Chapter 2
The cards flashed between his fingers as Bull shuffled one-handed, his booted feet propped up on the desk as he lounged. The clock on the wall was just finishing striking the hour and he was making wagers with himself how late Merida would be.
Wagers he would win.
She was talented, yes, but not timely.
Of course, in this, she apparently wasn’t talented enough to help him.
Scowling, Bull switched his attention to the cards as they flew.
He’d received Merida’s confession along with her agreement: I admit, I am not skilled enough to identify portraiture styles, but I have a colleague who is.
My friend, Robert Hoyle, and I will be at your office at two o’clock on Tuesday.
Bull’s fingers stuttered at the memory of the word friend, and he had to look away, having long ago realized he could shuffle better without looking. He just had to trust his fingers.
Robert Hoyle.
Who was this friend of Merida’s? Was she romantically involved with the arsehole?
Although he wasn’t actually related to Merida—which was surprising, considering how convoluted his family tree was—he thought of her as a cousin and always wanted to protect her.
If she showed up with one of those amoral lothario painters, the ones who encouraged ladies to take their clothes off and drape themselves over a chaise longue, Bull vowed he would glare the man out of his office.
Just wait until after he identifies the painter, eh? Yer job?
Right.
The knock on the door was followed by the turning of the knob, and Merida breezed in without waiting for an invitation. “Here we are, Bull!” she announced a little breathlessly. “And not too late, I trust?”
“It’s a Hogmanay miracle,” Bull deadpanned as he swung his feet off the desk and stood. “This is yer expert?” He nodded to the figure hiding behind his cousin. “Mr. Hoyle?”
Merida, in the middle of pulling off her scarf, paused just momentarily. Someone else might not have noticed the way her smile froze, then bloomed even brighter.
But Bull noticed everything, and if he did anything as telling as narrow his eyes, he would have done so now.
“Oh yes—Robert, darling, look.” Merida nodded across the office to the painting standing on the easel as she turned to touch the man’s arm. “Bull has set up the portrait for you to study.”
Obviously taking that as his cue, the smaller man scuttled—there really wasn’t another word for it—toward the window where Bull had placed the painting on an easel. True to her word, Allie had sent it via courier after their Hogmanay gathering, and Bull had taken formal responsibility for it.
Truthfully, he was impressed his new sister-in-law-to-be had acted so swiftly. Apparently, planning the wedding of a Duke’s heir was quite energy-consuming, and it had been almost funny to see poor Rupert overwhelmed by all the well-wishers—and recommendations—after their announcement.
Bull strolled toward Merida, the playing cards still flipping through the fingers of his right hand, and lowered his voice in what he hoped was not quite a threatening tone. “And ye’re no’ going to introduce me?”
Merida was busy hanging her winter coat beside his on the coat rack before she turned back to him with a too-bright grin. “You know how we artists are,” she said airily, “wrapped up in our work.”
Sure enough, across the room Mr. Robert Hoyle was bent toward the portrait.
His gloved hands were clasped behind his back, his hair and features hidden under his hat.
Most of his features, at least; all that was visible between his scarf and the brim of his hat was a comically large, bushy mustache.
The crass idiot hadn’t even bothered to remove his outerwear.
He must be absent-minded, indeed. Or too fascinated by the artwork to notice the warmth of the office. After all Mrs. Cartledge, the landlady, kept the fire well-stoked.
Bull’s eyes narrowed. Why does he bother ye so much? Is it because of the way Merida touched him? His eyes flicked to her, just briefly. Were they lovers?
If so, did he care?
Dinnae piss him off before he can identify the artist, eh?
Right: he needed to remember she’d brought Mr. Robert Hoyle here for a reason. Bull rolled his shoulders, trying to control his scowl.
“Who is he, Merida?” he murmured before he could stop himself, flipping the cards to his left hand, then back again. “Ye called him a friend. What kind of friend? Another artist?”
The vivacious redhead glanced at him, then toward where her friend was now sketching his fingers in the air above the brush strokes, and lowered her voice.
“No, not Robbie. Little talent with a brush, if I am honest, but an art scholar, Bull. A specialist in the history of art, with a focus on portraiture.”
Bull’s grunt might have been agreement as he studied the back of the man’s be-hatted head. “Sounds perfect for this job.”
“Yes, and I am sorry I could not help you myself. It is outside of my expertise. You know I am not a scholar, Bull.”
Hearing the pained apology in Merida’s voice, Bull closed his hand around the deck of cards, stopping their flight, and turned to her. “Nay. I’m sorry I asked ye to do something ye’re no’ comfortable with, and I’m grateful ye ken someone who could help me so quick.”
His smile was easy, and he knew it reflected none of the strange irritation bubbling under his skin at the thought of including this stranger in the investigation. But that was him, wasn’t it? Always hiding. Always keeping a part of himself at arms’ length from the world.
“I would no’ have known where to find someone like…” He jerked his head across the room.
For some reason, Merida’s eyes sparkled with something that looked like humor at his confession as she patted his forearm. “I am glad we could help, Bull.”
Sliding the deck of cards into his pocket, Bull managed not to roll his eyes or sigh meaningfully or anything like that. Logically, he was pleased Merida had an expert in exactly what he needed to know. If she hadn’t known this Mr. Robert Hoyle, Bull would have been up shit creek without a paddle.
So why in the hell was there this—this irritation clawing at his chest whenever he glanced at the ‘expert’ with that outrageous mustache?
Was it the thought of involving another person in the investigation?
Why? He’d employed many experts over the years, often without revealing anything of the investigation to them—but none of them had made his senses heighten and his temper flare.
Why did this one bother him so much, when there was a very good chance this strange little awkward scholar was exactly who he needed?
Because now, thanks to Hoyle, there was a chance at identifying the artist, and thus the subject.
And he very, very much wanted to identify the subject.
When the courier had delivered Allie’s package, Bull had laid it out on his desk and eagerly unwrapped it from the packaging…
and then stared. Slowly, he’d lifted it into the light, but it hadn’t helped; an inexplicably familiar expression stared back at him from the woman’s face, a face wearing an enigmatic smile he’d seen quite a few times.
A smile he’d seen even more recently, despite his best intentions, in his dreams.
His fingers curled into a fist at his side to keep them from tapping. Now, more than ever, he needed to know who sat for that painting. He needed to know who she was.
Not just for Allie, and Rupert, but for the confusion in his stomach.
“Well?” Bull blurted gruffly, raising his voice so the supposed scholar across the room could hear him. “What can ye tell us about the artist?”
Slowly, the man straightened up from the painting but didn’t turn.
“I do not recognize the style,” he finally said, his voice surprisingly low and gruff for how slight he was beneath that thick winter coat.
Maybe it became gruffer when it fought its way through the mustache.
“It is not one of the greats. Too generic.”
Bull exchanged a glance with Merida who was chewing on her lower lip, looking concerned, before he stalked across the room. “Generic, eh?” he grunted, stopping beside the scholar and staring down at the painting he’d barely been able to drag himself away from. “So ye’re useless.”
“I did not say that.” The man hadn’t looked at him, instead raising one gloved hand to rest on the edge of the frame. Was it Bull’s imagination, or did Hoyle’s fingers shake slightly? “Pay attention. I only said that the artist is not immediately obvious.”
Before Bull could scoff out a reply Merida was suddenly there, pushing between him and Hoyle, forcing Bull to step to the side. “So can you narrow it down?”
The scholar nodded jerkily. “There are…tells. The use of lighting indicates a student of Henry Raeburn, and I recall a vague reference to a ruby necklace in one of my books.” His finger traced the line of the subject’s jaw, a few inches above the painting.
“The National Portrait Gallery will have pieces I can compare this one to.”
“Fine,” Bull growled. “We’ll go there.” He glanced at Merida, who was looking worried again. “Now?”
“Oh, we cannot go now, it is closed early,” said Merida blandly. “Such a shame.”
Of course it had. Bull tried to rein in his inexplicably short temper. “Tomorrow?”
But she was already shaking her head and as he watched, she touched the sleeve of Hoyle’s coat. “I cannot. I have a meeting of my own with my pigment supplier.”
The small scholar hadn’t dragged his attention away from the painting, hadn’t even glanced at Merida.
Bull shifted so he could study the man’s profile—what little he could see between the mustache and oversized hat.
There were a few strands of brown hair peeking around his ears, but most of his features were shadowed.
Artists are eccentric as hell.
And this one seemed far more interested in the painting than Bull’s beautiful cousin. Hmmm.