Page 114

“Nay, ye idiotic wank-puffin,” Demon snapped. “Because Bonkinbone, going about his business like normal, would see the story—as would anyone else who reads it—and ken it is fake. It’ll no’ last long.”

Georgia took a shuddering breath. “Just claiming him near death would not be sufficient. Everyone would have to believe it.”

When they all turned on her, she leaned against her husband. Alistair could tell she wasn’t pleased with the direction the conversation was going, but clearly she was willing to entertain the idea. Another brave woman.

She held Olivia’s gaze. “It would have to be someplace public. Many people would have to see him ill, such that when your paper published the story, they will all agree with the prognosis and help spread the rumor.”

“Are ye aright with this, sweetheart?” Demon held her in a surprisingly gentle manner, his tone soft. It was incongruous, with the man Alistair had assumed him to be.

“Not really.” She offered him a wry twist of her lips. “But it is a very good idea. I do not want him dead, but he is not a nice man, and if he has been in—what is the word? Cahoots?—cahoots with Uncle William all this time, then we can and should use him to lure my uncle out. Then you can nail the cock-weasel.”

“I love it when ye talk dirty,” Demon growled, before he hauled his wife against him for a quick kiss.

Alistair raised a brow watching Georgia melt against her husband, and Olivia stifled a giggle against his shoulder.

Thorne, however, remained somber. “If we do this, Georgia’s right. It would have to be done in such a way that many people see him ill. Does deadly nightshade take immediate effect?”

Olivia shook her head. “It is rapid, but not immediate. If we could convince him to—for instance—drink wine with it, he would fall ill soon after, but he wouldn’t collapse right away. Apparently.”

“So he would need to be in a social setting,” Thorne mused, “and convinced to take wine from us.”

An idea had begun to itch at the back of Alistair’s mind, and he shied away from it, hating it already.

“How the hell do ye ken all this about belladonna?” Demon asked, still holding his wife. “Does Alistair need to be concerned?”

Alistair raised a brow as Olivia hurried to explain. “There was a murder investigation two years ago. I wrote the articles, and I interviewed many chemists and doctors about the history, methods and symptoms of belladonna poisoning.”

Georgia raised her finger. “Going back to the administering…Demon and I would be useless in this, since Father refuses to see us.”

Now the idea—the horrible, certain-to-succeed idea—was jumping up and down in Alistair’s mind, and he was doing his best to ignore it.

“And we wouldnae ask ye to,” Thorne assured Georgia. “He’s yer father, and ye cannae have a part in poisoning him.”

“But you are correct,” she assured the blond man. “It is vital the concoction be administered to him in a social setting. Demon and I cannot be involved, or he would suspect us. I cannot ask Danielle to participate—”

“Nay, of course no’.” Thorne slumped backwards once more. “And I’m right out as well. So is Rourke. We’ve both been vocal in our condemnation of Blackrose—although Bonkinbone shouldnae realize we ken they’re brothers.”

“Calderbank?” Demon offered. “He’s unknown to the Earl, and now he’s a duke. Bonkinbone wouldnae turn down an invitation from a duke. Calderbank could hand him the wine as easy as that, and everyone could watch Bonkinbone become ill.”

Christ.

Jesus fooking Christ.

Alistair closed his eyes on a sigh.

He was going to have to do it, wasn’t he?

Shite.

He felt Olivia squeeze his hand, but didn’t open his eyes as he said, “Invite. Here.”

“Alistair,” she whispered. When he turned to look at her finally, she was shaking her head, something like pity in her eyes. “We don’t have to be the ones to do this. You don’t. I can visit the man, or something; he doesn’t know my connection to the investigation.”

Nay, Demon was right; if a duke invited Bonkinbone to his home—especially a duke no one knew, a mysterious duke, a precious invitation—the Earl would most certainly accept. Alistair had the most chance of success.

And judging from the way Thorne had sucked in a breath, he knew it too.

“That’s brilliant, Alistair. If you held a gathering, all of Society would be clamoring for an invitation. Bonkinbone would have to attend. And if he collapsed there, everyone who was anyone would see it, and word would get back to Blackrose!”