Up until that moment, Bull’s case had been…well,Bull’scase. Yes, Rosie had met Allie a number of times and wished the woman well, especially now she was officially joining the family. But this whole adventure—the trip to London, themustachefor goodness’ sake…it had all been just to trick Bull into letting her use her knowledge to help solvehis case.
To crow over his ignorance when it was revealed that he owed her his solve.
But the moment Rosie had looked into the eyes of that mysterious woman, eyes which looked so much like her mother’s, something had changed.
This wasn’t just Bull’s case anymore. It washers, and she was determined to learn the mystery woman’s identity.
For herself, and for her mother.
Not for the first time in the last few hours, Rosie wracked her brain, trying to remember if the woman had appeared in any of the portraits in Endymion’s halls?—
“Where do we go first?”
Rosie jumped as Bull appeared at her side but tried to cover it by springing into motion, scurrying toward the hall to one side. It felt so strange to walk in trousers, but the overcoat at least mimicked the skirts she was used to, and she found herself kicking the wool out of the way. Consciously deepening her words, she muttered, “This way.”
“Ye ken where ye’re going?” Bull asked mildly, striding along beside her, his never-still fingers flipping through a pamphlet from the Gallery.
Rosie took the time to clear her throat, lowering her voice as much as possible. “Our mystery artist will not be in the main halls, I can identify those artists without trouble. We are going to visit the halls with the donated pieces and the lesser-known artists.”
Bull’s only response was a grunt, and when they stepped into the first room, Rosie felt herself relaxing. Yes, she waswalking around in boots too big for her, and was mere moments away from sneezing her mustache off: but she washome.
“Fook me,” Bull muttered at her side. “There’s hundreds of them. We have to look at all of these?”
She was fairly certain the mustache hid her smirk as she watched him tip his head back to study the portraits along the top row nearest the ceiling.
“Ihave to look at all of these,” she corrected in that silly fake voice Merida had coached her on. “It will not take too long, if you want to sit.”
“I dinnaesit,” Bull huffed, his hand delving into a pocket. “And when ye get tired of looking at faces, see if ye can learn anything from this.”
When she took the proffered item, Rosie made certain their fingers didn’t touch. She hunched her shoulders and ducked her head as she opened the note—theblackmail demand. Her eyes flicked across the words, noting there was nothing there Merida hadn’t told her already.
“Um. Thank you.” She shuffled backwards, already glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll…uh…”
Bull made a little shooing gesture, and Rosie breathed a sigh of relief as she scuttled toward one corner to begin her methodical examination. She’d been in this room before, of course, but since these pieces weren’t arranged in any sort of logical order—with the artists or sitters mostly irrelevant—they were of less use to a student of art history.
But she could put her expert knowledge to use.
Rosie pressed her three fingertips to the hair glued beneath her nose, and hoped to goodness she wouldn’t sneeze.
If you want to sit?
Bull scowled at the dumpy short figure across the gallery. They weren’t alone in this room—he’d already studied and dismissed as dangers the young woman sketching in the far corner, and the three old men arguing quietly behind him about color and light—so he had nothing to dobutwatch Hoyle work.
Sit? Bah. The idiot didn’t know Bull Lindsay, did he?
Bull had never been very good atstillness, not even as a young lad. Running wild on his father’s estate, he’d fallen into all sorts of trouble. Sometimes being the bastard son of a duke—even a distant, brutal arsehole like Exingham—had its benefits. He’d learned young how to pick pockets and filch trinkets, lie with a smile and lie in wait with a trap, and if his older sister Honoria hadn’t taken him under her wing—and taught him to knit, and other uses for restless fingers—and made certain he was educated, he likely would have ended up on the gallows.
Long before his father had tried to kill him.
But now their brother Rourke was the Duke of Exingham with his son Barret as his heir, Honoria was still ridiculously happy managing Dunvagen as Lady MacLeod, and Bull felt fookingold.
Sighing, he dragged his hand through his hair as he watched Hoyle examining each of the portraits much faster than he’d studied the one in Bull’s office yesterday.
What was it about the eccentric man that rubbed Bull the wrong way?
He’d met so many people in his three decades, even more since he’d begun his detective agency. One of the things which made him sogoodat his work was that he made friends easily. Nay, not evenmade friends…he saw people for who they were, and accepted them.Likedthem for who they were. Always found something to like.
But Hoyle?
