Merida was busy hanging her winter coat beside his on the coat rack before she turned back to him with a too-bright grin. “You know how we artists are,” she said airily, “wrapped up in our work.”
Sure enough, across the room Mr. Robert Hoyle was bent toward the portrait. His gloved hands were clasped behind his back, his hair and features hidden under his hat.Mostof his features, at least; all that was visible between his scarf and the brim of his hat was a comically large, bushy mustache.
The crass idiot hadn’t even bothered to remove his outerwear.
He must be absent-minded, indeed. Or too fascinated by the artwork to notice the warmth of the office. After all Mrs. Cartledge, the landlady, kept the fire well-stoked.
Bull’s eyes narrowed.Why does he bother ye so much? Is it because of the way Merida touched him?His eyes flicked to her, just briefly. Were they lovers?
If so, did he care?
Dinnae piss him off before he can identify the artist, eh?
Right: he needed to remember she’d brought Mr. Robert Hoyle here for a reason. Bull rolled his shoulders, trying to control his scowl.
“Who is he, Merida?” he murmured before he could stop himself, flipping the cards to his left hand, then back again. “Ye called him a friend. What kind of friend? Another artist?”
The vivacious redhead glanced at him, then toward where her friend was now sketching his fingers in the air above the brush strokes, and lowered her voice. “No, not Robbie. Little talent with a brush, if I am honest, but an art scholar, Bull. A specialist in thehistoryof art, with a focus on portraiture.”
Bull’s grunt might have been agreement as he studied the back of the man’s be-hatted head. “Sounds perfect for this job.”
“Yes, and I am sorry I could not help you myself. It is outside of my expertise. You know I am not a scholar, Bull.”
Hearing the pained apology in Merida’s voice, Bull closed his hand around the deck of cards, stopping their flight,and turned to her. “Nay.I’msorry I asked ye to do something ye’re no’ comfortable with, and I’m grateful ye ken someone who could help me so quick.”
His smile was easy, and he knew it reflected none of the strange irritation bubbling under his skin at the thought of including this stranger in the investigation. But that was him, wasn’t it? Always hiding. Always keeping a part of himself at arms’ length from the world.
“I would no’ have known where to find someone like…” He jerked his head across the room.
For some reason, Merida’s eyes sparkled with something that looked like humor at his confession as she patted his forearm. “I am gladwecould help, Bull.”
Sliding the deck of cards into his pocket, Bull managed not to roll his eyes or sigh meaningfully or anything like that. Logically, hewaspleased Merida had an expert in exactly what he needed to know. If she hadn’t known this Mr. Robert Hoyle, Bull would have been up shit creek without a paddle.
So why in the hell was there this—this irritation clawing at his chest whenever he glanced at the ‘expert’ with that outrageous mustache? Was it the thought of involving another person in the investigation? Why? He’d employed many experts over the years, often without revealing anything of the investigation to them—but none of them had made his senses heighten and his temper flare. Why didthisone bother him so much, when there was a very good chance this strange little awkward scholar was exactly who he needed?
Because now, thanks to Hoyle, there was a chance at identifying the artist, and thus the subject.
And he very,verymuch wanted to identify the subject.
When the courier had delivered Allie’s package, Bull had laid it out on his desk and eagerly unwrapped it from the packaging…and then stared. Slowly, he’d lifted it into the light, but it hadn’t helped; an inexplicably familiar expression stared back at him from the woman’s face, a face wearing an enigmatic smile he’d seen quite a few times.
A smile he’d seen even more recently, despite his best intentions, in his dreams.
His fingers curled into a fist at his side to keep them from tapping. Now, more than ever, heneededto know who sat for that painting. He needed to know who she was.
Not just for Allie, and Rupert, but for the confusion in his stomach.
“Well?” Bull blurted gruffly, raising his voice so the supposed scholar across the room could hear him. “What can ye tell us about the artist?”
Slowly, the man straightened up from the painting but didn’t turn. “I do not recognize the style,” he finally said, his voice surprisingly low and gruff for how slight he was beneath that thick winter coat. Maybe it became gruffer when it fought its way through the mustache. “It is not one of the greats. Too generic.”
Bull exchanged a glance with Merida who was chewing on her lower lip, looking concerned, before he stalked across the room. “Generic, eh?” he grunted, stopping beside the scholar and staring down at the painting he’d barely been able to drag himself away from. “So ye’re useless.”
“I did not say that.” The man hadn’t looked at him, instead raising one gloved hand to rest on the edge of the frame.Was it Bull’s imagination, or did Hoyle’s fingers shake slightly? “Pay attention. I only said that the artist is not immediately obvious.”
Before Bull could scoff out a reply Merida was suddenly there, pushing between him and Hoyle, forcing Bull to step to the side. “So can you narrow it down?”
The scholar nodded jerkily. “There are…tells. The use of lighting indicates a student of Henry Raeburn, and I recall a vague reference to a ruby necklace in one of my books.” His finger traced the line of the subject’s jaw, a few inches above the painting. “The National Portrait Gallery will have pieces I can compare this one to.”
