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She made an effort to straighten indignantly. “What makes you think I’m married?”

“A pretty lass like ye, wandering about unmarried?” Auld Gus scoffed, then lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Trust me, lass, in these parts, ye want to at least pretend ye have a husband, unless ye’re looking for new customers?”

“No, I’m not,” she answered irritably. Olivia might not want to look like a duchess, but no woman was flattered by being mistaken for a whore. “I told you, I’m looking for someone who can sell me some belladonna! The last time I was here I heard the whispers, I know you have someone here who can help me!”

The old man winced. “Well, it’s true we sometimes have a poisoner skulking about. Not a chemist, mind ye, but the worst kind of brews. But a lassie such as yerself shouldn’t wish to meet the Duke of Death, not if ye value yer hide.”

“The Duke of Death?” How had she not heard of this man? Despite her reason for being here tonight—despite the pricking guilt—Olivia’s newspaper instincts awakened, sniffing a story. “Why do they call him that?”

“Why do ye think? He left a package, and I’ve already delivered it.” Auld Gus sounded proud. “Now, run on back to yer husband, lassie, afore ye get into more trouble.”

Frustrated, Olivia slammed her hand down on the counter before her, managing to ignore the squishy splash. “My husband has nothing to do with this!”

“And I’m thinking that’s part of yer problem,” the man shot right back. “Now, if ye won’t listen—Oh, it’s ye.”

Olivia blinked. “What?” That’s when she realized Auld Gus was staring over her shoulder.

Quite a distance over her shoulder.

Before she could ask who he was talking to, the barkeep hastened to pull out a glass and a bottle of gin. “Ye’re back so soon, Dark Knight? Anything wrong with the package o’ belladonna?”

Olivia hadn’t turned.

Hadn’t been able to turn.

There was something…

A scent, perhaps, tickling the back of her throat, despite the press of humanity all around her.

A feeling, a certainty… Perhaps it was the way Auld Gus was peering up at someone quite a bit taller than her. Perhaps it was the guilt she’d been harboring all night.

The Dark Knight was standing right behind her, wasn’t he?

She should have been excited to finally meet the legend.

So why wasn’t she?

Swallowing, she straightened her shoulders and turned.

There was a chest in front of her. A chest, wrapped in faded and dusty black wool. Heart hammering wildly in her chest, Olivia forced herself to look up, up…

Into her husband’s chin.

She’d recognize that chin anywhere.

“Ali—”

She cut off his name at the same moment he dropped his gaze to her. His eyes were full of fury and warning.

Ah, right. Announcing the name of The Dark Knight in the middle of an East End tavern like this was likely a poorly thought-out plan.

In fact…

“What’s that, lass?” called Auld Gus from behind her. “Ye know this gentleman?”

Alistair was glaring down at her, the expression of a man who promised violence later if she didn’t tread very carefully now.

Her husband was The Dark Knight.