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

As the illegitimate son of the late Earl of Trenear, Ethan was the most enigmatic member of the Ravenel family. Very little was known about his past, and he preferred to keep it that way. However, he was good friends with West Ravenel, who was married to Merritt’s best friend, Phoebe, and Phoebe had told her a great deal about him.

“Ethan once worked as a government agent,” Phoebe had said. “He was part of an intelligence force that was secretly funded by the Home Office. It had something to do with espionage and foreign intelligence, and one’s better off not asking too many questions about it. But Ethan was a highly trained agent.”

Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Merritt asked Ethan, “How long have you been here?”

“I’ve only just arrived,” he replied.

“If you’ve come to retrieve your wife, I’m afraid we can’t give her back yet,” Merritt said with a wan smile. “She’s the only reason Mr. MacRae has survived.”

“How is he now?”

“Badly injured. He has a concussion and can’t remember anything about the past few days.”

“At all?” Ethan frowned, his gaze turning inward. “Damn,” he muttered.

Luke, who had picked up a sandwich and was in the process of wolfing it down, volunteered with his mouth half full, “Dr. Gibson said the memory loss may be temporary.”

Nonplussed by her brother’s oafish manners, Merritt said, “Dear, why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the couch?”

Luke gave her an unrepentant glance. “Sis, I know you’d prefer me to sit and eat like a civilized person. But if you knew everything these trousers have been through tonight, you wouldn’t want them on your furniture.”

Ethan’s lips twitched.

“I made several sandwiches,” Merritt told Ethan. “You’re welcome to have some if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but first I’d like to see my wife.”

“I’ll take you up to her,” Merritt said promptly, leading him out of the parlor.

Luke’s muffled voice came from behind them. “I’ll keep an eye on the sandwiches.”

As they crossed the entrance foyer on the way to the stairs, Ethan stopped Merritt with a low murmur. “My lady.”

She turned to him with an inquiring glance.

“Before we go upstairs,” Ethan said carefully, “there’s something I need to ask. I’m in the process of putting a puzzle together, and your help would be very much appreciated. Obviously, whatever you tell me will be kept in confidence.”

“Is Mr. MacRae a part of the puzzle?”

He stared at her directly as he replied. “He’s the center of it.”

That gave Merritt a chill. “Has he been accused of something?”

“No,” Ethan said with reassuring firmness. “Nor is he under suspicion of any wrongdoing. At the moment, my primary concern is keeping him alive.”

“In that case, ask me anything.”

“Last night, after Garrett left here … did MacRae end up staying for dinner?”

“He did.”

“When did he leave?”

Merritt hesitated. It was no small risk to answer that question. Were it to be made publicly known that she’d spent the night with a man out of wedlock, her reputation would be ruined. She would become a fallen woman—as in fallen from the grace of God—and treated as an outcast by polite society. Even sympathetic friends would have no choice but to shun her or have their own reputations ruined by association.

She felt color flooding her cheeks, but she held his gaze as she replied calmly, “He stayed here the entire night, and left soon after the bells at St. George’s rang.”

It relieved her to see no trace of censure in Ethan’s gaze. “Thank you,” he said simply, acknowledging her trust. “Did he happen to mention where he was going?”

“He had business meetings. I’m not sure with whom, but …” Merritt paused as she heard a decisive knock at the front door. “Who on earth … ?” she said blankly, and went to answer it.

As the door opened, a gust of cold autumn wind blew in, causing the hem of the visitor’s flowing black overcoat to flicker like a raven’s wings. He cut a magnificent figure, looking as fresh and alert as if it were morning rather than the dead of night.

“Uncle Sebastian?” Merritt asked in bewilderment. It was unheard-of for a duke to wait on someone’s doorstop. Usually a footman would first come to knock and make inquiries before the lord or lady descended from the carriage. Tonight, however, it seemed that Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston, had decided not to stand on ceremony. He smiled at Merritt.

“Darling girl,” he said quietly. “May I come in?”

As soon as he was inside, Merritt went to Phoebe’s father, and his arms closed around her in a brief, comforting embrace. She and her siblings had always known Kingston as the kind, handsome man with an abundant supply of funny stories, and always made time to play jackstraws or checkers with bored children. As Merritt had grown older, however, it had been impossible to avoid the gossip about his notorious past. She found it difficult to reconcile that version of him—the skirt-chasing scoundrel—with the devoted family man whose entire world centered around his wife. Whatever Kingston’s past, he was like a second father, and she would have trusted him with her life.