Page 8 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

Hissing out a breath through his teeth, Demon reached for the whisky bottle. The cork was a bitch, but he managed to get it out and swig directly from the bottle. Once, his mother would’ve had palpitations to see him acting so beastly. But that was the benefit of letting most of one’s staff go then hiding in Scotland; no one left here at Endymion gave a gooey shitenugget if he drank from the bottle or went a few days without bathing or allowed his hair to grow long enough to cover his face—and scars.

As the whisky burned down his throat, he lifted Rourke’s latest letter from the desk. It was full of news about the investigation. Blackrose was still missing, of course, but Hulesman had been settled nicely with his brother in Liverpool. They’d thought the pitiable man would be useless after they’d sprung him from that sanitorium, but the ex-agent’s mind was apparently slowly recovering.

Demon appreciated his friends, his ex-partners, allowed him to take part in the investigation from Endymion, so he didn’t have to leave. The idea of dragging that poor fook to Liverpool—even if the agent had been as much a victim of Blackrose as the rest of them—made him shudder.

It had been bad enough, being interviewed by the lawyers and the government representatives. Rourke—as Duke—and Thorne—as Viscount—had used their influence to keep Demon from having to show his ruined face in London. They, and the rest of Blackrose’s other agents, had been cleared of blame thanks to the evidence Rourke’s family had collected—evidence Blackrose thought destroyed. Now the three of them, and the other remaining ex-agents, were determined to bring Blackrose to justice.

As long as Demon could do it from here. He had no intention of ever leaving Endymion again, and protected his privacy staunchly.

Here at Endymion, he was safe. He was alone.

“Hello?”

What in the—? She’d followed him here?

A knock followed.

“Go away!” he growled.

She ignored him. Of course, she ignored him. She struck him as the kind of spoiled bitch who always did what she wanted.

The door opened, and the Vision In Blue stepped in. Rather than having to look at that much loveliness wrapped up in what he had to assume was a stylish daygown, Demon gave her his back.

“Ye’re no’ supposed to follow me.”

“Well, I had to,” she announced briskly, her heels clipping against the floor until she reached the rug by the fireplace. “You refused to slow, or to answer me reasonably earlier.”

“I did answer ye,” he growled. “I said nay. Nay, ye cannae pay yer father’s debt.”

She heaved a great sigh. “Why not, my Lord Endymion? I am prepared to pay you everything he lost in that silly card game—why did you purchase his debt, anyhow? I can even pay you interest.”

The word interest held no interest to him. “I bought yer father’s debt, Lady Georgia, because I like the idea of yer father owing me.”

From behind him, she made a little noise of understanding. It was soft and sensual, and Demon hated himself for turning around. When he did, it was to find her standing beside his desk, her fingers resting atop the bonnet she’d placed there. She must’ve deposited her coat and gloves with Mrs. Kettel.

Frolicking pissweasel, she looked as if she was planning on staying.

“You like my father owing you? Because you want something from him that is not money. Correct?”

She was right. He wanted her uncle, the bastard who’d planted the firebomb in the train car and had torn apart his face. Torn apart his life.

“Correct.”

She was eying him speculatively. Not in frustration, but in a How can I get you to change your mind way. He narrowed his eyes and mutely dared her to do her worst.

“And what is it you want from my father, Lord Endymion?”

Revenge.

“Nothing ye can give me, sweetheart,” he growled.

Her eyes widened, and he noticed they were a lovely hazel, a mixture of browns and golds and greens. Then hated himself for noticing.

“Pray do not flatter me with endearments, sir. You must want something from my father, and I have been authorized to deal with you on his behalf.”

She thought his sweetheart had been an endearment. With a little laugh at himself, Demon took another swig from the bottle. As he lowered it, he felt a drop of whisky curl down his lip on the burned side.

Scowling, he swiped at it with the back of his hand. Her gaze followed the movement, and her own tongue slid across her lower lip

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