Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) by Lisa Kleypas

“Ah, weel,” his father had explained, “they’re enchanters of men, bonnie women are, and when they beckon, we can’t help but follow.”

“I wouldn’t!” Keir had said indignantly. “I’d stay home and take care of Mither.”

There had come a chuckle from the stove, where his mother had been frying potatoes. “A good laddie, y’are,” she’d called out.

His father had grinned and stretched out before the hearth, lacing his fingers together over his middle. “Someday, lad, you’ll ken exactly why a man falls to temptation, even knowing the better of it.”

And, as in most things, Keir thought ruefully, his father had been right.

IT WAS ONLY a short walk back to the wharf, past houses and shops with light glowing from windows and in glass cases of streetlamps. Merritt began to dread the moment when they reached the warehouse and this peculiar but delightful interlude with a stranger would be over. How long it had been since she’d felt this giddiness, as if she were being courted. She’d forgotten how much she’d liked it. How odd that the man to remind her was a rough-and-ready whisky distiller from a remote Scottish island.

MacRae accompanied her to Sterling Enterprises, and stopped with her just inside the entrance. “When will you go home?” he asked, as if he were concerned about leaving her there.

“I’ll take my leave after I meet with Mr. Gruinard, the supervising exciseman,” Merritt said. “He has an office here in the building. I’m sure I can persuade him to wait at least until noon tomorrow before interfering with the bond terms.”

The hint of a smile lurked in the corners of his lips as he stared down at her. “How could anyone refuse you?”

That tempting forelock of hair had fallen over his forehead again. Merritt had to clench her hand to keep from reaching up and stroking it back. “You mustn’t hesitate to come to me if there’s anything you need,” she told him. “Recommendations for places to go, or introductions to someone—or if there’s a problem with the flat—I’m here most days, and of course my secretary or Luke will provide assistance—”

“I don’t expect I’ll be troubling you, milady.”

“It would be no trouble. Just walk over here from the flat whenever you like, and … we’ll go to the penny pie shop.”

He nodded, but she knew he had no intention of taking her up on the invitation.

That was probably for the best.

But as they parted company, Merritt had a sense of being abandoned, deprived of something … not unlike a puppy whose owner had just left the house. What was the word for it? Forlorn, she decided. Yes. She was feeling forlorn, and that would not do.

Action must be taken.

She just wasn’t certain what that was yet.

DURING AN HOUR of negotiations with Mr. Gruinard, Merritt managed to gain a few small but valuable concessions. Now she could finally go home. It had been a long day, and she was eager to sit by the fire with a pair of soft slippers on her feet. But no matter how tired she was, the cogs of her brain wouldn’t stop turning, and she knew already she would be in for a night of poor sleep.

She decided to have her carriage stop at warehouse number three on the way home. After all, as a caring older sister, she was concerned for her brother’s welfare, and as a responsible employer, it was her place to find out how work was progressing.

And if, in the process of speaking to Luke, she happened to catch sight of Keir MacRae … well, that was entirely incidental.

The warehouse was a hive of activity. A steam-powered crane creaked and groaned, and occasionally hissed as if with a sigh of relief, after lifting cargo to the upper level of the building.

Curses and grunts of effort filled the air as the warehousemen worked. Even with ramps and hand trucks, it took brute effort to maneuver and rack the whisky barrels.

Merritt entered the building as inconspicuously as possible, taking care not to block anyone’s path. Nearby, men strained to push heavily loaded hand trucks up a ramp, where a warehouse gauger stamped each cask. At least a half-dozen workers with tin drinking cups had gone to the corner, where stone jugs of water had been set in barrels of sawdust and ice.

Her presence was quickly noticed by one of the foremen, who offered to escort her to the upper floor where Luke was working. They went up on a hand-powered lift, operated by a working rope at the front of the cage. During the ascent, Merritt gazed around the warehouse, but even from her elevated vantage point, there was no sign of Keir MacRae.

She found Luke on his hands and knees, marking the floor with chalk to indicate where to store the next load of casks. “Would you like to hear some good news?” she asked as she approached him.

A slow grin crossed her brother’s sweat-streaked face at the sight of her. He stood and dusted his hands together, creating little clouds of chalk. “Tell me.”

“I just met with Mr. Gruinard, and he said even if we don’t have all the whisky stamped and stocked inside the warehouse by noon, as long as the casks are set inside the bonded yard—”

“The one we’re only allowed to use for timber?”

“Yes, that one—Mr. Gruinard will make an exception and let us use it as a temporary holding area for the whisky until we finish the job.”

“Thank God,” Luke said fervently. “Well done, sis.” He gave her a quizzical glance. “Is that all?”