Chapter 1 #2
Da had been born Baron Endymion and preferred not to leave the estate; the reason everyone, even Mother, called him Demon was because of his title.
He’d become the Duke of Lickwick quite unexpectedly, the title without lands or estate.
Rosie might be the daughter of a Duke, but he was a Duke who had no need to worry about marrying his daughter off to gain alliances or income or whatever antiquated reason betrothal pacts were usually made.
In fact, since her parents were still ridiculously in love with one another—and never missed a chance to prove it, embarrassingly so at times—they’d openly urged both of their children to marry for love.
Love. Hah.
I suppose I shall not be marrying then.
Because there was only one male who Rosie Hayle had ever considered loving, at least in that way, and he had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her…
A voice cut across her thoughts. “You know, speaking of Bull—”
Rosie growled—actually growled—to interrupt her cousin as she planted her hands on her hips.
“We were not speaking of him. Why would we be speaking of him? I will not be marrying him, nor anyone else. I will be devoting myself to my studies of art history, I will write a book on the Impressionists as I have always dreamed, and I will not be marrying.”
Merida smirked. “You said that already.”
Really, was there anyone as frustrating as a best friend and cousin who could see completely through one?
Rosie didn’t stomp her foot, but only just because she remembered she was supposed to be grown and mature.
She fingered her deliciously short hair again.
“Anyway, I was not speaking of Bull,” she muttered as she crossed to the mess they’d made by the hearth.
“Here, use this paper to scoop the hair into the bin.”
As they worked, Merida hummed. “You were not speaking of Bull, but I was.”
Rosie refused to seem interested, and her cheeks were not going to betray her. “Well brava for you. I am certain he would be flattered anyone was speaking of him.”
Her cousin snorted. “You are in a snit, are you not? Just because the man took one look at you—all grown up and beautiful—and refused to say boo to you?”
“I am not in a snit, and if I were in a snit, it would not be because some—some man refused to give me the time of day.” She dumped the last of the hair in the wastebin.
“It is three-forty,” Merida supplied helpfully. “And your snit has nothing to do with what I wanted to say.”
Rosie just frowned. “I am not in a snit.” She plopped herself on the bed, unable to help the way her gaze was drawn to the mirror and her new hair style. She did look different. Perhaps, when he saw her—
“Bull asked for my help.”
Rosie froze, staring at her own wide green eyes.
She…wanted to ask for more information, ask why Bull needed her cousin…
but she also didn’t want to appear desperate for details about his life.
Or interested at all, really. That meant the sound which emerged from her closed mouth, when it eventually did, was more of a, “Herrrhh?” than anything else.
Merida didn’t immediately respond. In fact, she crossed the room, drawing Rosie’s gaze…then reached the door and turned back. It took a moment to realize Merida was pacing, and concern—for my cousin, she told herself—forced Rosie’s jaw to unclench.
“Meri, what is wrong?”
A turn. More pacing. “You know I have done jobs for Bull’s detective agency, yes?”
“Yes, of course.” Merida was a brilliant artist, with “M. MacMillan’s” landscapes gracing parlors across Britain.
But thanks to her father’s and grandmother’s connections to the underworld, Rosie was also aware that her cousin was a skilled forger, a skill Bull had used more than once. “Is that what this is about?”
Merida stopped her pacing and turned to Rosie, chewing on her lower lip. “He wants me to…” She winced. “He wants to meet me at the office next week, when we are all back in London. To study a painting he has come into possession of.”
Rosie’s brows went up. Since when was Bull an art aficionado? “He wants you to study it?”
“He is trying to determine the artist, because it is unsigned.” Her best friend hesitated. “Actually he is trying to identify the subject, and is hoping that by determining the artist, he can track down the woman who sat for the painting.”
Despite her vow to remain uninterested in anything related to Bull Lindsay, Rosie felt her heart beginning to speed with excitement as she planted her palms on the mattress and leaned toward her cousin. An unknown artist? A mystery subject?
“What is the style?” she whispered.
Merida shrugged. “I have not seen it, although he told me some of the details of the case. But you know this is not my area of expertise, Rosie.”
No. It is mine.
Her brother had inherited their mother’s obsession with plants and growing things; Endymion’s greenhouses were the envy of Scotland, if not farther.
But Rosie shared their father’s love of learning, and at a young age had fallen in love with art history.
She read everything she could on styles and theories and techniques, and although her talent with a paintbrush was middling to mediocre at best, she could identify most painters just by their brush strokes.
One of her favorite ways to spend an afternoon was wandering through a museum or private showing, trying to recognize the artist without looking at the plaques.
And judging from the way her cousin was watching her now—half-wary, half-hopeful—she had remembered that too.
“I cannot do it, Rosie,” she whispered. “At least, not alone.” At Rosie’s scoff, Merida continued. “I do not know portrait work—you have seen my attempts, remember? I am a landscapist. I study nature, not people. And I am self-taught, and…”
Oh. Suddenly comprehending her best friend’s doubts, Rosie sprang to her feet and lunged for Merida’s hands. “You are Britain’s favorite painter, Meri,” she insisted with a comforting squeeze. “You are so very talented. Never doubt yourself.”
Merida’s smile was a little rueful, though she didn’t pull away. “Yes, well, I have not studied, not the way you have. I would have told Bull no, but...”
Rosie’s brow raised. “But what?”
“I told him it was outside my area of expertise, but I could bring a colleague to help…someone who could identify portraiture and artist’s work with a single glance.”
It took a moment for Rosie to understand, then her eyes widened. “Me? You expect me to help Bull?” Oh, absolutely not! “He has made it very clear, Meri, that he wants nothing to do with me—”
“Then we will disguise you!” her cousin interrupted, tugging on Rosie’s hands.
“Please? He pays well, I am building a nice little nest egg between his fees and my paintings—” When Rosie scoffed, knowing she had no need of more pocket change, her cousin’s gaze turned wily.
“And think of how satisfying it would be to provide Bull the help he so desperately needs. To know you fooled him, without him knowing it was you all along?”
Rosie’s certainty began to waver.
Hmmm. The image her cousin was painting was quite compelling…
Sensing her impending victory, Merida leaned closer. “Think about it, Rosie. You at my side, saving the day, giving Bull Lindsay exactly what he needs…without him knowing it is you? What a trick you would play on the trickster!”
It was tempting. After all, it had been Bull who had refused to teach her to pick pockets all those years ago. His sleight of hand would be nothing compared to her triumph if she could pull this off…
Rosie sighed in surrender, then untangled herself and turned away toward the hearth where the remains of the Great Hair Mutilation of ’00 still lay.
“Fine. Fine. I will tell my parents I am visiting you in London for a fortnight—if we come up with an itinerary, perhaps involving the National Portrait Gallery and a few private collections, they will have no reason to suspect.”
“Excellent!” Merida actually bounced on the balls of her feet and clapped her hands, her now-shortened hair swinging about her shoulders.
“Of course we shall go to the museum and all the private galleries of your dreams as well, so as not to make a liar out of you. But we will also pop by the offices of the Bull Lindsay Detective Group, and swiftly save the day.”
Rosie fiddled with the shears, heart hammering. “And…and you think he will accept my help? Do you think he will give any credence to my expertise?”
In the last half-dozen years, Bull had done no more than glance at her at their yearly gatherings.
While her heart might have sped, her stomach—and lower—going warm at the sight of his elegant style and beautiful smile, he’d shown no indication he thought of her as anything other than one of the dozens of pseudo-cousins chasing after each other.
She’d grown older, and he’d become even more charming, and it had been impossible to drag her eyes away…and now she couldn’t even catch his gaze before he stomped out of a room.
And other than putting Merida’s talents to use, Bull had made it clear he wouldn’t be accepting help from any of the younger cousins. Not even Lochlan and Keenan, Thorne’s wild sons.
Rather than looking discouraged, however, Merida’s grin was downright wicked.
“I doubt he will accept your help, Rosie dearest,” she drawled. “Which is why you will be in costume.”
Costume?
“I am friends with any number of art experts,” Merida continued, “and you shall be one of them.” She breezed over to stand next to Rosie. “Bull will not recognize you, and will have no reason to doubt your expertise.”
Rosie stared at her cousin in unveiled doubt. “You really think you can disguise me so well he would not recognize me?”
Perhaps it would not be difficult. The man has barely glanced at you in recent years.
Merida’s grin grew even more mischievous as she raised her fingers to tug on Rosie’s now-much-shorter hair, then glanced down at all the discarded hair in the wastebin. “Oh, I guarantee it.”