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As Thorne’s breath spewed from his lungs, Demon rolled his shoulders in satisfaction. “I wrote to her father and told him of the arrangement, told him I’d send her home if he gave me access to Blackrose. He refused, and told her all that on Hogmanay.”

Wincing, Thorne straightened. “So she thinks ye used her?”

“I did use her.” Repeatedly. Delightfully. In all ways.

To be fair, ye allowed her to use ye as well.

“So…ye’re going to apologize?” Thorne lifted his fists and began to circle once more.

Another flurry of fists. They were both breathing hard. “Willnae make a difference if I do. She deserves better than anything I can offer her.”

“Ye’re a fooking Duke now!” Thorne ducked and weaved. “But she deserves yer heart, Demon. She loves ye.”

“Bullshite. Besides, she’s disappeared.” Demon grunted, blocking a blow and ducking under his friend’s guard. “I cannae find her.”

Thorne’s response was to lower his shoulder and slam into Demon, crashing them both into the sofa and then to the floor. They grappled, which was such a civilized, simple description of what they were actually doing.

Both of them knew a half-dozen ways to kill the other from this position, but Demon trusted the man. Despite not actually liking him—or anyone—that much, he trusted Thorne.

So, when he ended up straddling Thorne, he actually grinned.

And Thorne, being Thorne, reacted with revulsion. “Good God, are ye having a fit? An attack? Did I land one too many blows? What is that thing on yer face?”

Since he had the upper hand—or upper position, as it were—Demon merely shook his head and hoisted himself up. “Get up, ye arsehole,” he chuckled.

“And now ye’re laughing? For fook’s sake, Demon, I havenae heard ye laugh in a while.”

“Well, I havenae seen ye knocked on yer arse in a while.” He ran his hand through his now-sweaty hair. “Want a drink?”

He was pleased to see his friend was breathing as heavily as he was as he poured them both whisky. This time, Demon did drink, savoring the sweet burn.

“So…Georgia.” Thorne, damn him, seemed intent on discussing Demon’s shame.

She loves ye.

The thought was too wonderful—too terrible—to contemplate.

“I’ve been out of the game too long,” Demon growled, staring into the amber liquid in his glass. “Out of London. That, or Blackrose eliminated all my contacts as he tried to eliminate us. I’ll no’ ask ye for help, ye grinning donkey’s arse, because ye’ve been out of it even longer.”

“Aye…” Thorne sipped his drink with maddening ease from where he sprawled on the sofa. “But I ken where she is.”

Demon’s head whipped around. “Impossible. Do ye ken how many Felicity Montroses there are living in London?”

His friend shrugged. “Doesnae matter. I only need to ken where one lives. And this one lives right next door to Calderbank.”

“Calderbank?” The name was familiar and Demon frowned, trying to place it.

“Aye, Calderbank. The agent who disappeared, according to Blackrose’s notes?”

“Och, aye. Rourke wrote that he resurfaced now he kenned it was safe. Him and his family?”

Thorne nodded. “And he moved in right next door to Miss Felicity Montrose, of the Aberdeen Montroses.”

Bloody hell, she had spoken with a faint Lowland burr, had she not? “Does that matter?”

“Do ye recall why I said I was coming to London this time?”

Demon wanted to wipe that smirk from his friend’s face. Instead, he tried to remember that irksomely inconvenient visit his friends had made to Endymion. When Georgia had become his hostess, and made the dank, dark place something akin to a home.