Chapter 6 #3
Madam Desiree, the infamous courtesan, shifted her attention back to Bull and Rosie with a carefully calculated welcoming grin. “As I was saying…” She curtsied to Bull. “You honor my humble collection, Baron von Trapped.”
He cocked his brow, channeled his brother Rourke’s imperious attitude, and sneered at the paintings lining the gallery.
“Hardly humble, Madam.” He kept his words clipped, his accent that of a man who learned English in the classroom.
“But I suppose, if vun vere to vind interest of mere oil paint on ze canvas, zees sings vould be acceptable.”
To his surprise, Rosie gave a tinkling little giggle and pressed up against him. “In, Willy! You find interest in paintings.”
Impressed that she’d not only picked up on the role so easily, but was helping to deepen his own cover, Bull sniffed haughtily and peered down his nose at the portraits—a difficult challenge, what with the gallery being a dozen feet tall.
“I do not vind ze interest in or of or on zees stoopid paintings.” He turned his glare on her. “I am only here vor you, my love.”
Rosie’s smile bloomed, the same way it had on the dance floor. And fook him, but it made him feel the same way it did then too.
As if he could do anything.
Be anything.
“And you are the most wonderful man,” Rosie giggled again, pressing even closer for a moment so her breasts squished against his arm. “I am so lucky to be able to bid early!”
He made a point of dropping his gaze to the tops of her breasts, where they all but spilled from her costume—Christ, he really outdid himself with this design!—and allowed his lips to twitch in appreciation. “Vif my money, no doubt.”
As she giggled again, Madam Desiree cleared her throat, and Bull turned his haughty gaze back to her to find her smiling knowingly at the pair of them.
“I was under the impression, Baron, that you would be bidding?”
That had been the point. The way the retired courtesan was looking smug—as if she’d figured them out—was also part of the plan.
Rosie was playing her part perfectly, and Bull had no doubt that Madam Desiree assumed she was merely an attractive young plaything for a visiting nobleman, trying to milk him for all he was worth, or perhaps his steady mistress looking for an investment.
Either way, Madam clearly assumed the two women were about to play him.
“No, zank you,” Bull sniffed, glancing at the walls. “Zees are far too young to interest me.”
“Willhelm collects medieval art,” Rosie breathed almost reverently, eyes wide as she nodded. “You ought to see his tapestry collection!”
Bull nodded to the older woman. “Ze true art vorm.”
“To be completely honest, I am the one who collects portraits,” Rosie confided to Madam Desiree.
“And I fell in absolute love with one painting in your brochure. When dear Willy heard that, he promised me we could come and make sure I got it.” She wriggled her hips slightly and sent him a sly glance from under her lashes.
“Of course, the naughty man made me work for it…”
Bull almost swallowed his tongue as Madam Desiree chuckled knowingly. “Yes, my dear, I understand that well.”
Of course she did; Madam Desiree was famous for having spent a lifetime as lover to various powerful lords. The thought of Rosie putting herself in such a position…
Which position would that be? Up against the wall? Bent over yer desk? In yer bathtub?
Oh, fooking shite.
This was not good for the mission. Because once Bull got the image of Rosie—naked, wet, all rosy—in his tub, smiling welcomingly…
he couldn’t think of a single other fooking thing.
This place might have caught fire around him and he would have stood there, staring down at her, his lips curling lasciviously.
Part of him, the part which had been succeeding at this sort of subterfuge for years, reassured the rest of him that this was perfectly fine, and likely just made him look like a smitten lech.
But considering that rest of him was too busy wondering if Rosie’s nipples would be the same shade as her lips, and what they would taste like, the whole thing was a wasted effort.
Thank Christ she’d kept her head.
“Would you mind terribly showing us?” Rosie was asking Madam Desiree. “I absolutely must have the painting of the young woman in the garden with the blue gown and ruby necklace, and dear Willy said I may spend whatever the cost might be.”
Bull managed to pull his attention away from Rosie—breasts, breasts, breasts—in time to see genuine regret flash across the older woman’s face.
“The ruby necklace portrait, my dear?” inquired their hostess. “The one by the unknown artist?”
“Yes, that is the one!” Rosie said eagerly, bouncing a little—breasts!—in excitement. He worried she was playing the role of the scatterbrained young mistress a bit too heavily, but Madam Desiree was clearly buying it. “May I see it up close?”
“Oh dear,” the courtesan sighed, glancing at her gallery walls.
“Of all the portraits…” She winced, then shrugged at the pair of them.
“I am terribly sorry, Baron, but that painting was very recently purchased. I was offered far more than it was worth ahead of my auction, and I just had to sell it.”
Damn.
Had the blackmailer gotten to her before they could?
Bull squeezed Rosie, a silent warning not to break character, as he shrugged uncaringly. “Zis is not ze great loss, yes? Ze painting was no-sing to hang on my vall.”
“Oh, Willy,” Rosie pouted becomingly, and he knew there was genuine disappointment there. “Perhaps we could learn who bought it, and make them an offer? I would love to hang it on my wall.”
Playing the role of her patron, Bull harumphed, “Ze wall zat I pay for.”
“Yes, but you like that wall. That’s where you pin down my hands and—”
Much to Bull’s relief—and disappointment—Madam Desiree was already shaking her head regretfully. “I am sorry, my dear, but the offer and the transaction was handled anonymously through an agent. I do not know who purchased it, nor where the courier delivered it.”
Damn, again.
Because when Rosie turned those big green eyes imploringly up at him, blinking back tears, Bull was struck with the sudden urge to do anything humanly possible to find that painting for her.
Not because it was part of the mission, but because Rosie was begging him. And if she begged, he’d do anything.
Oh, ye’re fooked, ye dobber.
Bull heaved a put-upon sigh and turned back to the older woman. “Vere could I pur-chase another painting like zis one?” With his free hand, he gestured to his throat while rolling his eyes. “Viz ze ruby necklace?”
“By the same artist, my lord?” Madam Desiree pursed her lips in consideration.
“You have to understand that since the painter is unknown, it is difficult to know exactly which pieces are his. He is said to have painted exclusively…” She cleared her throat with a knowing glance at Rosie.
“Well, fallen women, using the ruby necklace as an indication.”
“Yes,” Rosie sighed, pressing her temple against his shoulder forlornly. “A true artiste who appreciates a fine woman. You can understand why I fell in love with that portrait. I wish there were more.”
As the older woman studied Rosie, Bull realized he was holding his breath. He told himself to calm down; he himself had overseen the application of Rosie’s makeup and mask, and knew there was no way Madam Desiree could see the resemblance between this stunning woman and the one in the portrait.
Except, perhaps, for the smile…
Finally the former courtesan shrugged. “I am sorry, my dear, but I have not had any others by that artist come through my collection, nor be shown at my auctions. The only others I have heard of are in the collection of the Marquess of Tittle-Tattle, in Alnwick.”
At his side, Rosie stiffened so subtly that he doubted anyone not holding her would notice. “Perhaps we could visit him!” she burbled, sounding far more vacuous than she had any right to. “If he will not sell us the pieces, even just having the chance to see them…”
But the madam was shaking her head. “Old Tittle-Tattle is a recluse, my dear, and quite snobbish. Trust me.” She offered a little wink and a smirk.
“He did not deign to meet with me when I requested a private audience about, ahem, another matter—claimed he was far too busy with his next book. He will not see you.”
“Oh, dear,” pouted Rosie, before swinging her attention back to Bull. “Perhaps a baron could—”
“I have heard he will not welcome anyone to see his collection,” Madam Desiree interrupted gently. “Even those of his same social rank, which—if you’ll forgive me, my dear—you clearly are not.”
A thought was coming to Bull.
A terrible, wonderful thought. He fought to keep his expression neutral, fought to keep his dread—his excitement—from showing when he sighed. “Zees English are—what is ze word? Idiots. Come, my love, ve have no more need to be here?”
Rosie’s sigh sounded genuinely dejected.
“No, Willy. There was nothing else at the auction I wanted to see.” The way she forced a smile and a small curtsey to Madam Desiree—looking exactly like a younger courtesan intent on maintaining niceties and honoring their hostess—made the older woman preen.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Madam, and your generous hospitality.”
“Oh, my dears, I would be delighted to welcome you back to any of my future auctions.” The older woman curtsied to Bull, her decolletage displayed to its maximum benefit in that impressively corseted costume. “And my door will never be shut for you, Baron von Trapped.”
As if he had no idea what she was implying, Bull sniffed and gave a curt nod. “Yes, yes, zank you for ze ball, it was quite fun. Now let us be home, my love. I haf tried as you asked and in exchange I was promised—”
Rosie’s giggle as they hurried down the corridor, away from Madam Desiree, sounded perfectly natural. “Oh Willy, do you promise not to rip my gown this time? My lips are perfectly capable…”
Thank Christ they’d reached the curtain leading back to the ballroom by then, because Bull tripped over his own feet—something he hadn’t done since he was in leading strings—and used the movement to sweep them through the doorway.
“Yer lips?” he hissed, aghast, as he scanned the room, doing his absolute best to ignore the way his cock throbbed at the thought of Rosie on her knees, her lips parted. In the bathtub. All…nipply.
“It seemed like a good parting shot,” Rosie murmured back. “She bought the act.”
“She did indeed.” His arm tightened around her as he turned them toward a servant who could retrieve their cloaks for them. “And we got absolutely nowhere.”
At least as far as the case went.
As far as literally everything else in the world went, tonight had been…enlightening as hell. He’d learned that Rosie was good at this kind of subterfuge, that their next quarry only respected people of a higher social standing than himself, and that Rosie tasted like sunshine.
One of those was more important than the others, and Bull doubted he was in the right frame of mind to focus on which one it was.
Aye, ye’re fooked.