Soldier and savior.
Both completed and both to be left behind on the morrow. The scaffolds had been taken apart and removed, the tables of paints and brushes and thinners tidied and packed. The clergy and the church directors had been brought through the studio yesterday for a final viewing, and Lisbon had relayed that they had been utterly astounded and captivated by the finished paintings.
As they should, Flynn thought with steady appraisal. This portrayal of an archangel rising up in furious defiance was Flynn’s finest work yet. And on the other side, another portrayal of that same archangel reaching out across the heavens, offering a soul a chance at redemption. On their own, each painting was extraordinary. Together, they were breathtaking.
Which described the last two months entirely. Months that had been unlike anything Flynn had ever experienced, and it was because of Charlotte. She had been his friend and his lover. His teacher and his student. The one person who managed to argue and encourage all at the same time. She had never asked him to be anything he wasn’t. Never allowed him to doubt himself. Believed in him wholeheartedly.
And though it was a bittersweet moment to leave these paintings behind, he knew that he would never, ever, be able to leave Charlotte Beaumont.
They had not spoken of love, and Flynn had cursed himself for his lack of courage. For all the emotion that he had poured out onto that panel for utter strangers to gaze upon, he had been unable to expose what lay in the very depths of his heart to the single person who mattered most. He would remedy that now, he vowed. She needed to know how he felt about her. How he had fallen completely, helplessly in love with her. Because he was not ready for them to be over. He didn’t think he ever would be.
A familiar knock sounded. “Come in, Mr. Lisbon,” he said over his shoulder.
Henry Lisbon let himself into the studio, his boots echoing as he hurriedly crossed the floor. “Admiring your work, Mr. Rutledge?”
“Yes,” Flynn said simply.
“As you should. I can’t wait to see these hung. You and Beaumont have outdone yourselves,” Lisbon said with satisfaction as he took his sleet-covered hat from his head.
Flynn only nodded.
“Is Beaumont here?” Lisbon asked, jerking his head toward the room that Charlotte hadn’t slept in for a long time.
“She is not. She has gone to post a letter.”
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.
He tossed the letter in her direction. “That was what I wanted to hear months ago. Before you lied to me and then kept lying. You’re one of them.”
“I’m not.”
“Was I an adventure for you too? A titillating, erogenous experience on the wrong side of civilized before you wed a man twice your age for his money and his wealth?”
“You think I’m like her? Like Cecelia?” she whispered, her eyes pools of brown against a pale face.
He didn’t think that, did he? But fury and shame were making it hard to think. She had lied. Over and over. And he had trusted her. Trusted her with his secrets and bared all the dark parts of his soul where insecurity and fear and vulnerability lay.
And she hadn’t even trusted him with the truth. With her bloody name.
“You would think I would have learned by now,” he said, running a hand through his hair in agitation. “You would think I’d be able to know when I am being used.”
“I never used you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You want to know why I didn’t tell you who I was?” she asked, her voice rising. “Because Lady Charlotte no longer exists. Lady Charlotte was a miserable, isolated woman who was nothing but a disappointment and a duty to her family.” Her expression was stark. “It was simply Charlie Beaumont from Aysgarth who came to Coventry. To stand on her own two feet and to be judged by her work and her character, unfettered by bias.” She took a shuddering breath. “I am exactly who you know me to be.”
“I have no idea who you are.”
She looked as though he had struck her. “I am the woman who loves you.”
“Loves me?” he sneered, something withering in him. “You don’t love me. You never even trusted me.”
She looked at him sadly. “And if I had told you my name at the very beginning? Would you have reacted any different than you have now? Would you even have spoken to me? Or would the demons from your past have simply become mine earlier?”
Flynn’s fists clenched and unclenched. He spun, heading for the door. He couldn’t stand here in the face of her duplicity. Worse, he couldn’t stand knowing that he didn’t have an answer to her question.
“I regret that I didn’t tell you my name. I regret that mistake, and I regret that you’ve chosen to believe the worst of me,” she said to his back.
He paused at the door, pride not allowing him to turn around.
“But I don’t regret falling in love with you, Flynn.”
He stepped out into the sleet and didn’t look back.