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

“You like whisky?” Keir asked.

“Love it,” came her prompt reply, which Merritt could see had earned his instant liking.

“Mr. MacRae is a distiller from Islay,” she told Garrett. “He’s visiting London on business.”

“Will you tell me exactly what happened?” Garrett asked Keir, and listened to his account of the attack while she washed her hands over the basin. “I’m surprised the thief tried to rob a man of your size,” she commented, extending her soapy hands while Merritt poured clean water over them. “You’re not what anyone could consider an easy mark.”

“And the devil knows I dinna have the look of a man carrying valuables,” Keir said wryly.

Garrett knelt beside the couch to examine the wound, gently manipulating the skin around it. “A single-edged blade,” she commented. “Quite sharp. It made a V-shaped notch and gouged a little shelf beneath the skin—as if you began to turn just as the knife struck.”

“Aye,” came his muffled reply.

“Well done,” the doctor said, still inspecting the wound. “Had you not reacted so quickly, the blade would very likely have severed an artery near your kidney.”

Merritt was chilled by the realization of how close he’d come to death. “He dropped the knife in the scruffle,” Keir said.

“Tis in my coat pocket.”

Garrett’s eyes were bright with interest. “May I see it?”

At Keir’s nod, Merritt went to his discarded coat and carefully fished the knife from the pocket. She brought it to Garrett, who deftly pried it open.

“A stag handle with a slip joint closure,” the doctor observed aloud, “and a three-inch drop point steel blade fortified with nickel bolsters.”

“You’re an expert on knives?” Merritt asked.

Garrett sent her a brief grin. “Not an expert, but I am keen on them. My husband, on the other hand, is a connoisseur and has an extensive collection.” Her attention returned to the knife, and she squinted at the metal-capped pommel. “How curious. There’s a serialized number here—along with what appears to be a hand-stamped identifying number. It could be British army issue. Or navy, if this is a marlinspike …” She pried out a skinny steel hook. “A hoof pick,” she said triumphantly. “Definitely army. Cavalry or mounted infantry.”

Keir gave her a dubious glance. “The man in the alley was no’ in uniform.”

“He may have been a former soldier, or this knife could have been stolen from one.” Garrett folded the knife. “Now, as for the wound … I’m afraid it’s going to need stitches.”

Keir responded with a resigned nod. “I’ve already had a dram of whisky,” he said. “If you’ve no objection, I’ll take another.”

“Certainly.”

Merritt picked up his empty glass and took it to the sideboard. By the time she returned with the drink, Garrett had taken various items from her bag and laid them out on a clean cloth. After soaking a wad of absorbent cotton with antiseptic solution, the doctor swabbed around the wound.

So far, Keir had tolerated the process without comment. But as the doctor picked up a tiny glass syringe, unscrewed a little metal cap at the end, and attached a long, thin needle, it was clear he didn’t like the looks of it at all.

“Whatever that is,” he said, “I dinna need it.”

“A hypodermic syringe,” Garrett explained matter-of-factly. “I’m going to inject a solution into the wound to numb the area.”

Keir reacted with a quick double blink. “No, you won’t,” he said firmly.

Garrett appeared momentarily nonplussed, then gave him a reassuring smile. “I know the prospect of an injection can seem a bit intimidating. But it’s only a quick sting, and then it’s done.” Seeing the obstinacy on his face, she continued gently, “Mr. MacRae, I’m going to have to clean the wound before closing it with sutures. The process will be unpleasant for both of us if you won’t let me give you a pain-relieving injection first.”

“Do what you must,” he returned, “but no injection.”

Garrett frowned. “The choice is either one swift poke of a needle, or several minutes of excruciating pain. Which sounds preferable?”

“Excruciating pain,” he said stubbornly.

Garrett’s gaze met Merritt’s in a silent plea for help.

“Keir,” Merritt said gently, “you can trust Dr. Gibson. It will make her job easier if you’re able to keep still.”

“I’ll be as still as a spiked gun,” he promised.

“You’re going to be poked by a needle anyway,” Merritt pointed out.

“No’ a hypodermic one.” He cast a surly glance at the syringe, which Merritt had to admit privately did look rather menacing.

“I’m very experienced at administering injections,” Garrett assured him. “If you’ll just let me—”

“No.”

“You won’t even have to look at it. You can turn your head and hum a little song while I—”

“No.”

“The hypodermic syringe has been in use for more than twenty years,” Dr. Gibson protested. “It’s safe and highly effective. It was invented by a brilliant physician who used the sting of a bee as his model.” Trying to think of some way to convince him, she added, “A Scottish physician.”