Page 84 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
Thorne remembered his cousin hadn’t been formally introduced to this particular ex-agent of Blackrose, so he nodded abruptly and stepped back to allow the pair to join them.
“Griffin, allow me to introduce Fawkes MacMillan, my cousin. He owns land up near Stroken. Fawkes, this is Griffin Calderbank, the Duke of Peasgoode.”
Fawkes inclined his head. “My wife, Yer Grace, the Lady Danielle.”
Face grim, Griffin bowed briefly to Danielle. “My lady.” His“Sir,” was even colder. “I ken who ye are.”
The Duke of Death. Griffin knew the identity of Blackrose’s poisoner, and Fawkes knew he knew it, judging from his wince. Oh excellent. There wasn’t room enough in here for a punch up.
“Your Grace, please grant me a moment?” Fawkes didn’t pause for confirmation but moved his free hand to cover his wife’s on his arm. “I’ve spoken with yer son about yer wife’s death.”
“My first wife,” Griffin corrected, eyes cold. “I’ve had verra good reason to suspect Blackrose of her murder.”
“Aye, and the bastard is capable of anything,” Fawkes agreed. “Bull explained the circumstances surrounding her death, and I’m sorry for yer loss.”
“Are ye?” growled Griffin.
Fawkes exchanged a glance with his wife, then with Bull, and took a deep breath before switching his attention back to Griffin. “I swear on my daughter’s soul, Calderbank, and my mother’s too, that I did no’ poison her. I dinnae ken of any other chemist working for Blackrose, either. If she was poisoned, it was no’ at my hand.”
Before Thorne’s eyes, Griffin’s shoulders slumped, his acceptance seemingly immediate. “Could Blackrose have done it on his own?”
Fawkes blinked. Surprised he’d been believed, perhaps? Or perhaps Bull had already explained their earlier conversation to his stepfather. Eventually, he shook his head. “I…I dinnae see how. I’m sorry.”
“Dinnae be.” Griffin’s command was harsh, as he swallowed and dropped his gaze to the carpet. “If ye dinnae poison Mary, and dinnae believe Blackrose did, then… This is good news.”
Bull’s hand rested on his father’s shoulder. “It is, Da,” hemurmured. “What we ken of Blackrose, it fits that he’d make use of Mary’s natural illness to make ye squirm.”
“I would’ve done anything to keep my children safe from the bastard,” muttered Griffin.
Unable to stop himself from offering comfort, Thorne touched Griffin’s arm. “Aye, and ye did. But now they’re safe at home with Flick,and we’re ready to take him down.”
“Ye have a plan?” Griffin asked, raising his gaze. “Does it involve my son dressing as a woman again?”
Thorne winced. “No’ unless he really,reallywants to.”
“Tempting, but nay,” Bull quipped. “No’ until pockets become standard.”
Exhaling mightily, Griffin turned to Fawkes and held out his hand. “Thank ye.”
Fawkes hesitated only a moment before pulling out of Danielle’s hold and accepting the handshake. “Thankye, Yer Grace.”
“Griffin,” the gruff man corrected. “I’ve only been a duke for a year, and I find it doesnae quite suit me.”
“Well, ye’re welcome to visit us at Hangcok Hill if ye ever want to get away,” Fawkes offered. “It’s much easier to manage than a dukedom!”
“Right,” bellowed Demon from across the room. “If ye excretable spunkbuckets are done with the emotional shite, can we get on with the plan?”
“Demon Hayle,” began his wife sternly from the settee, “If you upset that baby after all the trouble I had convincing her to eat an hour ago, I shall insist she direct her vomit downyourback this time.”
But the scarred man merely harrumphed and lifted his daughter to eye-level. “Rosie isnae upset when I call peopleexcretable spunkbucket, are ye, love?”
The bairn smacked him in the nose with a drool-covered fist, then laughed, which Thorne thought appropriate.
Georgia rolled her eyes and asked Thorne, “Is Rourke joining us?”
Bull answered as Thorne shook his head and stepped closer to Kit. The gold coin flashed across the lad’s knuckles nonchalantly. “He sent word that he’s bringing Sophia to London in a few days. He’ll be here when we spring the trap.”
“He’s bringing his wife?” Fawkes confirmed curiously.
