“Her smile,” Hoyle corrected. “It is more obvious when you stand back.”
“Herface,” Bull grunted, and realized his fingers had freed themselves from his rigidly controlled fist and were tapping out a tattoo against his thigh. Once again he clenched his fingers, although it didn’t help with the restlessness thrumming through his veins. “She has yer aunt’s eyes. Yer mother’s too.”
Since Merida wasn’t Aunt Danielle’s biological daughter, they didn’t share the same features, not the way Aunt Georgia and Rosie did?—
Stop thinking of Rosie.
The point was—regardless of any resemblance to any women of Bull’s generation who may or may not have names that start with ‘R’, thankyeverramuch—that the woman in the paintingbore a ridiculously strong likeness to Georgia and Danielle.
But how did Hoyle know?
Merida was shaking her head. “That isnotAunt Georgia, nor my mother.”
Bull’s snort was dismissive. “Dinnae be serious. The gown she’s wearing is from at least seventy years ago. That will help us date it.”
“Or she was wearing an old fashioned gown,” Hoyle pointed out. “A very old one.”
But Bull growled, “Ye’re doubtingmysartorial knowledge?” In his youth he’d studied fashion at the famous houses in Europe—not that this codswallop knew that. “That gown appears new in the portrait, and likely made in the first half of the 1830s.”
“No one is doubting you, darling,” Merida said soothingly, patting his arm. “Thatishelpful to identify the artist. Or the woman. At the very least, the era. Mother’s mother was born in the early 1840s?—”
“That isnotyour grandmother,” Hoyle pointed out, still studying the painting. Or was it just that he didn’t want to look over at Merida and Bull?
And how in the shite would thisscholarBull had never heard of know Merida’s grandmother?
Perhaps thereissomething going on romantically between them?
Merida was shaking her head. “Bull, you told us—well, you showed me the letter, and I told Robert—that this was a portrait of Allie’s great-grandfather’s mistress, yes? Our—mygrandmother was married to an Earl. She would nothave permitted herself to be the mistress of a minor Scottish baron.”
“Are you quite sure?” Hoyle asked gruffly before Bull could even open his mouth. “Her husband was not a nice man. She did not have a happy marriage.”
Och, that was enough.Finally Bull whirled on Merida. “How in the shite does yerfriendken so much about yer family, Merida?”
The redhead back away, eyes wide. “What?” she scoffed. “Bull, you and your nonsense! This is hardly a secret! Grandmother was married toBonkinbone, remember?”
Bull remembered. He remembered being sixteen years old and making the split-second decision to kill the man’s brother. Bonkinbone and Blackrose had terrorized his family—hisextendedfamily—for far too long, and that was all he’d been thinking about as he’d thrown that knife into the bastard’s eye to save Princess Louise.
Oh aye, Bull remembered.
“Bonkinbone’s family tree is well known,” he growled, suspicions not lessened. “His personal life—such as how he treated his wife—less so.”
But Merida turned to him, effectively blocking his view of Hoyle, and laid her hand on his forearm comfortingly. “My mother once told me thathermother was raised mostly at boarding schools and Grandmother—who died long before I was born—viewed marriage to Bonkinbone as an escape.”
“Bonkinbone was an arsehole,” Bull muttered, turning away and stalking toward his desk. Anything to move away from the infuriating gentleman in the room.
If he reallywasa gentleman…not just a cad preying on Merida.
“Yes,” Merida called after him, “so imagine how bad her childhood must have been.”
Bull reached into his pocket to pull out the deck of cards, then yanked open a drawer in the desk to drop them in to hide his irritation. “That woman isnae yer grandmother? Ye’re sure?”
From the corner of his eye, Merida shrugged. “I will write to ask Mother more about her parents’ marriage—and no, I will not tell her details of the case.”
Why no’? Ye already told them all to Hoyle, what will it matter?
Bull bit down on the words and nodded stiffly. “Find out if there’s any way her mother might’ve been Allie’s great-grandfather’s mistress. Or was the blackmailer’s letteralllies? But if she’s no’ his mistress, why the fook would Allie’s father have a portrait of an Earl’s wife?”
Still staring at the portrait, Hoyle shifted his weight, looking ridiculous all bundled up in his outerwear. “So we are back to the artist. If we can identify the painter, we might have a better clue as to the sitter.”
