Chapter 3
The National Portrait Gallery had always been a comforting place for Rosie.
Granted, its looming facade and echoing halls might not normally be considered traditionally cozy, 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 reclusive is 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 could itch?
“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.
She knew it 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 disguise had done 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 how he’d employed 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 looked exactly like 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.
Up until that moment, Bull’s case had been…
well, Bull’s case. 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, the mustache for goodness’ sake…
it had all been just to trick Bull into letting her use her knowledge to help solve his 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 was hers, 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 was walking around in boots too big for her, and was mere moments away from sneezing her mustache off: but she was home.
“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.
“I have 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 dinnae sit,” 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—the blackmail 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 do but watch Hoyle work.
Sit? Bah. The idiot didn’t know Bull Lindsay, did he?
Bull had never been very good at stillness, 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 fooking old.
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 so good at his work was that he made friends easily.
Nay, not even made friends…he saw people for who they were, and accepted them.
Liked them for who they were. Always found something to like.
But Hoyle?
There was something wrong with Mr. Robert Hoyle, and Bull couldn’t put his light fingers on it.
He wasn’t wrong in that he was different than everyone else—although the man ought to fire his barber, for that monstrosity attached to his upper lip.
Damned thing looked like a furry caterpillar in need of a diet.
Nay, he was all wrong because… Bull sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t sure. But Hoyle’s wrongness made him itchy, that was for certain, and he’d learned long ago never to ignore his instincts.
“Bull Lindsay, as I live and breathe!”
The familiar voice had him whirling about, lips curling into a smile, to see the Countess of Mistree hobbling toward him, her frail body looking even more shrunken than usual, although her hair and jewels were perfection as always.
“Eliza!” he blurted, leaping to take the hand not clutching the cane. “Here all alone, are ye?”
“Never fear,” the elderly woman breezed as he led her toward the cluster of chairs facing one of the walls. “Jones is around here somewhere. I wandered off to amuse myself.”