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“Do not glare at me so, Alistair. You are married now. You have a responsibility to the title. You must be seen to be healthy and hearty and—this is the important bit, I hope you are attending—married.”

He’d wanted to tell her his responsibility to the title involved caring for the land and the people, providing an heir and a spare, not parading his disability in front of people he had no interest in.

But he also knew when she started speaking in italics, he had no hope of winning an argument.

Besides, he’d been bleary from lack of sleep, and unable to put up his typical fight. And then his mother had pouted and looked up at him with those big brown eyes so like Amelia and Amanda’s, and said, “Do this for your mama, Alistair.”

He’d heaved a sigh, wondering how many things men had done throughout history—things they hadn’t wanted to do—because their mothers had pouted at them.

Then he’d gone to take a nap.

And now it was nearly dinnertime, and Alistair was hiding.

Not in his bedroom, or his study, where his mother could find him and rant at him about his image as a duke—as if a duke shouldn’t shun social frivolity in order to manage his correspondence and responsibilities—but in a tavern in the East End.

It was a rather effective hiding spot, he thought.

He’d dressed in his Dark Knight clothes and slipped from the house while Hiro and the rest of the staff were being run ragged by Mother, preparing for the dinner party and improving every element of their home in a brief hour to impress God knew who, and walked briskly for a half hour.

In the London crowds, he was anonymous.

His great height and wide shoulders might mark him as an oddity, but in a simple coat and hat with worn trousers and boots, Alistair drew no attention, and no one cared if he didn’t speak.

He’d chosen this tavern for a reason; the man behind the counter—Auld Gus—always recognized him and shared information willingly. Without Alistair having to ask. Most convenient.

Sure enough, the wizened old man smiled when Alistair ducked through the door. “Well, bless me, Oi didn’t expect ta see ye out and about when it’s still daylight!” He glanced toward the grimy windows. “Of course, there ain’t too much daylight left. Ye taken to daylight gallivanting, guv?”

Still grinning, Auld Gus made a show of pouring a gin and placing it at the end of the bar, where Alistair might lean across, without too many others overhearing.

The gin was shite, but the information was always good.

Alistair cupped the glass in one hand and leaned forward on his elbows, his stare direct. Slowly, he raised a brow, prompting Auld Gus to share what he knew.

“Let’s see, let’s see…” The bartender leaned a casual hip against the wood and crossed his arms, his experienced gaze flitting about the crowded room, resting on troublemakers and quiet drinkers alike. “We’ve got a crowd in here. Ye think one of them might be someone ye’re looking for?”

Alistair made a show of sweeping the room with his own gaze, although he doubted he’d be needed here tonight. The area itself was hardly respectable, but the working-class men—and sometimes women—who drank here wanted no trouble.

“Eh, I can see by how bored ye look that ye want nuffin with these bastards. So ye’re here for information, guv, and as always, ye want me to guess?”

Hiding his smile, Alistair drank the gin. It burned, the way gin wasn’t supposed to.

“Well, ye see that hooded man in the corner? Rumor is that’s the Duke of Death, or one of his minions. He’s not just good with poisons, but the best. ‘E can get ye any sort of brew or potion ye might need…for the right price.”

Alistair raised a brow.

That was all that was needed. Auld Gus nodded. “Aye, poisons—arsenic, belladonna, foxglove. Someone with his reputation—I don’t want nuffin to do with him, normally, but his clientele can be right generous if I can pretend to be deaf and blind, if ye catch what I’m saying.”

Foxglove? Belladonna? Nasty stuff. It could cause delirium, difficulty breathing…death.

Auld Gus must’ve seen something in his expression, because he nodded as he grunted and reached for the remainder of Alistair’s gin. “Aye. I’ve asked no questions, but I can, if ye want,” he offered, before swallowing the harsh liquor with nothing more than a slight grimace. “Ah, tastes like mother’s milk.”

Since Auld Gus appeared closer to seventy than sixty, Alistair had to assume his memory of his mother was a tad hazy.

Likely caused by the gin.

In the years he’d been haunting the East End, Alistair had heard rumors about the Duke of Death, said to be a mysterious figure even in London’s underworld. His rarer poisons were far more difficult to obtain than a common chemist’s…but his clients weren’t typically the people who frequented Auld Gus’s establishment. Not willingly, anyway.

The people Alistair protected.