Chapter 15
Rosie had been surprised when the rose-wearing man had helped her into a very fine carriage and politely climbed in after her. But she was even more surprised when he removed his hat—and she recognized the cut of his jaw and the curve of his lips.
“You! You are the man in the mask,” she breathed, scooting across the squabs as far from the blaggard as possible. “The blackmailer! The thief!”
His smile was a little rueful as he crossed one leg over the other with all the ease of a born gentleman. “I’m not, in fact, either.”
Why had she not realized how cultured and refined his speech was?
Likely because he had been pointing a gun at you!
Oh yes.
“I am never wrong about a face.” Rosie clutched at her overcoat, tucking it about her…less to warm herself, and more because it made her feel safer. She was confronting the man who had threatened to hurt Bull! “I recognize you from the Portrait Gallery, and from Alnwick. You tried to kill us.”
“There were no bullets in the revolver,” he assured her mildly, watching her with a bemused expression. “But yes, that was me. I was rather surprised and more than a little disobliged to be pushed through the ice.”
“Surprised?” Her anger giving her courage, Rosie sat forward to glare at him. “Disobliged! Bull almost died!”
He shrugged. “I am glad he didn’t. Aunt Eliza was irritated enough with me as it was.”
Aunt Eliza? “Who are you?”
The man hesitated for a moment, then dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “I am the Earl of Mistree.”
Wh-What?
“Why would you try to steal our portrait?” Rosie breathed, clutching the briefcase to her. “And blackmail—”
“I am not your blackmailer, Lady Rose,” he announced with a sigh, as the carriage began to slow. “I was merely doing a favor for a beloved relative, something I am certain you will soon understand.”
Understand? None of this made any sense!
She pressed her lips together as they pulled up the drive of a modest estate. From the window, she could see rolling hills, a stable, a few outbuildings, and a manor with small wings and a grand portico.
And climbing up the brick on either side of the portico, framing the windows…were roses. Well. They would be roses again, come the spring. Their vines were bare and covered in snow, but Rosie recognized them for what they were.
“Where are we?” she breathed.
The unmasked, not-a-blackmailer, not-a thief, possible-earl, helped her down. “Welcome to Rosewood, Lady Rose. Jones will take over your care from here.”
When Rosie turned, it was to see a staid, elderly man holding the door for her. She thought she’d seen him before. But then again, everything was so confusing now. She clutched Bull’s briefcase and found herself hurrying toward him, anxious for answers.
“May I take your coat, Lady Rose?” the man asked, and as she turned over her outwear to him—as if this were a normal social visit and not a scandalous blackmailing!—Rose studied him. He seemed so familiar…
The butler gave a brief bow. “If you will excuse me, my lady.”
He backed toward the parlor, and Rosie found herself grateful for the moment’s reprieve. Her stomach was knotted, and the fact that none of this made any sense made it even worse.
Take deep breaths. What would Bull do?
Right. Bull had surely been in situations like this many times, and he’d come through fine.
Rosie winced, remembering the scars her fingertips had found on his body. Perhaps not fine.
Thinking of him really did help calm her, though. He was with her, in a way, was he not?
She tucked his briefcase under one arm and reached beneath the neckline of her simple gown to pull on the ribbon she still wore against her heart. With quick, efficient movements, she untied the bow, removing the emerald ring.
When she slipped it on the fourth finger of her left hand, she felt a rippling sense of peace descend over her.
Yes.
She was brave and strong and smart, and she had Bull with her. Her right hand stroked the ring on her left hand. She could do this. She would.
The butler reappeared. “This way, my lady. She will see you now.”
She?
The man in the carriage, the man who claimed to be the Earl of Mistree, had mentioned an Aunt Eliza. Is that who he meant?
Taking a deep breath, Rosie stepped through the door—
—and stopped short.
Whatever she’d been expecting at Rosewood, whatever she’d expected from her blackmailer…this wasn’t it.
The parlor was lit with a cozy glow from lamps and a roaring fire. Around the room, displayed on easels of various sizes, were paintings—portraits. All of the same woman—the woman who looked so much like Mother—and all wearing the ruby necklace.
And in the center of the room sat a withered old woman huddled in a bath chair beneath a thick lap blanket. Her skin was sallow, her gray hair thin…but her smile was bright, and Rosie immediately recognized her.
“Lady Mistree?” she blurted out, remembering her from that brief meeting in the Gallery. “What are you…” she began as she all but stumbled into the room. “Why…?”
“Hello, my dear,” the old woman said softly, lifting her hand in welcome. “Welcome home.”
Home? Home? This is not home? Rosie couldn’t understand what was going on, what was happening. “Why are you here?” she whispered, reaching the old woman’s side.
“Is it not obvious?”
Still looking frantically about at all the portraits, Rosie admitted, “Not even a little bit.”
Lady Mistree chuckled, then reached out to take her hand. “Sit with me, my dear.”
And that was when Rosie realized—the threats, the gun, the man who had tricked her here, he could return at any moment.
They had to escape.
“I cannot relax!” She clutched the woman’s frail fingers. “We need to get you out of here, get you to safety, before the blackmailer returns!”
The woman’s smile was not stressed, but serene. “That will be quite difficult, seeing as how I am the blackmailer.”
All the air was sucked from Rosie’s lungs as she stared down at the old woman in the bath chair. Lady Mistree was the blackmailer?
There was a sound behind her; the butler wheeled a tea cart in and began to pour for his mistress. The old woman tugged on Rosie’s hand.
“We are both completely safe here, my dear, I give you my word. Unless Jones himself has attempted to bake that cake, but I trust he has not. Sit with me, please, and allow me to explain?”
Numbly, Rosie sank to the chaise beside the bath chair and took the teacup Jones offered. It really was quite good tea, the warmth seeping through her limbs. She noted Lady Mistree eyeing the emerald ring on her finger, but neither of them spoke until the butler departed.
Only then did Rosie take a deep breath. “You are the blackmailer, Lady Mistree? But—I thought you were Bull’s friend.”
“Oh, I am, I am. One of his dearest, I would think, because I can see his true self.” The older woman smiled.
“I would never truly do anything to hurt him or his reputation, but I knew you well enough to know that a threat against your reputation would not motivate you nearly as much as a threat against him. And I am afraid I very much needed to motivate you.”
“To bring you the portrait,” Rosie said dully, understanding not so much dawning as sludging. “Because you could not get it any other way.”
How does Lady Mistree know you so well? You only met the woman once, and you were wearing a mustache!
“True. My husband’s nephew, Teddy—he’s the one who holds my Reggie’s title now, you know—has been a tremendous help in my endeavors.
I honestly underestimated how hard Bull would fight to protect that portrait.
I would have never forgiven myself if Bull or Teddy had come to harm.
I hear they both had a rather frigid dunking. Such silly boys.”
Rosie slowly lowered her teacup to the saucer. “Bull was not protecting the portrait. He was protecting me.”
The old woman lit up. “Oh! That makes it far better, then.”
There was information all around, but none of it was making any sense. The Earl of Mistree? No bullets in the gun? Lady Mistree blackmailing the man she claimed was her dear friend?
“I do not understand, Lady Mistree: why did you send that letter to me? To Allie? Why would you steal from the National Portrait Gallery, and buy all the other paintings?” She gestured around to the portraits on easels—the small one from the wall of the Gallery, even the empty easel obviously set aside for the portrait Rosie carried now.
The old woman beamed as she glanced around. “I will explain it all. But first, I would like it very much if you called me Aunt Eliza.”
Rosie’s confusion must have shown, because the old woman chuckled again as she leaned forward to place her teacup on the table beside her, and reached toward Rosie. Without thinking, she took the woman’s hand, marveling at the delicate strength.
“I am your mother’s Great Aunt Elizabeth,” Lady Mistree explained quietly, a twinkle in her eye. “She called me Betsy. I met you once, many years ago, when your mother brought you to visit. But since then I have watched you. Watched you and your mother both, to ensure you are happy.”
“We are,” Rosie whispered, not sure who exactly she was reassuring. “Da is—he is always—he is—”
“And as for why I would do all of this…” The woman glanced around the room.
“These paintings were all mine, at one point. Some of them were given away—by me or by others—and some were sold. Now I am dying, I wanted them back.” She glanced about in satisfaction. “Back here, with me. Where we belong.”
Rosie shifted, placing her cup down as well, and moving closer to the old woman so she could clasp both her hands around the one frail one. “So you stole them—or bought them back? From Madam Desiree and Lord Tittle-Tattle?”
“And others, too.” The old woman smiled. “I imagine, if you had come to this case a year ago when I began collecting my portraits, you would have found all of them as well. You are quite clever, my Rose.”