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He would ignore this ‘Duke of Death’ until the man threatened London’s most helpless citizens.

As the Dark Knight—an equally ridiculous moniker!—Alistair cared more for the ne’er-do-wells intent on violence.

Like the four men who’d attacked Olivia that night in Spitalfields.

He was well aware he couldn’t stop all the footpads and rapists in the East End, and his particular brand of vigilante justice was more about satisfying the urge to lash out than anything else. But he liked to think he was helping, in some small way.

Besides, he was a duke. A real one. He so rarely had the excuse to beat seven kinds of shite out of someone else.

After the accident, when he’d been near death for so long, the doctors had told Mother he’d never walk again. But she—and Uncle Ian—had nursed him back to health with determination, and encouraged him to strengthen his mind.

That wasn’t enough for Alistair. Not by half.

He had always been sickly, and now he couldn’t speak…but he’d be damned if he’d be confined to a bed for the rest of his life!

It had been a hell of a decision to make at age eleven.

He’d healed, he’d exercised…and when he could walk again, he’d decided that wasn’t enough. He wanted to run. Then he wanted to sprint. Then he wanted to fight.

Hiro had joined the household then, and had been a godsend. While Mother disapproved of the scrawny Japanese lad with the unusual skillset, Alistair had seen him as salvation.

And as duke, he could make anyone he damned well pleased his attendant, right?

Mother hadn’t objected too hard, even when Alistair began to sport black eyes and bruises from Hiro’s instruction.

Eventually he’d gone off to school, where life had been hell until he’d proven himself stronger and bigger and more than knowledgeable with his fists. The whole being-the-Duke-of-Effinghell thing probably helped as well.

And now here he was, The Dark Knight.

“Eh, there was one other thing…” Auld Gus mused as he poured more gin into the glass. He didn’t slide it in front of Alistair, however, but lifted it to his own chin and tapped it thoughtfully there. “Thought ye might be interested in hearing it. I know ye’re not usually interested in the goings on o’lords…”

Alistair’s gaze sharpened. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in the antics of the nobility—far from it, of course—but he’d never heard of any lords in the East End. The two spheres of his influence did not overlap. Except in him, obviously.

Before him, Auld Gus tossed back the gin, clearly pleased to be partaking.

“Ye know I mostly deal in rumors, aye? Well, there’s one what’s saying the Duke there”—he nodded across the room—“is here to do a job for a lord. A lord who wants poison? I thought ye might be interested in that. If not ye, then someone would be, eh? Worth summat to someone.”

Reaching out, Alistair pushed the bottle of gin closer to Auld Gus, in a meaningful way. The bartender smiled, revealing three teeth.

“I kept digging, see, ‘cause I knew ye’d be around, wonderin’ about it. Also because I’m nosy,” the old man announced happily, smacking his lips as he contemplated the gin. “Turns out the job was from an Earl.”

Alistair’s brows rose again.

Auld Gus finished his drink and nodded emphatically. “Earl of Badonkadonk. Nah, that’s not it.” He smacked his lips and tapped the empty glass against his chin as he turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “Bonkingdonk? Blinkingsomething? The Earl of B-something.”

Bonkinbone.

The Earl of Bonkinbone had recently made the gossip columns by publicly snubbing his oldest daughter Georgia, who was now married to the Duke of Lickwick. Amelia and Amanda had been nattering on about her, recently, hadn’t they?

Why would Bonkinbone need to purchase poison? And why come to this part of London to do it?

Alistair may not have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, but he’d remember this information. Perhaps it would be useful someday.

“I figger that’s something pretty interesting, eh? Something The Dark Knight might like to know, eh? Worthy information.”

Already considering the ramifications of the information, Alistair nodded vaguely as he slowly straightened. He wasn’t certain how useful the information was to him as The Dark Knight, but he would keep it in mind.

Auld Gus still stood there, cradling the gin and beaming hopefully at him, so it was obvious what the man meant.