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

As Keir began down the street again, he had a creeping, tingling sense that something wasn’t right. A shadow slid across the pavement—projecting from behind him—moving too fast. Before he could turn to see what it was, he felt a shove against his back. The force of it sent him into a dark alley, and he slammed into the side of a brick building.

Keir hadn’t yet drawn a full breath when a strong hand gripped the back of his neck to pin him against the wall. Enraged, he began to twist around, and felt a blow on the right side of his back.

He swung to face the attacker, using a raised forearm to break the restraining grip. Too late, he saw the flash of a knife in the man’s free hand. The knife came down to strike Keir’s chest in an overhand stab, but the blade was deflected by the glass bottle in his coat pocket.

Grabbing the attacker’s wrist and arm, Keir forced the elbow to bend, and turned sideways to gain leverage. Then it was a simple matter to twist the man’s arm as if he were ripping the wing from a roast chicken. The crunch of a dislocated shoulder was accompanied by a howl of agony, and the knife clattered to the ground.

Keir stepped on the knife deliberately, and gave him a mean look. Now it was a fair fight. “Come here,” he growled, “you sneakin’, bawfaced shitweasel.”

The attacker fled.

Panting, Keir reached down and picked up the small folding knife. A curse escaped him as he saw the streak of blood on it, and he reached around to feel the sore place on his back.

The cowardly bastard had managed to stab him.

Even worse, he’d made Keir late for dinner.





Chapter 7


ALTHOUGH MERRITT WAS AWARE that Keir MacRae might not accept her dinner invitation, she had decided to be optimistic. She and the cook, Mrs. Chalker, had worked out a simple menu: savory dark beef stew, a loaf of cottage bread, and for dessert, a marmalade cake coated with sugar glaze and tender bits of candied peel.

At half past eight, when there was still no sign of MacRae, disappointment began to creep through her. She wandered restlessly through the small house she and Joshua had bought from a retired sea captain. The house, with its charming cupolas, gables, and a telescope on the upper floor, was situated on a gentle hill from which one could view the sea. Merritt loved the freedom and privacy of having her own household, but there were times when loneliness would catch up to her. Such as now.

She went to sit by the parlor fire and glanced at the mantel clock. Eight forty-five.

“Bother,” she said glumly. “I shouldn’t have tried to coerce the poor man into coming.” She frowned and sighed. “More cake for me, I suppose.”

The cheerful jangle of the mechanical twist doorbell vibrated through the silence.

Merritt’s nerves jangled with relief and excitement, and she could barely restrain herself from leaping up like a schoolgirl. She took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and went from the parlor to the entrance foyer. Her footman, Jeffrey, had answered the door and was speaking to someone on the other side of the threshold.

“You may show in my guest,” she said lightly.

Jeffrey turned to her with a perturbed expression. “He won’t come in, milady.”

Puzzled, Merritt went to the doorway and motioned for the footman to step back.

There MacRae was, disheveled and hatless, but breathtakingly handsome. To her pleased surprise, his hair had been cut and shaped to his head in short layers of amber and gold. He had the cool, sensual allure of a lost angel painted by Cabanel.

Was it her imagination, or did he seem a bit pale? Was he nervous? Was he ill?

“Come with me,” she urged.

But MacRae shook his head, looking uncomfortable and apologetic. “I can’t stay. But I dinna want you to be kept waiting … if you were expecting me …”

“I was definitely expecting you.” Merritt glanced over him with concern. He was pale, his eyes dilated into dark pools. “Come sit with me,” she urged, “even if only for a few minutes.”

“My apologies, milady, but … I have to go back to the flat.”

Realizing something was wrong, Merritt kept her voice gentle. “May I ask why?”

“There was a wee scruffle on the way here, and I … need to rest a spell.”

“Scruffle,” she repeated, looking at him more closely. “You were in a fight?”

MacRae’s mouth twisted with chagrin. “As I was walking away from the wharf, a thief pushed me into an alley. I drove him off.”

Merritt’s worried gaze traveled over him from head to toe. There was a liquid drop of red on the pale stone of the outside landing, right next to his shoe. Was that … blood? Another drop landed beside the first with a tiny splat.

Galvanized by sudden panic, she moved forward to take hold of him. “You’re coming in. Yes, you are. Don’t even think of arguing.” Afraid he might not be entirely steady on his feet, she began to slide an arm around him. Her hand encountered a wet patch on the back of his waistcoat. She didn’t have to look to know what it was.

“Jeffrey,” she said over her shoulder to the footman, trying to sound calm despite her alarm.

“Yes, milady?”

“We need Dr. Gibson. Don’t send a message—go find her in person, and tell her to come without delay.”

Jeffrey responded with a nod and left promptly.