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Olivia had spent hours with her mother-in-law and overly excited sisters-in-law, choosing colors and foods and flowers and musicians. She now knew more than she’d ever wanted about how to plan a soiree for “the crème de la crème of Society, my dear” which was good…she supposed.

At least she was less likely to embarrass herself—or her husband—this time. She’d received lectures and lessons and advice from everyone from her mother-in-law to the butler—although Hiro was kinder about it.

How to turn down a dance from a viscount.

How to subtly snub someone who was being rude.

How to curtsey to the Queen, if she happened to grace them with her presence.

How to manage a plate of those little fiddly cookies and hold a glass of champagne at the same time, without looking like a total twit, which was actually quite difficult.

At least the menu would involve a selection of cheeses. She’d insisted.

But through all the planning and worrying, Alistair had said nothing about the belladonna. He was speaking more these days, although rarely in front of anyone besides her and occasionally his mother. But when Olivia would ask him about getting the poison…nothing.

Georgia’s sister had made no progress in deciphering her father’s classified code, which meant they were going to have to go through with the poisoning scheme at tomorrow’s gathering…but Alistair refused to answer her when she asked how he would be fetching it.

He had no plan to fetch it, no idea where to find it, she was sure!

But she did.

There had been that investigation last year where she’d learned so much more about poisons than she’d ever expected…and last month, when Alistair had been in Scotland and she’d interviewed Auld Gus about that Dark Knight sighting, she’d heard rumors of a poison-monger.

Poison-monger? You’re making up words again.

Well, if that wasn’t a word, it needed to be. It was a good word.

Last year she’d learned that one couldn’t just wander into a chemist and request enough belladonna to severely incapacitate a large man. Especially if there was a chance one might be recognized as a duchess.

Rather bad form, that.

But Olivia wasn’t just any duchess. She was a duchess who also happened to be a newspaper reporter, and she had contacts all over the East End. Auld Gus’s tavern wasn’t even among the worst places, and she’d been here before.

So why couldn’t she get any answers about the poison-monger she needed to find?

Perhaps you haven’t offered him enough of a bribe.

She’d offered him a perfectly reasonable amount of a bribe, thank you very much. Besides, she wasn’t stupid enough to travel in these parts of London with a wad of cash. Auld Gus was just being tight-lipped for another reason.

If she didn’t figure out why, she wouldn’t be able to buy the deadly nightshade.

That might not be a bad thing. At least you wouldn’t be disloyal to Alistair.

Groaning, Olivia just barely managed to keep from dropping her forehead into the sticky puddle on the bar.

She wasn’t being disloyal to Alistair, was she? She was just…tired of waiting. He didn’t have the contacts she did. He didn’t know where to find the belladonna from these less-than-legal sources, like she did.

Not really something to brag about, is it?

“Ye want something to drink, honey?”

Auld Gus’s question startled her. Olivia’s gaze jerked up sharply. “What?”

“Ye want something to drink? I’m partial to gin.” He winked.

“No, thank you,” she sniffed. Then, because hope springs eternal, she thought to ask, “You wouldn’t happen to have a cheese platter, would you? Some simple camembert, perhaps? A brie would do just as well, as long as it is aged—”

Judging from the way he blinked, Auld Gus had no idea what she was talking about. “Just gin, lassie. I’d hurry up and order, if I were ye. Afore yer husband comes and fetches ye home!”