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The jibing had continued, and he was pleased Fawkes had become friends with Thorne. On the other hand, Alistair had the impression Thorne hadn’t met a person yet he couldn’t charm, whether it be man or woman, and Fawkes was good at not irritating others.

But suddenly the auburn-haired man stiffened, his eyes locked on something across the room. Before Alistair could follow his friend’s gaze, Fawkes turned back to them. “If ye’ll excuse me, I—shall fetch more whisky.” He frowned down at his glass, as if surprised to find a measure amount still remaining, then tossed it back with a grimace. “Can I—” he gasped, then swallowed, presumably after the whisky burned his throat. “Can I get ye lords anything?”

Thorne was studying him thoughtfully before his own gaze darted around the room, but Alistair shook his head. “Thank ye,” he rasped.

Fawkes bowed slightly, then hurried off.

“What do ye think that was about?” Thorne murmured to Alistair, who was thankfully saved from answering by Demon’s arrival.

“Another feckless spunk-muffin of a party, Effinghell,” grumbled Demon as he stomped up, reaching for Thorne’s half-empty glass. “I cannae believe ye got me here this time.”

Thorne crossed his arms in front of his chest, his expression one of amusement as he watched his friend finish off his whisky. “We would’ve got ye to the last one as well, had Bonkinbone no’ refused to see yer wife.”

“Aye,” Demon grunted, his eyes glinting fondly as he found his wife across the room, where she was chatting amicably with Olivia, wearing that beautiful purple gown she’d been married in. “I kenned she was good for something.”

“Ah, spoken like another man deeply in love with his wife. I’m turning out to be quite the matchmaker, am I no’?”

The scarred man hadn’t looked away from his wife. “Ye had nothing to do with our marriage, and ye ken it.”

“Nothing?” Thorne nudged Alistair. “Nothing, can ye believe it? As if I didnae invent The Chicken Dance at his ball, just to distract all of Society so he could woo Georgia with a Grand Gesture?”

Alistair made a little sound of understanding. “Ye’re the one…to blame…for that dance?”

Thorne beamed. “Ye’re welcome.”

Never one for social niceties, apparently, Demon gestured with the empty glass. “Why are we here?”

“Well, I’m here because I understand how to be polite,” Thorne needled his friend, “and I wanted to wish Alistair and his beautiful bride all the happiness in their marriage, since I couldnae be there the first time. Ye are here because Georgia was invited, and Alistair couldnae figure out how to politely write ‘Leave yer grumpy husband at home’ on the invitation.”

“It’s no’ hard,” Demon pointed out. “L-E-A-V-E-space-Y-“

“He kens how to spell it.” Thorne rolled his eyes.

Alistair handed Demon his half-full glass and took the empty one. “Liv wanted…both.”

“Well, she cannae have me,” Thorne quipped. “I belong to all ladies, rich and puir, whether they be simple dancers or grand opera singers or neglected young wives.”

It was Demon’s turn to roll his eyes as Alistair hid his smile by turning to place the empty glass on one of the small tables nearby, confident Rocky would be along in a moment to knock it over.

“Look, are we going to talk business? I’m only here because Georgia wanted to visit with yer wife, but since I’m here, ye might as well tell me what’s going on with my darling father-in-law.”

“Darling?” Thorne snorted. “Bonkinbone is still alive, of course, and my sources tell me he’s nae stronger. No’ expected to fully recover, even if he doesnae die.”

Alistair lifted a brow. “Sources?”

Grinning, Thorne admitted, “My footman’s wooing Bonkinbone’s cook’s assistant.”

“Kenned it would be a woman,” grumbled Demon.

“Blackrose?” Alistair asked.

Thorne shook his head. “Still nae word, and I dinnae ken if he’s even heard the news yet of his brother’s collapse. It’s only been a fortnight.”

“Aye, and Danielle hasnae cracked her father’s code yet. Georgia visited with her and says she’s grateful for the distraction, but hasnae had any luck yet. I dinnae suppose Olivia’s found any more examples of Bonkinbone’s coded classifieds?”

Mutely, Alistair shook his head. He himself had helped her look through the archives, as the men he’d hired had begun moving the offices of The Daily Movement to the safer area of London. With his backing, Olivia had been able to hire more reporters and editors—including an intelligent young lady to be her assistant—and now the paper was being published more frequently.

It meant more work for her, but he knew she loved it.