Page 117 of The Duke's Daring Bride

The old man behind the counter frowned, but continued to smear dirt around the inside of one of the beer mugs. Although it was possible he thought he was cleaning it?

“Is there a reason you won’t—I’m sorry, what was your name?” She was trying her best to be personable, but his disconcerting glare was…well, disconcerting.

Or perhaps it’s because you’re feeling guilty.

Yes, that too.

Finally, the barkeep mumbled a set of syllables which could have been, “Auld Gus.” She was going to assume they were.

Her smile was a bit frayed by this point. “Excellent, Mr. Auld Gus. And what is that short for? Augustus? Gustav? Fergus? Asparagus?”

“What?” the man grunted.

Good Lord, this was turning into a more involved mission than she’d expected. “I asked”—she raised her voice and leaned across the bar, hoping it was just a case of him not being able to hear her over the other patrons—“What is ‘Gus’ short for?”

The old man scowled. “Because me parents were short! No call going around insulting a man about his height, missy!”

She flushed and leaned back, but at least the man was talking to her now. “Well, Mister Gus, can you help me?”

“Help ye find belladonna? What’s a young lady like ye doing looking for deadly nightshade? Trying to commit murder? Yer husband, most likely?”

She gasped, although she doubted he heard it over the sounds of the tavern this evening. “I would never hurt him!”

“Likely story, an’ one I’ve ‘eard afore,” the man grumbled. His head jerked up and he answered someone else’s wave with, “Aye, I’m coming!”

As he shuffled away, Olivia frowned.

Perhaps this had been a bad idea.

Perhaps? Sneaking out behind your husband’s back? Going against your agreement? Of course you look suspicious!

Oh, fabulous. Now her subconscious was berating her in Auld Gus’s voice.

Sighing, she propped her chin up on her hand, realized she’d placed her elbow in something sticky, and thought a word which would’ve made even Hamish proud.

“What am I doing here?” Olivia muttered.

Well, she knew what she was doing here, she just…felt all squicky about it. Squicky? That sounded like whatever she’d just put her elbow in. But it also described her stomach and her heart at that moment.

Excellent, we’ve reached the portion of the evening when you start making up words. Are you certain you didn’t drink an ale?

Her stomach was in knots; an ale might’ve been helpful. On the other hand… She wrinkled her nose, seeing the level of grease in Auld Gus’s mugs.

Alistair told you he would get the poison.

Yes, but Alistair hadn’t, had he? In fact, Alistair had shown no interest in getting it, and the soiree was tomorrow. They didn’t have the poison yet, and needed it, which is why she’d decided to take things into her own hands.

No wonder Auld Gus asked if you were going to poison him; you’re being disloyal. You don’t trust him.

Of course she trusted him!

…Didn’t she?

“Shite,” she muttered. “No wonder I feel terrible.”

In the week since the meeting with Thorne and Demon and Georgia, Bonkinbone’s estranged daughter, things had progressed quite swimmingly in terms of invitation-writing, the trap for Blackrose, and choosing canapes for the soiree, which was apparently a very important duty for a duchess.

One thing which hadn’t progressed at all was the poison. If they didn’t get that, all this planning would be useless!

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