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

“All of it?”

“All two hundred ninety-nine bottles.”

“Three thousand pounds,” Keir said readily.

Hoagland looked resigned rather than surprised. It was a fortune—at least ten times what ordinary whisky would cost. But they both knew this was no ordinary whisky. They both knew, also, that Keir could easily find another buyer.

“For that sum,” Hoagland said, “I’ll expect you to throw in the rest of those samples.”

Keir grinned and nudged the wooden box toward him.

Hoagland parted his lips to say something, but paused and looked over Keir’s shoulder, his face brightening. “You’re in luck, MacRae,” he said. “The Duke of Kingston himself just entered the club rooms. It’s possible you’ll have the honor of meeting His Grace, if he comes this way.”

Having never seen a duke before, Keir resisted a strong temptation to twist in his chair and take a look. “I was told Kingston didn’t have the running of the club anymore,” he remarked.

“No, indeed. But the duke still considers Jenner’s the jewel in the crown of his empire, and he never goes long without stopping by.” Still gazing at Kingston, Hoagland glowed as if in the presence of some celestial being. “His Grace is speaking with the head waiter. No other gentleman of his status would take such notice of an inferior. But the duke is a most gracious man.”

Keir was vaguely annoyed by the man’s reverence, which seemed a hairsbreadth away from fawning.

“Ah—yes—he’s walking over here,” the steward exclaimed, and pushed his chair back to stand.

Keir wondered if he should stand as well. Was that something only servants did, or were commoners obliged to rise to their feet? No—he wouldn’t stand to meet the duke like a boy answering a question from the village schoolmaster. But then he thought of how his father had always cautioned, “The proudest nettle grows on a dung heap.”

Reluctantly he began to ask the steward, “Should I—”

“Yes,” Hoagland said with quiet urgency, his gaze riveted on the approaching duke.

Keir pushed back his chair and stood to face Kingston.

From what he’d been told about the duke’s past, Keir would have expected a florid old dandy, or a rheumy-eyed satyr. Anything but this elegantly lean man who moved with the supple ease of a tomcat. His clean-shaven face was a marvel of bone structure: a gift of male beauty that could never be outlived. The dark gold of his hair was silvered at the temples and sides, and time had weathered his complexion here and there with fine lines. But the signs of maturity only made him seem more powerful. The sheer presence of the man caused the hairs on Keir’s arms to prickle in warning beneath the too-short sleeves of his ready-made coat.

“Hoagland,” Kingston said in a voice like expensive liquor on ice, “it’s good to see you. Your son is better, I trust?”

“You’re very kind to ask, Your Grace. Yes, he’s recovered fully from his tumble. The poor lad’s grown so fast, he hasn’t yet learned to manage those long arms and legs. A rackabones, my wife calls him.”

“My boy Ivo is the same. He’s shot up like a weed of late.”

“Will he grow as tall as your other two sons, do you expect?”

“By force of will, if necessary,” the duke replied dryly. “Ivo has informed me he has no intention of being the youngest and the shortest.”

Hoagland chuckled and proceeded to make introductions. “Your Grace, this man, Mr. Keir MacRae, has brought whisky samples from his distillery in Islay. Will you try a dram? I recommend it highly.”

“No, it’s a bit early for—” The duke broke off as his gaze moved to Keir.

Keir found himself staring into blue eyes, as light and piercing as winter frost. The man’s stillness reminded him of a golden eagle sighting prey on the island.

The oddly charged silence made Keir more and more uncomfortable. Finally, the duke dragged his gaze from Keir’s and turned his attention to the perplexed steward, who was looking back and forth between them. “On the other hand,” Kingston said in a careful monotone, “why not? Pour one for me, Hoagland.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Nimbly the steward uncorked a dram bottle and emptied it into a clean glass.

The duke reached for the glass without ceremony, not bothering to swirl or sniff the contents. He tossed back the fine whisky with a stiff movement of the wrist, as if it were a dose of patent medicine.

Keir watched in mute outrage, wondering if it had been intended as an insult.

Gazing down at the empty glass in his hand, the duke appeared to be collecting his thoughts.

Hoagland was still looking from one of them to the other, appearing more baffled by the moment.

What the bloody hell was going on?

Kingston’s head finally lifted, his expression inscrutable, his tone friendly. “You were born and raised on Islay?”

“Raised,” Keir replied cautiously.

With undue care, the duke set down the glass. “A superlative single malt,” he commented. “Less peat and far more complexity than I’d expect from an Islay whisky.”

Slightly mollified by the praise, Keir said, “My father was never one for the big peaty whiskies.”

“He’s no longer with you?”

“Gone these four years past.”