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

“From what I understand, he saved England,” Merritt pointed out gently.

The duke waved away the comment like a bothersome gnat. “Someone’s always plotting against England.”

“As it turned out, you didn’t have to find Keir. He found you.”

Kingston shook his head with a faint, wondering smile. “He walked into bloody Jenner’s,” he said. “I knew who he was the moment I saw him. He has the look of a Challon, even with that scruffy crumb-catcher covering the lower half of his face.”

“Uncle,” she reproved softly. It was hardly a fair description of a handsome, neatly trimmed beard.

Carefully the duke took the thermometer from beneath Keir’s arm and squinted at the line of mercury, holding it farther away from his face until the numbers were clear. After setting it aside, he glanced down at Merritt. “My dear, if you don’t have some proper rest, you’ll fall ill yourself.”

“Not until the crisis has passed and Keir is out of danger.”

“Oh, he is,” came Kingston’s matter-of-fact reply.

Merritt looked at him sharply. “What?”

“He’s past the worst of it. His temperature has fallen to one hundred and two, and his pulse rate is normal.”

She flew to Keir’s side and felt his forehead, which was cooler and misted with sweat. “Thank God,” she said, and let out a sob of relief.

“Merritt,” he said kindly, “you’re turning into a watering pot.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and nudged her chin upward with a gentle forefinger. “Go to bed,” he said, drying her eyes, “or you’ll be of no use to anyone.”

“Yes, but first may I ask … was Aunt Evie very upset when you told her about the letter?”

“No. Only concerned for the boy’s sake, and mine as well.”

“Many women in her position would consider him as … well, an embarrassment.”

That drew a real smile from him, the first she’d seen from him in a while. “You know Evie. She already thinks of him as someone else to love.”





Chapter 18


THE CLICK OF A china teacup on a saucer awakened Merritt from a deep sleep. She stretched and blinked, discovering the bedroom curtains had been drawn back to admit deep slants of afternoon sun. A blaze of coppery red hair caught her gaze, and she pushed up to a sitting position as she saw someone at the little tea table in the corner.

“Phoebe!”

Lady Phoebe Ravenel turned and came to her with a laugh of delight.

They had known each other their entire lives, growing up together, sharing secrets, joys, and sorrows. Phoebe was strikingly beautiful, as tall and willowy as Merritt was short and solid. Like Merritt, she had been widowed a few years ago, although in Phoebe’s case, the loss had not been unexpected. Her first husband, Henry, had suffered from a prolonged wasting disease, and had passed away before the birth of their second son. Then West Ravenel had come into Phoebe’s life, and they had married after a courtship so brief, it hardly even qualified as whirlwind.

“Oh, it’s been too long,” Merritt exclaimed as they embraced. “I’ve missed you so! Letters are never enough.”

“Especially considering how seldom you write,” Phoebe teased, and laughed at Merritt’s expression.

“If you knew how hard I’ve been working! No time for letters, books, or tea with friends … no naps or shopping … I’ve been living like a medieval peasant.”

Phoebe chuckled. “I meant to come sooner, but it’s been madness at the estate. We’re going into harvest, and I’ve been busy with the baby—”

“Where is she?” Merritt asked eagerly. She hadn’t yet seen Phoebe’s daughter, Eden, who’d been born six months earlier. “You’ve brought her, I hope.”

“Had to,” Phoebe replied wryly, gesturing to her button-front bodice, strained by the full bosom of a nursing mother. “She’s not yet weaned. At the moment, she’s with the nursemaid upstairs. I left the boys at home with West, but they may join us later, depending on how long I stay.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Tell me what’s been happening,” Phoebe said, going to the small table. “I’ll pour tea.”

Merritt hesitated with a nonplussed laugh. “There’s too much. I’m at a loss for words.”

“You? You’re never at a loss for words.”

“I’m not sure how to start.”

“Start with anything. No—start with the man you brought here. According to my father’s note, he’s a businessman who was injured in the warehouse fire. Which I was very sorry to hear about, by the way.”

Merritt twisted to stack the pillows against the headboard. “Have you seen your father yet?”

“No, I’ve only just arrived. He’s meeting with a pair of solicitors from London, and I told the butler not to interrupt him, and then I came straight to your room. You’re the one I wanted to talk with anyway.” Phoebe brought her a cup of tea and went to perch on the corner of the mattress.

“You’ll definitely want to talk with your father too, dear.”

“About what?”

“Mr. MacRae, the injured man.” Merritt paused to take a bracing gulp of tea. “He’s a distiller from Scotland. One of the little islands off the west coast. He hired my company to ship and store his whisky in the bonded warehouse. But while my men were moving the cargo, a cask of single malt broke on a freight shed roof and soaked him. He came to my office in wet clothes, all muscles and smolder. I hardly knew where to look.”