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

“I like it,” Merritt said with a touch of defensiveness.

“Every man should know the difference between ‘enough beard’ and ‘too much beard.’” The duke stared at his watch for a half minute, then closed the lid with a decisive snap. He took his time about replacing it in his pocket. “Approximately a year ago,” he said abruptly, “I received a letter from Cordelia, Lady Ormonde. Long ago, before I met Evie, I had an affair with her.”

“Ormonde,” Merritt repeated, staring at his taut profile. “I’m not familiar with the family.”

“No, you wouldn’t be. To my knowledge, Lord Ormonde hasn’t been invited to Stony Cross Park for decades. Your father can’t abide him.”

“Why?”

“Ormonde is as vile as any man who’s ever lived. I would call him a swine, but one hates to malign a useful animal. Cordelia was quite young when they married. She’d been impressed by all his boasting during the courtship, but after the wedding, she discovered what kind of man she’d married. Despite trying to produce an heir, they were still childless after four years. Naturally, Ormonde blamed Cordelia. For that reason and many others, he made her very unhappy.” In a light, self-loathing tone she’d never heard from him before, he added, “And unhappy wives were my favorite.”

Watching him with concern and fascination, Merritt prompted gently, “What was she like?”

“Charming and accomplished. She played the harp and spoke fluent French. Her family, the Roystons, saw to it that she was educated.” Kingston paused, his gaze turning distant. “Cordelia was eager for affection, which I supplied in return for her favors.”

Troubled by the lingering bitterness in his expression, Merritt pointed out, “It’s common for married people to stray, especially among the upper circles. And they were her vows to break, not yours.”

“Child.” Kingston’s head lifted, and he regarded her with a wry smile. “Let’s not be lawyerly. She couldn’t have done it without a partner.”

He reached down to Keir, gently took the thermometer from beneath his arm, and read it critically. “Hmm.” After shaking down the mercury again, he tucked the thin glass cylinder beneath Keir’s other arm. “Cordelia sent a letter from her deathbed,” he continued, “to inform me she’d conceived a child from the affair all those years ago.”

“That must have been a shock,” Merritt said quietly.

“The world stopped spinning. I had to read the sentence five times over.” Kingston’s gaze turned distant. “Cordelia wrote that her husband had refused to accept my bastard offspring as his firstborn, and had forbidden her to tell me about her condition. He sent her to a lying-in hospital in Scotland to carry the baby to term in secret. After the birth, he would decide what was to be done. But Cordelia feared for the child’s safety, and devised her own plan. She told Ormonde the baby had been stillborn. The head nurse of the maternity ward arranged for the boy to be smuggled out and given into the care of a decent family.”

“Would Lord Ormonde really have harmed an innocent child?”

“He had two compelling motivations. First … Cordelia was an heiress. Her family had established a trust that would go to her husband if she died without issue. But if she had a child, all of it would go to him or her. Ormonde would never have allowed any possibility of the child inheriting.”

“Is the trust so large it would make someone want to commit murder?”

“I’m sure Ormonde would be willing to do it for free,” the duke said dryly. “But yes, the portfolio includes commercial and residential properties in London. The annual rents bring in a fortune—and Ormonde desperately needs the income to keep his estate solvent.” He paused briefly before continuing. “The second reason Ormonde wanted him dead is that regardless of who sired him, Cordelia was married to Ormonde at the time of Keir’s birth. And therefore …”

“My God,” Merritt whispered. “Keir is his legitimate son.”

Kingston nodded. “Even if Ormonde marries again and produces a son by his new bride, Keir will still inherit his viscouncy. As long as Keir’s alive, there’s no chance Ormonde can pass down his family’s title and estate to his own blood. It will all go to Keir.”

“He won’t want it,” Merritt said. “Oh, he won’t like this at all, Uncle.”

“He doesn’t have to know about that part until later, when he’s ready to hear it.”

“He’ll never be ready to hear it.” Groaning softly, Merritt rubbed her weary face with both hands. “How did Ormonde find out Keir was alive?”

“I’m afraid that was my doing.” Kingston’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Cordelia named me as the executor of her will, and asked me to protect his rightful inheritance in the event he was still alive. The only way to keep the will in probate while I was searching for Keir was to provide a copy of Cordelia’s letter to Chancery Court. From that moment on, Ormonde and I have each done our damnedest to locate Keir before the other one did.” With a touch of annoyance, he commented, “I would have found Keir months ago, had I been able to hire Ethan Ransom, but he gave me some excuse about fighting an international conspiracy.”