Chapter 8 #2
Luckily Rosie had pulled out a silver crown and Bull allowed his fingers to unclench. He didn’t want to pull that thing out. He’d forgotten about it, only vaguely remembered throwing it into his briefcase. With a roll of his shoulders, Bull pulled his hand out of his bag and forced a smile.
“Excellent. We’ll work with that,” he announced, sinking down on the bench beside an eager Rosie. “Hold it between yer fingers.”
He lifted his hand and rested hers in it, so his palm cupped the back of her hand. He arranged her fingers, showing her how to hold the coin easily. He murmured instructions, showing her how to twist her hand easily, how to slide the coin into her sleeve and back again.
It felt…intimate. Cozy. She laughed as the coin slid down her forearm, and he showed her how to tip her body and catch it in her palm again. She was a quick learner, and Bull couldn’t help being impressed.
Proud.
As she practiced, green eyes practically glowing with delight, he watched her. Watched the way Rosie chewed on her lower lip as she concentrated, the way her cheeks expressed each emotion. She was beautiful, aye, but also determined. And good at this.
He needed to stop being surprised.
Of course Rosie would be brilliant at something she put her mind to. He remembered her passionate speech about knowing the sorts of things any lady learns, but her talent lying in art theory. Well, Rosie Hayle, I beg to differ.
Because he was learning that she was fooking brilliant at anything she put her mind to.
To his surprise, Bull found he wanted to be the one to teach her more. Wanted to be there as she learned more of these seemingly useless skills, and mastered them. Wanted to see her eyes light and her fist pump triumphantly when she mastered it.
Because this? This was fun.
She was fun.
Fook.
At Alnwick station Rosie wrapped herself in haughtiness, the kind her mother had explained would be expected when she entered Society.
It had seemed a silly sort of lesson at the time because she knew her mother wasn’t like that any longer, and Rosie herself had never had any aspiration of being a darling of Society…
But it was useful now, to play the expected role.
She watched imperiously down her nose as Bull arranged for their luggage to be held at the station, fees and bribes passing easily from him to the porters as he laughed and joked with them.
He really was quite impressive when it came to setting people at ease, wasn’t he?
Today he wore an understated suit of nice quality, and it allowed him to fit in here on the platform.
When he joined her, he was holding a leather briefcase.
“What is in there?” she murmured as she accepted his arm to be led to a waiting cab.
He took a moment to give the address to the cabbie, then joined her. “Allie’s painting. I dinnae ken if Lord Tittle-Tattle will want to see it, but I didnae want to leave it with the other luggage.”
“Smart,” she murmured. “Our clothing and jewels can be stolen, but not the painting.”
He snorted, and she was pleased he understood her humor.
“But what if the briefcase is stolen?” Rosie nudged him with her shoulder. “Ye should find a pair of handcuffs.”
His gaze swung to her, his gray eyes holding a wicked hint of intrigue. “For what?”
“Why, in case you need to handcuff anything to anything else.”
The cab turned a corner, but Bull held himself steady, still staring. “What exactly are ye talking about here, Rosie? Because ye’re too innocent to ken about—”
“The briefcase!” she burst out, giggling. “I meant, handcuffing the briefcase to your wrist, so it could not be stolen! What on earth did you think I was—”
Bull sniffed and turned forward once more. “I cannae imagine what gave ye the idea I regularly keep handcuffs on my person.”
The road was following an iced-over river, but there were no tracks in the snow. Distracted by the beauty of the scenery, Rosie nudged him again. “Come now, Bull, if anyone had handcuffs on their person…”
Another affronted sniff. “Ye must think me depraved.”
She grinned, turned her attention back to him, and winked. “I hope so.”
Bull’s mouth dropped open and she looked forward to hearing his response to her flirtation…but the cab pulled to a stop in front of a modest estate down a narrow lane, and Bull hummed instead. “We’re some way from the main road. Come on.”
He lifted her down, paid the cabbie and sent him on his way, and led her toward Lord Tittle-Tattle’s home. Rosie assumed he’d written ahead, but when the door was opened by an elderly man, it soon became clear they weren’t expected.
“Good afternoon,” Bull announced in his most charming voice. “We have traveled up from London with the intention of meeting with Lord Tittle-Tattle.”
“Lord Tittle-Tattle is not at home,” the stately butler—for it was clear now they were speaking to a servant—proclaimed. “He does not accept visitors when he is working on his next book.”
Oooh, another book! Rosie opened her mouth to begin the flattering process, but Bull flourished his free hand, and several one-pound notes appeared. He waved it toward the butler.
“Are ye certain, my good man?”
The elderly man sniffed. “Very certain.”
Rosie’s turn. “Please, my good man, would you mind checking with Lord Tittle-Tattle? I simply adored his book and was hoping to ask him a few pertinent questions.” She blinked innocently.
“Would you tell him the Lady Rose Hayle is here to see him? My father, the Duke of Lickwick, would be so grateful to hear of your help.”
The change which came over the man was almost amusing, and she heard Bull stifle a little noise which might’ve been a laugh as the butler blinked, then leaned forward fawningly.
“Your father is the Duke of Lickwick, my lady?”
“Oh, yes he is,” Rosie said in her most feather-headed voice. “Did I forget to mention that? When one’s father is a duke, of course, it is so natural to be recognized immediately. Might we come inside? It is ever so cold out here,” she added with a shiver.
“Apologies, milady.” The butler’s demeanor couldn’t be more welcoming as he backed into the home, inviting them in.
“I will alert Lord Tittle-Tattle to your presence, I am certain he will be honored by your gracious visit. The drawing room is this way.” He invited her toward a large room. “Your man may wait in the foyer.”
“Oh, no!” Rosie corrected with a tinkling laugh, knowing she had to try to get Bull into the room with Tittle-Tattle’s collection so they could both question him. “He is not my servant, but he is my man.”
Bull took that moment to step forward and offer a curt nod, his body language screaming irritation. “Mr. James Lindsay.”
Oh dear. If the butler wouldn’t even let them into the house until Rosie announced her relation to a duke, Lord Tittle-Tattle wasn’t going to see a mere “Mister.” So she reached out, linked her arm through his, and pulled him toward the sitting room.
There was only one thing to do. “James is my fiancé—traveling incognito, we do not like to mention his title on the road for fear of theft. I feel certain Lord Tittle-Tattle will be delighted to meet him,” she called over her shoulder to the butler as she yanked Bull inside. “Go fetch him, please.”
The door shut, and Bull swung on her. “Fiancé?”
Shrugging in apology, Rosie moved across the room to study a landscape hanging near the window even as her heart skipped a beat at the thought of actually being engaged to Bull. “I did not want you to have to sit out there. We could have claimed your brother is a duke, of course—”
“He is a duke,” Bull growled, scrambling in the briefcase. “But I introduced myself as mister. He’d know I’m a bastard.”
Since his illegitimacy had never seemed to bother Bull—in fact, he often bragged that all it meant was that he had two separate families—she hummed in agreement. “You are a charming, delightful bastard, though. Besides, with the hint of a title—”
His bark of laughter sounded surprised and he was grinning ruefully as he crossed to her. “I dinnae have a title. Here,” he hissed, thrusting a small box at her. “Put this on!”
“You want me to wear an ivory box?”
His movements brisk, Bull shoved the briefcase under his arm, opened the small box, and produced a gold ring with a small green stone. “Here.” He scooped up her left hand, yanked off the glove, and slid it onto her finger. “Just keep yer finger closed so he doesnae notice how big it is.”
“Actually…” Rosie flexed her fingers, then lifted her fingers to waggle them. Something strange twisted in her gut as she looked at it. “Actually, it fits perfectly.” She began to pull her other glove off, but not before she saw his slightly stricken look.
She wanted to ask about that but there was a commotion from outside, and when the door opened a stooped little man hustled in, she slipped back into her Flighty-Duke’s-Daughter persona and stepped forward to charm him.
“Lord Tittle-Tattle?” She offered her hand for him to bow over. “How utterly delightful to meet you. I am Lady Rose Hayle—”
“The daughter of the Duke of Lickwick, yes, yes!” The short man blinked from behind ridiculously thick spectacles. “Have you come to offer sponsorship for my new book?”
Rosie managed not to blurt, “What?” in time. Instead, she blinked, her smile fixed in place, and pulled her hand gently from his. “Oh, I am certain something could be arranged.”
“We’re here to see yer collection, Lord Tittle-Tattle,” Bull announced, moving up to her side. “Ye have some portraits in particular my betrothed is interested in studying.”
“Betrothed?” Lord Tittle-Tattle blinked down at her hand, then back at her face. “Studying?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed, trying to flatter him. “I adored your first book, and am so excited for your next one.”
“Rosie is an art scholar, like yerself.” Bull slid his arm around her waist, his voice proud. “She speaks verra highly of ye.”
Tittle-Tattle blinked in confusion. “Does she? A female scholar? How unusual. How interesting.”
“Oh yes,” she burbled, clasping her hands together. “I was so very interested in your chapter about unknown artists. There was one in particular…”
Bull gave her a little squeeze. “The women with the ruby necklaces, Lord Tittle-Tattle. Rosie is particularly interested in studying those. We can make it worth yer while—and so can my future father-in-law, the Duke of Lickwick.”
Praise and flattery, all at once. Rosie couldn’t help but be impressed by Bull’s style.
She also couldn’t help but be impressed by the way he held her, the way he praised her.
It was a heady feeling, to be supported by a man like him.
Not only supported, but praised and…and bragged about.
He was bragging to Lord Tittle-Tattle, and she was hit by a pang of longing.
How wonderful would it be to have a real fiancé who was that proud of her? Who bragged about her to scholars she admired? Who held her tight and yet displayed her proudly to the world?
Lord Tittle-Tattle, however, was shaking his head, sending his wild white hair poofing around his head. “I am sorry, oh dear. Well, nothing for it: those paintings are gone.”
“Gone?” Bull’s tone had taken on a sharp edge. “What do ye mean? Stolen?”
“Oh, no no no. Stolen? No. I had two of the portraits by that artist, both of the same woman. She was wearing a ruby necklace, yes, but they weren’t worth much.
” The little man kept shaking his head as he backed out of the room.
“I kept them for amusement, you understand. The delight of the history. But the offer—such an offer!”
Bull pulled her along as he stalked after Lord Tittle-Tattle. “What do ye mean? Ye sold them?”
For the first time, he wondered why the fook the blackmailer didn’t just offer to buy Allie’s portrait, since the bastard clearly had money to throw about on this quest to collect ruby-necklace portraits.
“I don’t part with my pieces to just anyone, you understand!
And the offer was more than generous! This estate is hemorrhaging money, and now I’ll be able to write my book in peace for another month, at least. Did you say your father was interested in sponsoring my work?
” he asked Rosie vaguely, blinking four times in rapid succession before continuing, “I would be happy to put his name in the acknowledgements.”
“Ye ought to be asking Rosie,” Bull growled. “She’s the one who gives a shite about yer work. Who bought the portraits?”
The man had backed his way into the foyer now. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly reveal that! Privacy, my good man, privacy!” He gestured to the elderly butler. “See them out, Collier. It was nice to meet you, Duke of Lickwick’s daughter. Goodbye!”
Solipsistic crockhawk.
Excretable cuntwomble!
Invidious spunkmuffin.
They were fooked.