Chapter 7
As they settled into the cab of the hackney coach, Rosie’s heart was beating double-time.
It could have been the worry of being recognized in this scandalous costume at this scandalous gathering.
It could have been the excitement of playing a role so perfectly that Madam Desiree completely believed their story.
But she was rather certain it had everything to do with the man currently holding her hand. Bull had handed her in, all solicitations and kind smiles, and hadn’t released her fingers yet.
She doubted anyone else would notice the tightness at the corners of his lips. Desperate to maintain an air of nonchalance, desperate to pretend she was used to such excitement, Rosie asked lightly, “What is wrong?”
The interior of the cab was dark, lit only by the street lamps they passed, but she could feel Bull’s sharp glance.
“What do ye mean?”
“You are angry about something. Is it me?”
His breath whooshed out of him as he slouched against the squabs. “Ye did brilliantly, Rosie.” His praise made her suck in a sharp breath, then hold it tightly when she heard his next words. “I’m just irritated our mysterious blackmailer got to Madam Desiree before us.”
Ah.
Well, yes, of course he would be angry about the case, you idiotic bungleshite.
“You are certain it was the same blackmailer?”
“Nay, but who else would it be?” Bull pulled his hat from his head and tapped it against his knee with his free hand. “A blackmailing letter, a theft in broad daylight, now a secret purchase? If we’d been able to see the correspondence of Madam Desiree’s buyer, perhaps…”
Rosie winced, realizing there’d been no way for Baron von Trapped to request such a thing. “I am sorry I did not think to ask.”
He sighed again. “Ye did fine, Rosie. I wish—”
Hesitantly she squeezed his fingers, praying she wasn’t making a mistake by reminding him he was still holding her hand. “That I had not been there.”
She felt his sharp glance. “I was no’—”
“Yes, you were,” she prompted gently. “And I should apologize for kissing you.”
His sharp bark of laughter didn’t sound joyful at all. “Are ye mad? Any other man would’ve loved that, lass.”
Oh God. Any other man. Her eyes closed, even though she couldn’t see him in the dim carriage to begin with. Somehow, it was easier. “It was only for the role, Bull,” she lied, almost unsure if she was protecting herself or protecting him. “And I should not have done it without your permission.”
This time his chuckle sounded a little more at ease, and he was the one to squeeze her hand.
“It was a good distraction. I wish I could have done this without ye, so ye didnae have to be exposed to—och, well, ye ken.” Another huff that might’ve been a laugh.
“I could’ve gotten the information myself, with a different identity. But ye did well.”
Rosie peeked open one eye. When a gray sort of emptiness met her, she slowly opened the other. She wanted to squeak Really? and force him to repeat the compliment, but didn’t want to push it. Instead, she cleared her throat and introduced the topic she’d been hesitant to remind him of.
“Lord Tittle-Tattle has at least two ruby necklace portraits. By our mystery artist.”
“How do ye—och, ye’re the art scholar.” His tone was dry. “Should have kenned.”
Her lips twitched. “He was the one who wrote the book where I learned of the paintings. He was intrigued by the similar motifs and structures of the portraits. But Madam was correct, he is reclusive—more so than my father—and old-fashioned.”
Bull hummed. “Old-fashioned, how?”
The hack took a corner a little too fast, and she rocked into his side. “My apologies,” she murmured, pushing herself upright once more. “I have heard Lord Tittle-Tattle places much value on a man’s place in Society.”
“Och, that’s what she meant about him being snobbish. So he’d no’ give me the time of day, since he’s a marquess.”
“Yes, but—” Another turn, taken too sharply, and Rosie knocked against the wall of the carriage with an oof.
Without saying a word Bull released her hand and, before she had a chance to be disappointed, wrapped that arm around her shoulder, tucking her up against his side. Anchoring her. Keeping her safe.
Oh my.
Rosie swallowed, trying to remember how to breathe. Because here and now? In the darkness of this coach? They might be in disguise, but they weren’t playing their roles any longer. There was no need for him to pretend solicitousness.
Was there?
“But,” Bull took over the explanation with a defeated sigh, “a daughter of a duke, especially if the lass has a knowledge of and interest in art history and can flatter the man, might be allowed entry?”
Rosie slowly and carefully released her breath, not wanting to sound as if she were sighing in relief. Of course Bull would have realized the implication. “This time I do not need to persuade you to bring me along. I am going to be your ticket in.”
The rumble of the wheels seemed unnaturally loud, and when the carriage jolted again, Bull tightened his hold on her and didn’t reply.
Oh dear, she was holding her breath again, waiting for him to acknowledge her truth. He didn’t.
After a while, Rosie began to count the seconds, which turned into minutes. Three of them—the minutes, not the seconds—went by before she lost her struggle with herself, and blurted, “Just why is that so difficult, Bull?”
He started. Perhaps the hack’s wheel hit a cobblestone she hadn’t felt. “What?”
Irritated at herself for prodding him, instead of being a calm and unruffled co-conspirator mermaid, Rosie wriggled from under his hold, pushing her shoulders against the wall of the carriage so she could face him, even if she couldn’t see more than the shape of his profile in the passing lights.
“Why will you not accept my help? You employ Merida, and she is only a few years older than me! Gabby and Hunter—”
“Were good at their jobs,” Bull growled, warning in his tone she didn’t want to heed. “The agency gave them a place for their skills to—”
“Yes, of course you did!” Her fingers twisted in her lap. “Hunter in particular, before his marriage. But Marcia was a duke’s daughter, and you employed her.”
“For fook’s sake, Rosie, ye’re speaking of things ye dinnae ken.”
“Then explain them!” Gooey shitenuggets, she sounded like a whiney child, didn’t she? “I mean…” She forced herself to breathe evenly. “You will not employ the others in the family, although we have all thought Lochlan and Keenan would do well—”
“Lock is a future earl, and Key will be a duke.” Bull’s hat began to beat a tempo against his knee, and she knew he wasn’t looking at her. “They dinnae need a place. I’m no’ employing ye, Rosie.”
“Because I have a place? Where?”
When his gaze swung on her, she winced, feeling its sharpness.
“Ye’re the daughter of a duke, Rosie.”
Oh, didn’t she just know it. “So is Marcia.”
“Marcia is different,” he growled.
Again, she prodded. “Why?”
And was promptly rewarded when he exploded. “Because she’s my sister!” His hat slammed into his knee. “Is that what ye wanted to hear? She’s my sister, my best friend, one of the few people who ever believed in me—and she helped found the Lindsay Detective Group! I wouldnae be shite without her!”
But now Marcia had married Hawk—Allie’s uncle—and retired from the detective business. So had Hunter and Gabby. One by one, they’d all made places for themselves in other families, other lives.
Leaving Bull all alone.
And in that moment, Rosie understood. Understood more than she thought he might understand himself.
“Oh, Bull,” she whispered, and reached across the space to scoop up his free hand with both of hers.
“I am sorry. You gave them all a place, and now they have found somewhere else. But…” She took a deep breath.
“But being born into a title does not guarantee a place, as you call it. Merida is illegitimate, and she has more certainty of her place in this world than I do. I…”
Suddenly, her courage left her and she felt her shoulders slump. Embarrassed by her impassioned words, she tried to tug her hand away…but Bull tightened his hold.
“Ye what, Rosie?” he whispered.
Her eyes closed as she tried to hold in all her emotions.
“I…I just wanted to prove I was good enough. I wanted to help you solve this mystery and understand some of my family’s past. And instead I threw myself at you like a hussy and am now in very real danger of crying like a pugnacious spunkmuffin in a hired hack and you will not stop looking at me. ”
He made a noise which might’ve been a snort as he squeezed her fingers. “There’s nae room in these breeches for a handkerchief, and ye willnae dare ruin that gown by dribbling snot on it, ye hear?”
The sartorial scolding was so unexpected, it surprised a burst of laughter out of her and Rosie sniffed. “I would not dare.”
“I didnae think ye a hussy, Rosie,” Bull said softly. “I was impressed by yer quick thinking, to kiss me like that to hide our identity.”
Right.
Right. That was why she’d kissed him.
Try to remember that.
Not because she’d been dying to know what he’d feel like, pressed against her.
Not because they fit together as perfectly as she’d always known.
Not because she was already wondering if she could throw herself into his arms again and demand a repeat performance.
They were alone, after all; scandalously alone.
But…
But he’d agreed it had just been part of the role.
She’d said that, and he’d agreed, and she’d known he spoke his truth.
He’d only kissed her back because they were pretending to be lovers, and to hide their identity.
Their passion had been physical, yes, but—well, he was a man. His body had responded. Not his heart.
Bull sighed again. “Look, lass…ye’re right. I do need ye to get into Lord Tittle-Tattle’s graces. He’ll speak to ye, but no’ to me. And ye have a right to join this investigation if yer family is involved.”
Cautiously optimistic, her heart began to beat a little faster. “His estate is in Alnwick, on the way to Endymion.”
“Are ye headed home, then?”
Oh. She chewed on her lower lip. Had she not mentioned this to him?
“Well…I was thinking. Mother has her mother’s collection of art.
Some of those paintings have been in her family for generations, and although she is not terribly interested in them, they are what kindled my love of art theory.
And there are more in the attics that I have not seen in ages. ”
Bull sat upright slowly, moving his hat to the seat beside him. “Ye think she might have another piece of our mystery sitter?”
“I cannot remember any with a ruby necklace, but I thought if we brought Allie’s portrait to Mother, it might trigger some memory. She might even be able to tell us who the subject is!”
The noise he made was definitely a groan, but confused by a muttered curse. Something French?
Her lips twitched. “Do you have an issue with asking my mother for help?” Rosie deadpanned.
“I have an issue with being anywhere near yer father, lass. He hates me.”
“Oh, Bull.” She squeezed his fingers again, affecting a pitying tone. “He does not hate you, just because he beat you senseless,” she teased, remembering his claim from earlier in the evening. “You’re not special. He does that to everyone.”
Another groan. “For fook’s sake, Rosie.”
Her grin grew in the darkness. “Bull, for the sake of your agency, would you like to accompany me to Lord Tittle-Tattle’s estate where there is a good chance we can solve this case, and from there on to Endymion where there is a good chance you will have your head kicked in like a coddleberry?”
His thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist as the hackney made the turn onto the street where Merida waited in her apartment. Their evening—the magical, self-changing evening—was coming to an end, and Bull wasn’t fighting with her about her worthiness in being involved.
In fact…
“Lass, I’m beginning to think this is yer case, and I’m just along to facilitate things,” the man beside her sighed. “Aye, let’s hie off to Alnwick. I’ll send a telegram—”
“Do you think Lord Tittle-Tattle will answer?”
Bull snorted. “My father was a duke, ye recall. I can act as haughty as the next bastard. But he’ll no’ turn ye aside, no’ with yer father’s title, and no’ if ye flatter him by kenning of his book.”
“Perhaps I can find a copy for him to sign.”
His thumb was making small circles against her skin, and Rosie was suddenly very glad the costume was outrageous enough not to require gloves. Her skin tingled where he touched it, and she found herself swaying toward him.
“Smart lass,” Bull rumbled, and she thought perhaps she might have swooned for just a moment before he tugged on her hand. “Come on, I’ll walk ye to Merida’s door.”
Oh. The carriage had stopped, had it?
Shaking her head, Rosie scooted to the opposite side of the hackney and waited for him to kick out the step. Once her feet were on the street, she heard him tell the cabbie to wait before he offered her his arm.
“Can ye be ready to leave by tomorrow?” Bull asked, heading for the stoop. “We cannae give our blackmailer time to get ahead of us.”
“Unless he is a higher rank than a marquess, I do not think Tittle-Tattle will give him access to his collection.”
“Ye’d be surprised what money can do to loosen a man’s snobbishness,” Bull muttered, leading her toward the steps. “But we’re wagering our blackmailer doesnae ken of the Tittle-Tattle collection—that is, unless Madam Desiree mentioned it through this agent who bought her painting.”
If this unknown man was targeting all of the ruby necklace paintings, it seemed likely. After all, he’d known of the one in Allie’s collection, and even she hadn’t been aware of it.
But Rosie nodded firmly as they took the stairs up to Merida’s floor. “I will not take long to pack. You will arrange transportation?”
“There’s a noon train, and we can be in Alnwick by tomorrow.”
They had reached Merida’s door, and Rosie realized she was dragging her feet. Why?
Because you want him to kiss you goodnight!
The realization was a sudden clarity, and she tipped her head back, studying his jawline. “Thank you for the haircut, Bull,” she said softly.
He glanced down at her, then paused, as if he’d intended to look away and couldn’t. Slowly, his gaze caressed her cheeks, her brows, her mouth. She parted her lips, wondering if she should risk licking them, reminding him of their kiss.
He thought that kiss was part of the role, remember.
And he believed she thought the same thing.
So she wasn’t entirely surprised when Bull nodded. “Ye’re welcome,” he said curtly, before reaching up to knock on Merida’s door.
Rosie tried not to feel disappointed.
It didn’t work.