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

“I’m sorry to hear it. And your mother?”

“Gone as well.”

After another unaccountably long silence, the duke picked up the empty dram bottle and regarded the label. “MacRae,” he said. “A fine old Scottish name. Do you have family in England?”

“None that I know of.”

“Have you been to England before?”

“Once, on business.”

“You’ve found satisfactory accommodations, I hope?”

“Aye, a flat at one of the Sterling warehouses.”

“Have you met Lady Merritt?”

The mere mention of her name softened the tension in the atmosphere almost miraculously. Keir felt the small muscles of his face relaxing. “Aye, I’ve had the honor. A kind and bonnie woman, she is.”

The duke’s sudden easy smile was like the sun giving off light. “I’ve known her since the day she was born.”

Keir’s brows lifted slightly. “You were there during the storm?”

“She told you about that? Yes, I was one of the volunteers who went out in search of a midwife or doctor. It didn’t look promising when one of us brought back a veterinarian, but to his credit, it all turned out well.”

“I’d say the credit should go to Lady Merritt’s mither,” Keir said.

Kingston grinned. “You’re right.”

Hoagland wore a distracted expression as he beheld the two of them. “Mr. MacRae,” he ventured, “shall we proceed with a partial payment and delivery agreement?”

“A verbal agreement will do for now,” Keir replied. “I have another meeting soon, and I dinna like to be late.” He paused, thinking over his schedule. “Shall I come back Friday?”

Hoagland nodded. “Any time before noon.”

Keir responded with a businesslike nod. “I’ll be off, then.” He turned to find the duke’s intent gaze still on him. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”

“I’m glad—” the duke began, but fell abruptly silent. He looked away and cleared his throat as if he were just now feeling the sting of the whisky.

Keir tilted his head slightly, regarding Kingston with a frown. Was the man not well? Had he recently received bad news?

Hoagland intervened hastily. “Like His Grace, I’m glad to have made your acquaintance, MacRae. I look forward to our next meeting on Friday.”





Chapter 6


THE REST OF THE day went well. Keir met with a hotel manager and then a tavernkeep in Farrington, both of whom had agreed to contracts for private bottling. After that he went to collect his men, Owen and Slorach, and accompanied them to the Victoria Railway Station, where they would take an express up to Glasgow, and from there proceed to Islay.

Slorach, a dour and wizened Calvinist of sixty-five, was more than eager to leave London, which he regarded as an unwholesome den of sin and beggary.

Owen, on the other hand, a lighthearted lad barely out of his teens, was reluctant to go back to Islay. “There are many things I havnae done yet in London,” he protested.

“Aye,” returned Slorach dryly, “and ’tis well that you’ll be gang back to Islay before the doing of them.” Turning to Keir, the elderly man said ruefully, “He’ll be griping all the way home. But I gave my word to his mither I’d keep him out of trooble.” Looking grim, he added, “’Twould be my preference to take you back with us.”

Keir grinned at him affectionately. “Dinna worry, I’ll be keeping myself out of trooble.”

“London’s no place for the like of you, young MacRae. Dinna tarry one day more than you must.”

“I won’t.”

After seeing the pair off, Keir went in search of a hansom cab. As he walked past construction scaffolding, a steam-engine excavator, a factory, and a tenement building, he reflected that Slorach’s reaction to the city of five million was entirely understandable. There was too much activity and noise, too much of everything, for a man accustomed to the cool green quiet of a Scottish island.

But as Keir thought about seeing Merritt that night, he was filled with anticipation. He yearned for her company, as if she were a drug. No, not a drug … a spark of magic in an ordinary life. A good life, which he happened to love.

But he knew down to his soul how much of a danger Merritt was to him. The more he came to know her, the stronger this yearning would grow, until any chance of happiness had slipped away like sand through his fingers. He’d spend the rest of his days consumed by desire for a woman who would always be as distant from his reach as the most far-flung star.

Still … he had to see her one last time. He’d allow himself that much. After that, he’d finish his business in London and return to Islay.

Five hundred miles wouldn’t be nearly enough distance to put between them.

Eight o’clock sharp, she’d said.

As Keir walked by a barbershop with a sign that advertised “penny cut, ha’penny shave,” he paused to look through the window. The shop was a tidy, prosperous-looking place, with framed mirrors on the wall, shelves filled with bottles of tonic, and a leather chair with adjustable head and foot rests.

Maybe he should spruce himself a bit before dinner tonight. He ran a hand through his overgrown hair. Aye … the wild locks could do with some taming.