Page 3 of The Duke's Daring Bride

But in the back of his head, he was thinking of her words. How quickly tragedy can strike. Every night he went out like this, was he inviting tragedy? If he died and Barty inherited, would his mother and sisters be left homeless, powerless—destitute?

“Good luck, ye bastard,” quipped Hamish.

Bending down—he stood taller than all men of his acquaintance, and towered nearly a foot over his mother—he brushed a kiss across her forehead, then tickled the bird behind his head.

“Again, please!”

Since Hamish said please, Alistair obliged, then smiled at his mother.

She might intend to stay up all night praying, but he knew she’d be snoring before the hour was out.

He, meanwhile, had work to do.

There were things he could do to improve the world as the Duke of Effinghell, and things he could do as himself. The papers had started calling him The Dark Knight, and although he’d never admit it, the name suited him.

And tonight, as with most nights, he’d do what he could to make London a better place for those who had been forgotten…and he’d do his best to forget his mother’s nagging.

A bride?

He snorted as he slipped out of the back door and into the mews.

A woman, willingly marry him?

She’d have to be truly desperate.

Chapter 1

Olivia was starving, and wished she had the time to stop and investigate the emergency gouda—the last of her cheese hoard—she’d wrapped in a piece of clean cloth and slid into the pocket of her ragged skirt before this adventure began.

But this wasn’t her first visit to the East End, and it would be foolish to stop and take the time to eat.

Only the good Lord knew what—or who—was watching her right now.

Better to keep going. To keep looking for Maisy.

This wasn’t the first time she’d donned her shabbiest gown and the shawl she’d inexpertly knitted herself, pinned her hair up under a simple bonnet, and headed out into the worst parts of London to try to track down a story…

But it was, perhaps, the first time she’d done it this late at night.

Well, what else could she be expected to do? Maisy O’Sullivan and her…her associates worked nights, didn’t they?

Resisting the urge to peer curiously down an alleyway, Olivia kept her chin high and her elbows pressed to her sides as she marched quickly down one of the main streets in Bethnal Green, reminding herself that desperate times called for desperate measures. And desperate women.

The once-grand houses loomed on either side of her, now home to hundreds of London’s poor. These poor souls worked themselves to an early grave, leaving their families living in deplorable conditions.

Her newspaper was their champion. Oh, she published “real” news, of course, but she made certain to work in calls for reform or heart-wrenching charity pieces as well. Granted, it didn’t sell papers as well as serial killers, but it was a necessary cause.

There was a sound behind her, and Olivia found herself walking faster.

Likely just a cat. Out for a stroll. After midnight. Like an idiot. Like her.

Where was Maisy? She’d sent word to Olivia yesterday that she had information from one of her customers which Olivia would find interesting, and more, she was willing to be interviewed. Perhaps it was foolish to hope, but the very reason Olivia had ventured into the East End at night was the faint prayer it might have something to do with John’s disappearance.

Her brother—step-brother—had been involved in some truly traitorous activities years ago, and although she hadn’t heard from him for years, she continued to trace leads and clues and hints, hoping he was still alive; hoping he’d been duped, as had the rest of the agents who worked with him, into thinking he had been working for the Crown.

She owed it to their father to exonerate John’s name, if it was possible.

A disappearance precipitated by—

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