Beatrice retreated from the bedroom but didn’t go to sleep. She wandered into the library, seeking another bottle.
The lights were already on. Sebastian Cross was sitting in Alistair’s leather wingback chair, reading a leather-bound logbook.
“Mr. Cross,” Beatrice gasped, clutching her robe. “It is three in the morning.”
“The witching hour,” Cross smiled, closing the book. “Appropriate, considering what I’ve found.”
He stood up and walked toward her, holding the book out. “This is the Estate Gardening Log. It documents the cultivation of *Digitalis purpurea* in your private greenhouse. And here, three months ago, is a notation for a ‘harvest’ of the toxic leaves.”
Beatrice froze. The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the hardwood floor.
“Alistair didn’t have a stroke, did he, Lady Beatrice?” Cross asked softly, his voice devoid of judgment but heavy with threat. “You poisoned him. That is attempted murder. If I take this to the police, you will die in a federal prison.”
Beatrice began to shake. “I… I had to…”
“I don’t care about your reasons,” Cross interrupted, stepping over the broken glass. “I care about the assets. Sign over the voting rights to the majority shareholders by morning, and this logbook disappears. You get immunity. The company gets liquidated. Or… you go to jail. Your choice.”