Chapter 4 #2
“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 was her area 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 artist could not sign 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.
Rosie shook her head. If only it were that simple. “This was a rumor I heard at a private auction. But I know who would know…” As Bull’s eyes narrowed, she took a deep breath. “Madam Desiree Fontaine is a collector of art,” she began, but he interrupted.
“Madam Desiree Fontaine is a retired courtesan with her own scandals,” Bull spat, lurching forward before seeming to force himself back down onto his seat. “How the hell do ye ken her?”
It was deliciously vindicating to be able to twitch a brow and say, completely blasé, “Why, because she publishes a brochure of the pieces in her quarterly art auctions which take place in her home here in London. There is a portrait by our mystery painter—a young woman with a ruby necklace—in her catalog for her next auction.”
Bull’s expression had gone blank as he planted his palms on the desk carefully. “And when is this auction?”
She took pleasure in being able to tell him, “At the end of this week. She is hosting a masquerade ball with the auction at the end.”
“Excellent. So ye can go home and I—”
“But you will not be able to identify the piece without me.” Rosie tried to smile. “You need me.”
“Bullshite. Ye’re no’ going, Rosie,” Bull growled threateningly, pushing himself to his feet. “Give me the catalog, circle which ruby-necklaced-portrait I need to buy, and I’ll bid on it. I dinnae need ye.”
Fury sparked down Rosie’s spine. Did he think to intimidate her? She’d been raised by Demon Hayle, the most intimidating devil to curse his way through the Highlands.
Besides, just like Da, she knew Bull had a soft heart. “I will not circle anything.”
“Ye will.” He leaned forward. “Ye’re no’ going with me to an art auction at a courtesan’s home, Rosie!”
Glorying in her power, she shrugged and crossed her arms. “Why not?”
“Because ye’re the daughter of a goddamn duke!
” he roared, all self-control gone. “Yer reputation would be shattered if it were kenned ye were here alone in my office, for fook’s sake!
Yer father would murder me if he learned I was cursing in front of ye!
” He pushed himself upright, his fingers beating a tattoo against his thigh, a sure sign he was agitated. “And ye’re—ye’re half my age!”
What had that got to with it?
Rosie lifted a finger.
“I am twenty-one years old, old enough to know my own mind, Bull Lindsay, and my parents know this. You might be older, but I trust you.”
Before he could point out that fifteen years was more than a bit, she flicked up a second finger.
“No one in my family would object to your weak pathetic cursing, you obdurate shite-weasel, wankmuppet. The worst that would happen is a bit of judgment on your pitiful imagination.” She shook her head in mock pity.
“Fook’s sake?” she sighed. “You completely irksome cockgoblin. All you men are the same.”
Bull’s mouth slowly closed. He was watching her with wariness in his eyes as he cocked his head to one side, and his fingers stilled.
Her third finger rose.
“And no one besides Merida knows I am here.” She looked pointedly down at her trousers.
“Robert Hoyle came to visit you today, not Rosie Hayle, and Robert will leave.” Flying high now, feeling brave after telling him off, she jammed the hat on her head and gestured to the ridiculous mustache.
“Robert will head back to Merida’s apartment, and when I arrive here on Friday morning for you to escort me to Madam Desiree’s ball, I will not be Rosie then, either. ”
“A…disguise?” Bull muttered, eyes widening.
“A disguise,” she agreed with a firm nod, hoping her frantically beating heart was from excitement, not fear. “And now that the police know of your involvement in this case, perhaps you might want to consider a disguise as well, Bull.”
He took a deep breath. “Rosie, ye cannae go to the masquerade ball—”
“You need me.” She nodded firmly, willing him to believe her. “I am the only one who can do this, Bull, and it is my mother we are speaking of—her family. I am owed the opportunity to identify this mystery sitter as much as you are. I do not need paying—”
“Ye’re no’ a consultant.”
“No, I am your…friend.” Rosie stepped back toward the door, trying not to think of the word.
Friend. “I am going to that art auction, Bull, with or without you. I will be in disguise, just as I am now—well, not exactly like this, but no one will recognize me. If you are too disgusted to be seen with someone so much younger than you, then—”
“That’s no’—” He bit down on the words, then looked away. “I’m auld enough to be yer uncle, Rosie.”
“But you are not.” She softened her tone. “You are in your thirties, and I am in my twenties. We’re not that different. Besides, your age does not matter to me, and I would be grateful for your escort to the auction, Bull.”
Was it her imagination, or when he closed his eyes, did he look a bit tortured?
“After all,” she offered, “I am new at this disguise thing. I might require some waistcoat recommendations. ”
His lips twitched.
“Dinnae wear the fooking mustache, Robbie.”
It took a moment for his meaning to sink in, but when it did, Rosie’s heart leapt. She’d won!
Her hand fumbled behind her for the doorknob. “I will see you Friday at six.”
“Make it four,” he rumbled, scrubbing his hand down his face and surely inadvertently hiding his expression. “I’ll have yer disguise…and we’ll do something about that hair.”
She nodded quickly as she made her escape, afraid he’d call her back and say it was all a trick. But when she reached the street and raised her hand to hail a hack, she realized she was smiling.
In anticipation.