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

Keir, who couldn’t have cared less about some doddering old aristocrat, responded with an indifferent shrug. “’Tis no’ unusual for a duke to own prime London real estate.”

“Aye, but the interesting part is, Kingston ran the club himself for a time.” To make sure Keir understood the significance, Catach added, “Noblemen never work. To their minds it lowers them, ye ken, and costs them the respect of common folk as well as their peers.”

“He must have had no choice,” Keir mused.

“To be sure. But the duke made Jenner’s what it is, and enriched himself in the process.” Catach had shaken his head with a mixture of admiration and envy. “A charmed life, that one’s had. They say in his youth, Kingston was as wicked as the devil himself. The bane of every man with a pretty wife. Then he married a rich woman and settled into a respectable middle age. For Kingston, the wages of sin have been nothing but gold and treasure.”

“He sounds like a selfish pult,” Keir said flatly. “I’ll no’ be selling my whisky to such a man.”

“Dinna be a dunderclunk, lad. You won’t be meeting with the duke himself. He gave over the running of it to someone else lang ago. Now, you’ll want to write to the club steward. He’ll have the charge of placing orders with tradesmen and superintending the cellar.”

At Catach’s urging, Keir had struck up a correspondence with Horace Hoagland, the managing steward of Jenner’s, and they’d agreed to meet when Keir came to London.

Keir did his best to appear relaxed as he entered Jenner’s with a small wooden case containing whisky samples. He might appear a primitive lout to these people, but he was damned if he’d act like one. Still, it was difficult not to stand and stare slack-jawed at his surroundings. Jenner’s was more opulent than any place Keir had ever set foot in, with acres of white marble, plasterwork covered in gold leaf, rich soundless carpeting, and a canopy of crystal chandeliers overhead. The club was centered around a cavernous central hall with a grand staircase and marble balcony railings extending along the upper floors.

Thankfully there were no snouty aristocratic patrons in sight, only servants busy cleaning and polishing things that already looked clean and polished.

“Mr. MacRae.” A stocky middle-aged man, dressed to the nines in a fine dark suit of clothes with shiny buttons, approached him immediately. “Horace Hoagland, the club steward,” he said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

The steward’s friendly demeanor put Keir at ease, and they exchanged a firm handshake.

“Welcome to Jenner’s,” Hoagland said. “What do you think of the place?”

“’Tis very grand.”

The steward smiled. “I count myself the luckiest chap in the world, being able to work here.” He led the way to a series of rooms with box-paneled ceilings and leather Chesterfield couches, and deep chairs arranged around small tables. Freshly ironed newspapers and sparkling crystal cigar dishes had been set out on the tables. “I have a special fondness for Islay single malt,” Hoagland remarked. “Years ago, a Scottish cousin made a gift to me of a bottle from the MacRae distillery.” He sighed reminiscently. “Smooth as cream, with a finish like a charred apple orchard. Extraordinary.”

“My father loved what he did.”

“He taught you his methods?”

“Since I was knee high,” Keir assured him. “I started by carrying bags of malt to the kiln, and went on to learn every job in the distillery.”

They sat at a table, where a round tray of clean drinking glasses had been set out. Keir unlatched the wooden sample box he’d brought, revealing a row of miniature bottles, each containing a dram of whisky.

“This is the batch you wrote to me about?” Hoagland asked, staring at the samples with frank anticipation.

“Aye. After my father’s passing, my men and I took inventory at the distillery and found a hidden cellar where he’d stashed a hogshead of single malt. It had been sitting there untouched for forty years.” Keir uncorked one of the miniature bottles and poured the amber liquid into a glass. “We finished it in first-fill sherry quarter casks for a year, bottled it, and named it Ulaidh Lachlan—Lachlan’s Treasure—in honor of my father.”

“How many bottles in total?”

“Two hundred ninety-nine,” Keir replied.

Hoagland swirled the whisky in the glass, moved it close to his nose, and inhaled deeply. He took a taste, paying attention to the soft, rolling feel of it in his mouth. The subtle variations of his expression revealed the progression of flavors … the opening of dry, dusty wood and salt brine, like lifting the lid of a pirate’s treasure chest … the richness of bread pudding … finishing with a surprising meringue lightness and a touch of smoke.

The club steward was silent for a moment, staring at the remaining contents of the glass. “Isn’t that something,” he murmured. “A rare handsome whisky. I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted its equal.” He tasted it again, savoring it. “How round the malt is.”

“We bottled it at cask strength.”

Hoagland took another sip, closing his eyes to better appreciate it, and released a long sigh. “How much for the lot?” he asked.