He wasn’t looking at her.
Well, that answered that question. Rosie took a deep breath, dropped the hat to her side, straightened her shoulders, and stepped toward him. “Bull. This is what I do. It is all I am good at?—”
“Dinnae be stupid. Ye’re an accomplished?—”
“Oh, yes, I am, very accomplished.” Could she help it if her words came out bitterly? “I can play passable piano, paint a moderate watercolor, and plan a dinner party for fifty, if I were ever to find that a necessary accomplishment at a place like Endymion.” She shook her head with a scoff. “The very idea of Da letting more than five people at a time across the threshold unless held at butterknife point by Mother is preposterous. Butanyonecan do those things. Art theory, though? That isme. That is a talent I alone can claim.”
She shrugged. “Well, notI alone. I learned from some rather wonderful teachers. And of course there were the authors of?—”
“Rosie.”
She glanced at Bull, only to see him frowning at her. “What?”
Something sparkled in his eyes, even as his frown continued. “Please, I cannae take ye seriously while wearing that mustache. The haircut is bad enough, but the mustache is an affront to mankind.”
Her fingers brushed against her upper lip. “It is not that bad.”
“Any male in London—the ones who arenae blind, at least—is mortally offended by it. Hell, even a few of the blind ones.”
Her lips twitched, and she was pleased he couldn’t see it beneath heraffront to mankind.“And what is wrong with my hair?” She patted the shorter locks with the hand not clenching the hat. “I like it.”
“It looks like a man’s hairstyle,” he told her bluntly, his gaze flicking over her head. “Too blocky.”
Oh. Well, Bulldidknow fashion. She’d always admired his outrageous waistcoat collection.
Still. He didn’t have to be so…so dismissive.
Not that she cared.Blundering feckerminge!
“What I look like does not matter,” she told him firmly. In fact, that was thewhole goddamn pointof this disguise, to prove that the Rosie he knew was capable. “Do you want to know what I learned at the Gallery?”
Bull grunted, then swung to move behind his desk. He didn’t look at her as he flicked open a notebook and made a note with a short pencil. “Go.”
Go? The cheek. Well, at least he was listening to her. “In the miniature at the Gallery, our mystery sitter?—”
“Who?” Bull’s gray eyes cut sharply to her.
“The woman in the portrait,” she explained. “The mystery woman. She was wearing the same ruby necklace as she was in Allie’s portrait.”
“So it was her favorite piece of jewelry?” He was scribbling notes, and Rosie felt herself relaxing.
This washerarea of expertise, after all. She planted her hands on her hips over the too-large overcoat. “The jewelry was not necessarily painted from life.”
Another quick glance. “How do ye ken?”
She lifted her chin proudly. “Because it was a favorite addition of the artist’s.”
Slowly, Bull straightened, pulling his pencil away from the notepad. “Ye ken who he is?”
Rosie tried not to lower her chin. “Not—not his name, no. But I recall Lord Tittle-Tattle’s book on portraiture—he owns several pieces with the same ruby necklace. His theory was the artistcould notsign the works for some reason, and so used the necklace as a sort of signature.”
“So all we have is a mystery painter and a mystery sitter,” Bull muttered, staring at her.
She doubted he was really seeing her.
There was another piece of information she remembered. “I cannot recall the specifics, Bull…” At his name, his gray gaze flicked to her, and hardened in anger for a moment. Well, even if he wanted to be mad at her, she wouldn’t back down meekly. “There was a scandal associated with the artist’s work. He painted fallen women, perhaps? Or the necklace was a symbol of the fallen woman—I cannot remember.”
“Would it be in one of those clever art books of yers?” Bull prodded.
