Page 113 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
Thorne asked quietly, “Was he the one to first call ye Duke of Death? Because yer father was a duke?”
Fawkes didn’t respond, his gaze still on Ellie.
She swallowed. “That night in the alley, you called yourself a poisoner. Have you killed people on his orders?”
His nod was a long time coming, but when it did, she exhaled.
“Have you killed anyone on his orders since I have known you?”
Fawkes winced, as if trying to decide how to answer, and he opened his mouth—
And the clock struck two.
In some households this might be a simple procedure, but in the foyer of Hangcok Hill during Yuletide, this meant the little door on the cuckoo clock squeaked open, and a tiny Father Christmas on a spring popped out.
Ellie had yet to learn why they called it acuckoo clockif there was no cuckoo.
Father Christmas was carrying an ax—again, no explanation—and bent forward at the waist once, as if chopping an imaginary block of wood. He straightened, then popped forward once more, each chop accompanied by a merry littleding, and plenty of squeaks and squeals.
Then, in another flurry of cheerful pings, the spring retracted, and Father Christmas disappeared behind the door for another hour, and silence reigned.
I suppose I should be grateful it is only two p.m.
Fawkes hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, and Ellie’s mind had been churning.
It was the way he’d winced which had told her what she needed to know.
“The Duke of Death,” she whispered, turning to Thorne as more pieces of the puzzle slid into place. “Where did you say the Duke of Effinghell acquired the poison—was it not deadly nightshade?—which he planned to use on my father?”
Thorne was watching Fawkes warily when the interloper onto their happiness answered her. “I didnae say. But ye guessed it, aye; Effinghell bought it from a shadowy underworld figure called the Duke of Death.”
Fawkes swallowed, not meeting anyone’s gaze.
“But Effinghell did notuseit,” Ellie blurted, almost in relief. “The plan was that the poison would mimic the effects of a heart attack, yes? But then my father—who had a weak heart already—obliged everyone by having arealattack.”
Thorne said nothing, still watching the mute man Ellie thought she’d loved, as she shook her head desperately, her mind placing more and more pieces of the puzzle together.
“No, no, that is not correct either.” In a panic now, although she wasn’t certainwhy, Ellie clutched at her temples. “The deadly nightshade was intended togive hima heart spasm, to weaken his heart so Blackrose would come back to Britain, thinking his dear brother was on death’s door. Uncletoldme how much he loved my father, and how heartbroken he was by his brother’s death, but how much of that was just because they were business partners?”
Her heart was slamming against her chest and she squeezed her eyes shut, pressed shaking fingers against her temples, and tried to make sense of this riddle.
“There were so many options of poisons to choose for a weak heart—they are usually intended tostrengthena heart, but too much can actually kill a person. Fawkes and Estella—his mother told us about that. My father’s symptoms started right after his brother fled—I assumed it was sorrow…”
Ellie sucked in a deep breath and straightened, her hands dropping to her side as her eyes opened.
She met his green gaze, and this time saw no wariness. Only a sort of sad pride. Pride in her?
“Foxglove,” she whispered.
Fawkes love.
Then again: “Foxglove. It is one of the herbs you said your mother grew in her gardens. For you.” No response. “It can be used to treat a weak heart, like you do for your neighbor, Mister Reynald. But taken in too large a dose…”
Finally, Fawkes reacted.
It was a nod, a barely perceptible nod.
Tears sprung to her eyes, but she wasn’t sure why. “Did you poison my father? Did you kill him?”
