Chapter 14 #2
“Aye, a dangerous business, doing the sort of shite I had to do when I was his age.” He slammed the mail to the table, but kept one clutched in his fist as he glared at her.
“The sort of shite we all vowed our children would no’ do.
Only he turned around and started an agency to do it and he’s proud of it, with a shiny brass sign, and now he’s got ye involved—the insidious spunkgoblin. ”
“He is not a spy, Da,” Rosie said softly. “He has never had to do the horrible things you did when you worked for the Crown.”
Her father’s jaw tightened. “When I thought I worked for the Crown.”
Her parents had told her how they’d met, and why they were so close with the Dukes of Exingham, Stroken, Effinghell, and Peasgoode. Rosie suspected she didn’t know the full history, but enough to guess at the rest.
So now she offered her father a gentle smile. “Bull does do work for the Crown—for the Royal Family. And for working families, and noble ones, and for businessmen and churches. He does good work for the world.”
“Wankbiscuits.”
It wasn’t much of an argument, but Rosie knew her father well enough to recognize that was the sort of thing he said when he didn’t have an argument, so she lifted her spoon once more. This soup really was delicious.
“Here,” Da grunted, shoving the envelope he was holding to her. “This one’s for ye.”
He bent back over his post, as Rosie took the letter curiously. Who knew she was here already?
There was no return address, but her name was printed in an oddly familiar script. Rosie frowned at it for a moment, trying to place it, before shrugging and opening the envelope.
And suddenly recognized it.
The handwriting…it belonged to the person who’d written that blackmail letter to Allie.
And now they were writing one to Rosie.
My dear Lady Rosie,
You know, I suspect you are the one inconveniencing my attempts to acquire young Miss Hawthorne’s portrait. Mr. Lindsay would have taken the case, of course, but would not be so diligent about it, were it not for your connection. Therefore, I am writing to you directly.
Since you are the daughter of a duke—and a scandalous duke at that—I cannot threaten you with the same social ruin I did to Miss Hawthorne.
For one thing, it is very difficult to ruin a duke’s daughter.
For another, I suspect no one in your family would truly care.
Therefore, I will threaten you with this:
If you do not satisfy me in this, I will tell all of London the horrible things James ‘Bull’ Lindsay has done. He has no family, no connections to prevent it. Few would ruin their reputation in a pathetic attempt to save his.
The newspapers will receive scandalous accounts of his traitorous activities, theft and falsehoods, and of course tear-filled accounts of his abuse of innocent maidens, et cetera, et cetera.
Trust me when I say I have the connections to make this happen. Imagine how his business would be ruined by such rumors.
Do I have your attention? Good.
You will bring the portrait to Balleter and be met at the train station by a man wearing a rose on his lapel.
He will guide you to me. You will tell no one of this, especially Mr. Lindsay or your father.
I know you have been an equal partner in this farce of an investigation, and I know you are quite capable of delivering the painting.
I will reveal all once we are together, and you will be able to claim that you, and you alone, have solved this case.
Remember: tell no one, or I will follow through on my threat against your young man.
Signed,
Your Blackmailer
Rosie stared at the flourished signature, heart pounding in her chest, her breathing shallow.
The blackmailer. Her blackmailer? The one who had been one step ahead of them this entire investigation?
He’d contacted her.
He had threatened Bull!
With shaking fingers, Rosie folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope.
She had to get to Balleter. It rankled to lose at the final hurdle to the blackmailer, but in this moment, reading the completely spurious threats against Bull, she knew she’d do anything to protect the man she loved.
It was only a painting. He was her man.
Rosie glanced at her father, obliviously muttering to himself as he read his correspondence.
“Cockwomble…maddening chrimping dankbotherers…”
The letter had been quite specific; she couldn’t tell Da or Bull.
But she was honest enough to admit that she was terrified of running off to Balleter alone. It was what the blackmailer had demanded, but this was the bastard who’d chanced a daring daylight robbery, who’d pointed a gun at her and Bull. She’d thought him dead, but…
Rosie swallowed.
But he was very much alive.
If she arrived in Balleter with the portrait and delivered it as demanded, she’d be able to save Bull’s reputation and his business. But there was no reason Bull shouldn’t know about it after the fact…
She had to fetch the portrait.
And write a letter of her own.
Lady Georgia was an intriguing research partner.
Not nearly as intriguing—or, honestly, as useful—as her daughter, but good company, nonetheless.
Bull had trouble focusing on a mass of tiny text in the books, so she did quite a lot of the skimming, then turned things over to him to study the details.
By early afternoon, long after they’d finished the luncheon a Bruno—who refused to answer any questions—had delivered, Bull had a working theory.
It seemed that Georgia’s mother Amelia was born a Smith…
the same as her mother, Rosemary. As Georgia pointed out, Smith was common enough that it was possible Rosemary had been born a Smith, then married a man named Smith.
Or perhaps a Smyth. Or a Smythe.
Or, Bull had countered, Rosemary had borne Amelia out of wedlock. Perhaps because she’d been the mistress of Allie’s great-grandfather? A scandalous past, to be sure, but it didn’t explain why she’d warranted so many portraits painted of her.
Bull was rolling a pencil across his knuckles as he left the library to head to his room for a nap before dinner. Despite Demon’s constant threats to boot him from Endymion, Georgia had invited him to a quiet family meal tonight, and Bull found himself nervous as hell.
He’d known Demon and Georgia for most of his life, but tonight…tonight, he desperately wanted to impress them. To convince them he was a good man, good enough for their daughter.
But despite the nerves in his stomach as he thought of a future which felt so out of reach, he was distracted by the tidbit of information he’d picked up from the last genealogy book Georgia had found; Rosemary’s sister Elizabeth, who Georgia remembered as Betsy, had married a few years before Amelia’s birth… to the Earl of Mistree.
Lady Mistree, his Eliza…she was his Rose’s great-great-aunt. Bull’s lips curled in amusement. And he’d so nonchalantly introduced Eliza to her own grand-niece as ‘Robert Hoyle,’ art scholar and possessor of ridiculous mustaches.
The next time he visited with her, he’d have to tell Eliza the truth; she’d be amused as well.
“There ye are, ye dissembling wank-muppet!”
The roar from Demon had Bull jerking and dropping into a defensive crouch, hand reaching for the secret knife in his boot as the other man came barreling down the corridor. But Demon pulled up short, and Bull slowly straightened when he saw the frantic fear in the older man’s eyes.
Eyes which looked so much like Rose’s…
“What is it?” Bull demanded, panic warring with his training. “What’s wrong?”
“Where is she?” Demon’s hands darted forward to grab Bull’s lapels. “Where the fook is my daughter?”
Panic was beginning to seep into his chest, pushing out the earlier nerves. “Rose?” he rasped, dropping the pencil so he could wrap his fingers around Demon’s wrists. “What d’ye mean, where is she? She’s gone? Gone where? Or ye just cannae find her?”
“She’s gone!” her father bellowed in Bull’s face, shaking him and seemingly unable to answer a single question in his distress. “Angus saddled a horse for her, she headed toward the train station with that briefcase of yers!”
Oh, fooking hell.
Bull’s eyes had gone wide. “She’s gone. She’s gone? Did she—why would she go?”
Demon shook him again. “What have ye done with her?”
Did the man honestly think Bull had sent her alone to the train station in the middle of January?
He focused on pulling Demon’s hands from his lapels. “I dinnae ken why—” A thought struck him. “Did she receive a telegram? From Merida, perhaps? Is she off to London?”
Without saying goodbye? It would hurt, but at least it would be an explanation…
Demon stepped back, eyes still frantic. “A letter! This morning she got a letter, nae return address.”
“Oh, fook,” Bull whispered, suddenly struck with dread. “Was it related to this case?”
“I kenned ye would hurt her,” growled Demon, lunging forward.
But Bull blocked him, and it was his turn to grab the older man and pull him closer. “I love her, ye auld dobber, I would never do anything to hurt her!”
Demon’s green eyes widened, even the one covered in the horrible burn scars, and his lips formed the word love, but no sound emerged.
It was that opportune time that a cheerful sound, like a monkey splashing in a barrel of whisky, broke through Bull’s panic.
He dropped Demon and whirled about to see the housekeeper, Mrs. Kettel, wearing a teapot on her head and holding a pair of grubby envelopes.
“I found these in wee Rosie’s room. You can see one’s addressed to her, one to you, Mr. Lindsay.” She waved them at Bull. “I would’ve brought them right away, but I needed to clean out the silver lid, to prevent shrews. The poor dears are attracted to—”
She continued speaking as Bull grabbed the envelopes and was busy tearing open the one with his name.
My Love,
I have found our blackmailer. Or rather, he has found me.
It appears he did not die in that frozen river after all.
I cannot allow him to hurt you, so I pray you will forgive me for giving into his demands.
After some debate, I am leaving you the letter I received this morning in the hopes that, despite his threats, you might consider joining me in Balleter after I have delivered the portrait and saved your reputation and future.
I know you well enough to know you are cursing me right now, but please: be original, and do not lean so much on fook, which is most uncreative. Consider obdurate shitegobblin, or malodorous wankmuppet.
Believe me, love, I know my own mind, and am strong enough to do this. I will learn the blackmailer’s secrets, and together we can take him down. Later. When your reputation is safe.
I love you, Bull. You are worth this.
Your Rose
Postscript: since I defied our blackmailer’s orders to tell you, you might as well alert my parents, so they do not worry. Has my father punched you yet?
Do not worry? Bull’s mouth gaped as his hands lowered. He stared at the words swimming before his eyes. Do not worry?
She’d gone gallivanting off alone to confront the blackmailer, the one who’d tried to kill them…and she told them not to worry?
When Demon snatched the letter from his hands, Bull scrambled to read the other one, the one addressed to Rose. Rosie, the blackmailer called her, as if he knew her. As he read, Bull’s rage blazed to life.
This—this wankmuppet thought his reputation mattered more to him than Rose’s safety?
“Fook that,” he growled aloud.
It wasn’t until he looked up that he saw Demon’s stricken look. Rose’s letter dangled, forgotten, from her father’s fingers as he turned horrified eyes to Bull.
“Dear God,” the older man whispered. “What is going to happen to my bairn?”
In that moment, Demon’s pain became his own. Bull grabbed him once more, by the shoulders this time, and forced the other man to meet his gaze. “Demon. Demon, look at me. We’ll find her.” He shook the man just slightly. “We’ll find her, we’ll get her back, we’ll keep her safe.”
Demon slowly blinked. “She loves ye,” he croaked. “My bairn. I held her when… I promised I would never let… Do ye…” He swallowed, then straightened, looking more like the fearsome bastard he could be, rather than the terrified father. “Do ye truly love her in return?”
And Bull, filled with a sense of certainty—not just about the question, but the knowledge he would keep Rose safe—nodded firmly and offered a small smile with his vow.
“I love her, Demon. With everything I am…and everything I could be.”