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One of the things she loved most about their time together was that Alistair always seemed to be touching her, as if he weren’t comfortable without holding her hand or holding her. It made her feel cherished, and tonight—when she hadn’t told him the wildest part yet—was no different.

“And Alistair?” she hedged. “That wasn’t all I thought…”

He raised a brow again.

“I don’t know how it came to me, but…I had an idea. On how to lure Blackrose.”

“Code?” he rasped, in that succinct way of his.

She shook her head, chewing on her lip once more. “I mean, yes, if we could find someone to break Bonkinbone’s code, we could set our own messages. So perhaps my idea wasn’t necessarily…”

He squeezed her fingers. When she glanced up at him, he cocked his head, waiting.

She took a deep breath. “Could…could you contact Thorne and request a meeting? I’m remembering what he told us about my brother’s motives. He wanted—or Blackrose instructed him—to make Blackrose a lord. He was trying to become a duke, right?”

Alistair nodded.

“But his older brother is an Earl, and Bonkinbone has no sons, so Blackrose is his heir.” Olivia watched his expression, hoping for a hint of his feelings. “I think we can use Bonkinbone to lure his brother back to London. Could you arrange a meeting with Thorne?”

This time, Alistair’s nod was even more curt. He was watching her with narrowed eyes. “Explain,” he croaked.

So she took a deep breath, and did.

Chapter 18

Alistair happened to be passing through the foyer when Thorne arrived for their meeting.

The morning after Olivia’s late-night explanation, he had written to his friend requesting a visit, and hinting at a way to lure Blackrose using his brother the Earl. He still wasn’t certain how he felt about the whole idea, but he was anxious to hear Thorne’s thoughts.

Thorne’s, and the other agents. The affable man had promised to bring others who could weigh in.

As Hiro opened the door and took Thorne’s hat and gloves, Alistair’s grin flashed. Perfect timing.

He held out his hand and the blond man shook it, already glancing around.

“I see ye were waiting for me, Effinghell. Where’s yer gorgeous, and apparently brilliant, wife?”

“Parlor,” rasped Alistair.

Thorne froze and Hiro cursed.

When Alistair turned to his friend-turned-butler, and raised his brow, Hiro was busy picking up the hat he’d dropped.

“Jesus Christ, Alistair!” his oldest friend spat, straightening. “Are you trying to give me heart palpitations?”

“I take it to mean,” Thorne asked blandly, apparently at ease with Hiro’s informality, “that His Grace speaking is as rare an event as I extrapolate?”

Hiro was still glaring. “If by that you mean I have never heard the blighter speak, and have known him for years.”

More than known him; the man had more or less pulled him out of depression and beaten him back to life.

Now his friend was jabbing a finger toward his chest. “When the hell did this start, Alistair? Have you been able to speak all this time, and you have been laughing at me—at us all? Does it hurt? Does your family know?”

These were far too many questions to answer without a notebook. For now, Alistair merely offered his hand to his long-time friend. As Hiro took it, expression suspicious, Alistair shrugged.

“Liv,” he croaked.

It wasn’t an explanation, but all of Hiro’s questions could be answered through her. Perhaps he understood, because his frown eased. “Ahh,” the man murmured, squeezing Alistair’s hand. “Well then, I suppose we all owe Her Grace our thanks.”