who the woman in the drawings was and was merely baiting Flynn or seeking confirmation. “And it’s none of your concern.”

  “Of course,” Beaumont replied quietly. “Again, my apologies.”

  Flynn searched the boy’s words for sarcasm or judgment but found only distant civility. Which made him feel even worse. He closed his eyes briefly. He was being absurd and had only succeeded in making an utter fool of himself. Even if Beaumont knew exactly who he was and had heard every scandalous, duplicitous detail, it was long in the past and irrelevant to the here and now. He needed to pull himself together.

  “You will be pleased to hear that Lisbon has endorsed our proposal,” Flynn said, trying for a more conciliatory manner. “All the detailed plans save for the gilding on the edges.”

  “That is indeed pleasing.” Beaumont’s voice was devoid of inflection.

  “He is anxious for us to start.”

  The boy turned away from him. “As am I.”

  Chapter 6

  Charlotte successfully avoided Flynn Rutledge for the next two days.

  Well, perhaps avoided was a bit of an exaggeration for two people sharing the same space, but at no point in time did they trade any words other than a good morning and a good night. As it was, the days passed in a blur, Charlotte completely losing track of the time, as she was often wont to do when she became immersed in a project. Minutes and hours ceased to have meaning. She was aware of nothing save for the scratch of charcoal over the smooth oak surface, the crinkle of paper as she consulted her detailed sketches, and the soft creaking of the wooden boards on the scaffold as she moved across them.

  It wasn’t until her eyes started to ache at the end of the second day that she realized she had lost almost all of her natural light.

  She sat back, balancing on the middle span of the scaffold, her cramped muscles protesting loudly. She winced, but even the discomfort couldn’t diminish the rush of pleasure she felt as her eyes roamed over her work. The initial sketch across the panel was complete, black lines waiting to be brought to life by color. Her fingers, tired as they were, already itched for her brushes.

  “Lady Cecelia Mountbatten.”

  Charlotte jerked, her pulse skipping. While she worked, she had mercifully forgotten about Flynn Rutledge
and his mercurial temper. Had she known how defensive and furious he would get over those drawings, she wouldn’t have come within ten feet of them. She hadn’t had any interest in a confrontation then, and she certainly didn’t want to confront him now. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The woman in the drawings.”

  Charlotte turned carefully on the platform to find Rutledge looking up at her, holding two steaming mugs. With a start, she saw that at some point he must have fed the fire in the hearth and lit the lanterns hanging on the walls against the encroaching night. He’d shed his coat, and dark smudges marred the paleness of his shirt. Her eyes darted to his panel, but as usual, he had covered it with a long sheet. She had no idea why he insisted on hiding his work, but she was certainly not going to ask and risk another tirade.

  She eyed him warily, making no move to descend.

  His own gaze examined her work behind her. “An impressive start, Mr. Beaumont.”

  “Thank you.” Still, Charlotte hesitated, unsure what he wanted from her. Unsure she wanted to engage in any sort of conversation about any part of his life that wasn’t related to the panels behind her.

  He held a mug out to her. “I come in peace.” Charlotte supposed that was as close to an apology as she was going to get. Her stomach suddenly rumbled in hunger, and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything all day, too absorbed in her work. She left her tins and charcoal on the scaffold and climbed down.

  She accepted the mug from his hands, careful not to touch him, and let the warmth seep into her skin. She took a tentative sip of the steaming tea, closing her eyes briefly in appreciation. He had brewed it strong, exactly how she liked it.

  “Lady Cecelia Mountbatten was my…lover.” Rutledge said it flatly—how he might describe a pebble in his shoe that had been difficult to dislodge.

  Charlotte studied him over the rim, trying to determine why he was telling her this and what it was he wanted her to say. I’m sorry seemed a possibility, given his tone. She didn’t know Lady Cecelia Mountbatten personally, had never met her, but she’d overheard someone mention her many years prior. The widow of the Earl of Boyle was as famous for her dalliances with artists and actors as she was for her wealth. Though details of those dalliances had never interested Charlotte. Until now.

  Now she found herself suddenly fascinated in a manner that was downright appalling.

  “Did you love her?” Charlotte clamped her mouth shut too late. That had been a stupid question to ask. She refused to examine why she had asked it.

  Rutledge looked at her sharply. “No. Though there was an unfortunate period of time in which I thought I did. And believed she loved me in return.”

  “And the two of you are no longer on…um…ah…intimate terms?” she ventured, trying to better imagine how Charlie Beaumont would respond while ignoring the heat that she could feel climbing into her cheeks.

  “No.” A shadow passed over his face. “We’re not.”

  “Ah.” Charlotte took another sip so that she didn’t have to say anything else. What could she say? What did men say to each other in situations like this? Bloody hell, Charlotte didn’t even know what women said to each other in situations like this.

  “Are you a virgin, Beaumont?” Rutledge asked, his grey eyes almost silver in the low light.

  “What?” The heat in her cheeks turned into an uncontrollable inferno, even as she tried to reason that Charlie Beaumont would probably not be embarrassed by the question. In the next heartbeat, Charlotte felt the color leach from her face as quickly as it had risen as a new possibility occurred to her. Holy gods above. Surely Rutledge was not going to propose a night of debauchery? A visit to a brothel? That aside from an apologetic cup of tea, he had taken it in his head to introduce Charlie Beaumont to the delights of the fairer sex while banishing the unpleasant memory of his mistress?

  “No,” she blurted before she caught herself. “No,” she said again, this time trying to achieve the casual flippancy that she imagined Charlie Beaumont would display. Even as Charlotte Beaumont spoke a truth that, until this moment, no one else in the world knew. There was a liberating irony in that.

  Though Charlotte wasn’t entirely sure how much a single afternoon counted against Rutledge’s apparent experience. An afternoon when Allan, the bookseller’s son, had led her deep into the Aysgarth dales and, in the privacy of a sun-dappled clearing, kissed her until she was dizzy. And then his hands had come to rest nervously against the ties of her dress, asking permission. Young and drunk on the idea of love, she had nodded, undoing the first knot herself.

  “You’re not married, are you?” Rutledge asked, interrupting her reverie and looking as though he found that possibility absurd. He wouldn’t be the first, Charlotte thought, though not for the reasons he thought. Allan had shyly asked her to wait for him to return from the wars, and Charlotte had agreed to that too. He’d been killed in Vitoria two months later.

  No one had asked since then. For her hand in marriage or otherwise.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You have a girl waiting on you somewhere?”

  “No.” She didn’t have anyone waiting on her. Anywhere.

  “You’re better off, you know,” Rutledge muttered. “Women can’t be trusted.”

  Charlotte felt her brows shoot upward. “That’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”

  “You’re right.” Rutledge stared darkly into his tea. “Rich, titled women can’t be trusted,” he amended. “For they are all conniving, duplicitous creatures.”

  Charlotte’s fingers tightened on her mug. That was a little unfair too. But she bit her tongue on behalf of a boy from Aysgarth who would probably not have reason to have an opinion. She should go now. Nod and make some sort of noise that would neither agree nor disagree and then remove herself. She really didn’t need to argue, and she certainly didn’t need to know what lay between a capricious widow and a gifted artist to make him so bitter. What his rich, titled mistress had done to wound him so deeply was none of her business.

  “I must assume it is the Lady Cecelia who has inspired such…umbrage?” Morbid curiosity triumphed over good sense.

  “Of course it is.” His eyes snapped up, narrowed and mocking. “You really haven’t heard the tales? About me? About us?”

  Suddenly clouding her vision was an image of Rutledge in all his golden glory, reclining on satin sheets, the dark-haired Lady Cecelia peeling away his clothes as he kissed her senseless. The expected rush of horrified embarrassment that should have followed that was strangely absent. In its place was a feeling of…jealousy. A deep, inexplicable longing to know what it might feel like to be seduced by Flynn Rutledge. To be expertly kissed by a man capable of the deep, intense emotion that she had already glimpsed in his work. To be taken to bed and caressed by his clever hands, his long fingers gliding over her bare skin, toying and teasing, his body moving deep inside hers. To be tasted and touched and treasured and—

  “I have not heard the tales,” Charlotte said, realizing that her breathing wasn’t entirely even. Her breasts ached beneath their bindings, and a pulsing need had settled deep at the juncture of her thighs. Good God, what was wrong with her? She squared her shoulders. “And I cannot imagine that it is either fair or reasonable to assume Lady Cecelia Mountbatten represents the…integrity or decency of all titled women. Or women of any sort, really.” Charlotte wished those words back the second they escaped. She had promised herself that she would not pick a fight with this man. It was injudicious, and one wrong step could cost her everything. But combative was better than besotted. Besotted was beyond foolish.

  Besotted was insane.

  Rutledge was giving her a hard look. “Right.”

  Charlotte couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or serious. But his belligerence and hostility were certainly back in full force. “Look, Mr. Rutledge, I am here to work. I am not your enemy. I am not here to judge you. For your past or anyone who may be a part of it. Your privacy, beyond what
you wish to share, is just that. Yours.”

  He hadn’t looked away from her but had gone eerily still. “I think you actually mean that.”

  “I am not in the habit of lying.” Charlotte bit her lip against the jarring self-reproach that assailed her. For now, she would not consider herself guilty of lying by omission. Circumstance required it. “I only ask that you grant me the same privacy,” she continued. “I know better than anyone what it feels like to be judged not on merit but on…appearances.” At least that was the truth.

  He had the grace to redden slightly. “Yes,” he said slowly. “That’s fair.”

  “Thank you.” Though if the worst happened, if her true identity was discovered, she doubted that he would still agree. She didn’t think he would be quite so benevolent should she be revealed as a rich, titled woman.

  “You should know that Lady Cecelia was—is—a woman with unlimited wealth and vast connections. She is an enthusiastic patron of the arts,” Rutledge said with a twist to his lips. “And as such, there are many who accused me of using her to advance my career. Accused me of sleeping with her to gain entrance to the hallowed halls of society where our sort will never be welcome.”

  “You don’t need to tell me—”

  “I want to.” He had a strange expression on his face. “You are bound to hear it eventually, and I would prefer you hear it from me. I would prefer that—” He stopped. “I did not use her. She used me. Fancied me as nothing more than a wicked diversion, something more scintillating than the civilized gentlemen who pursued her. And something easily cast aside and replaced when she tired of it.”

  “I’m sorry.” This time Charlotte did say it. Because being cast aside by those who were supposed to love you was something that she understood better than anyone.