Bull scowled as he crossed his arms. “Aye. Ye think the Portrait Gallery will hold clues?”
For the first time since laying eyes on the painting the other man glanced his way. Just a brief glance, not long enough to study his features beneath that outrageous mustache, but a glance nonetheless.
“Yes,” he finally said quietly. “If I can find another piece done in a similar style—perhaps with that ruby necklace,among the donated and lesser-known rooms—we will have a better understanding of her identity.”
We.
Bull’s lips curled into a snarl, which he hid by pretending to dig through the drawer, at the thought of having to work with this man.Why? He had friends in all walks of life, and Bull prided himself on how fookinglikablehe was. He genuinely enjoyed the company of others and meeting new people, so why in the shite were his hackles raised by this mousey little scholar and his unfashionable facial hair?
“Tomorrow, then,” he finally agreed, yanking his wallet from the drawer and bumping it closed. “Ten o’clock, outside the gallery. How much do I owe ye for consultation?”
To his surprise, Hoyle waved a gloved hand dismissively, eyes not even glancing at the money. “I do not need to be paid. I enjoy the study.”
Bull raised a brow at Merida, who shrugged helplessly, looking a little sick. “Artists, eh? So eccentric.”
Artists. Fook me sideways.
Tomorrow’s trip to the National Portrait Gallery had better yield results. Not only did he want this mystery solved and relieve the tension on Rupert and Allie’s shoulders, he wanted to spend as little time as possible with Merida’sfriend.
Just get it over with.
Aye, tomorrow.
CHAPTER 3
The National Portrait Gallery had always been a comforting place for Rosie. Granted, its looming façade and echoing halls might not normally be considered traditionallycozy, but she’d fallen in love with the place the first time Mother had brought her here, many years ago, and each time she stepped foot in the marble entryway, she smiled.
Growing up, she’d learned that Da didn’t like to leave Endymion—a tad reclusiveis what her mother used to say. After the scandal which had brought them together, Mother had always seemed content to stay on the estate as well. But Da’s mother—Grandmere, she insisted on being called, despite not having a lick of French blood in her—lived in London and would often host Rosie.
Da stayed resolutely home during those excursions.
After Aunt Kit—really, Mother’s cousin—had inherited Bonkinbone, Mother had moved her ancestors’ portraits to Endymion since Kit had no connection or interest in them.Young Rosie used to spend hours sitting in front of those silent stares; at first she’d been trying to connect with her great-great-great-great-whatever…but soon she began to compare the painting styles and changes in portraiture from one generation to the next.
When Mother had realized her interest, it was logical to take her to London and the National Portrait Gallery. The place had always been a bit like a second or third home to Rosie…
Except today.
Today, her stomach was in knots, her head was aching, and she was in very real danger of losing her breakfast…and all thanks to the man who strode into the Gallery beside her.
Or perhaps it was the mustache.
Who would have guessed how much this damn thing coulditch?
“And will ye be bothering to remove yer outerwear today?” Bull asked as he shrugged out of his own coat, his expression mild. “Or are ye going to stay bundled up like a turtle again?”
Rosie found herself gripping the coat Merida had borrowed from God knew where, hunching her shoulders so the collar covered more of her neck and chin. Sheknewit was too big for her, but that was why it was so useful in hiding her identity. Meri had assured her that between the bulkiness of the coat, the big mustache, and the shadowy hat, no one—not even Bull—would be able to guess her identity.
Bull snorted something which sounded rude and turned toward the cloakroom.
She wasn’t naive enough to relax.
But the disguisehaddone its job, she had to admit. Bull thought her eccentric and strange, but didn’t appear to have a clue as to her identity. There had to be some irony in there, considering how many stories she’d heard over the years of howhe’demployed disguises in his cases. Why, Aunt Kit and Uncle Thorne loved to tell of how he’d made a ballgown to fool her father…
Yesterday, Rosie had thought she might hyperventilate, she’d been so nervous to step into Bull’s office. It had been her first time there, although Merida had told her all about it. Bull had made it clear years before that he would not allow any of the younger generation to be involved in his dangerous career…Meri was the only exception, and then only because she was tangentially related and a world-class artist.
And she’d stood at Rosie’s side, protecting her.
Truthfully, as soon as Rosie had seen that portrait, she’d forgotten to be nervous. The woman in the painting hadn’t lookedexactlylike Mother, not at all…but from a distance there’d been enough of a resemblance to shock Rosie, and she’d been surprised Meri—with her artist’s eye—hadn’t seen it at first.
