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

Lillian spoke then. “You’ve had men watching the ports?”

“Ports, railway stations, thoroughfares, and border crossings. I’ve assembled a force of special constables, detectives and waterguard, in a coordinated effort. My agents have been combing through ship manifests, train schedules, and guest registries at every conceivable kind of lodging house. We’ve even checked with public stables and coaching services. It’s like trying to find a flea in a coal-pit.”

Evie spoke then. “Do you th-think he’s left the country?”

“Your Grace, my sense is that Brownlow is still in England, and will turn up eventually.” After a long pause, Ethan turned his gaze to Keir. “With your cooperation, MacRae … we may be able to set a trap for him.”

Before Keir could reply, Kingston said curtly, “Absolutely not.”

Keir regarded the duke with a frown. “You dinna know what his plan is yet.”

“I know enough to be certain you’re the bait,” Kingston said. “The answer is no.”

Keir turned to Ethan. “Tell me what you have in mind, Ransom.”

“You would be the bait,” Ethan admitted.

“Go on,” Keir said.

“I’d like you to return to Islay, one or two days from now,” Ethan told him. “Kingston will go to Chancery and reveal your identity and location to the court, and Ormonde will immediately send someone to dispatch with you. However, two of my agents and I will be there to protect you. As soon as Brownlow or some other hired thug sets foot on your property, we’ll apprehend him.”

Kingston interrupted acidly. “These would be the same agents who’ve failed to apprehend Brownlow so far?”

“We’ve already surveilled the MacRae land and distillery,” Ethan said. “It’s surrounded by open fields covered in low vegetation, with no hills or woodland to offer concealment. Furthermore, it’s situated on a peninsula on the west side of the island, and connected by a narrow isthmus. You couldn’t design a more effective situation to corner someone.”

“Still,” Westcliff said, “you’re proposing to set up MacRae like a plaster duck in a carnival shooting gallery, when he’s unable to defend himself. He’s still recovering from injured ribs, and furthermore—”

“I can defend myself,” Keir protested.

Kingston gave him a speaking glance. “Son, let’s not start that again.”

“Also,” Westcliff continued, “MacRae can’t shoot.”

Ethan regarded Keir blankly. “At all?”

Keir was slow to reply, which Merritt thought was due to his surprise at hearing Kingston call him “son.” Although it had been imperceptible to everyone else, she’d felt the little jerk of his hand. “My father kept only one gun,” he told Ethan. “An old Brown Bess, which he took out once a year to clean and oil. We tried shooting it once or twice, but neither of us could hit a target.”

“A muzzle-loading flintlock?” Ethan asked in bemusement. “No sights on the stock … shooting only roundballs from a smoothbore barrel … I doubt I could hit anything with that either. And with a high risk of accidentally blowing off half your face, I’d be terrified to try.”

“The point is,” Westcliff said, “you’re proposing to put MacRae in harm’s way while he’s injured and unarmed. I’m no more comfortable with that than Kingston.”

“I understand,” Ethan said. He looked at Keir and said frankly, “I can’t give you an ironclad guarantee that nothing will go wrong. I can only promise to personally do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

Keir nodded, looking troubled. He released Merritt’s hand and went to stand at the other end of the fireplace mantel, facing Kingston. The sight of them, their incredible likeness, was stunning.

“Sir,” Keir said to Kingston quietly, “if I dinna take the risk now, I’ll have to spend every minute looking over my shoulder for God knows how long, wondering when someone will come after me. And ’tis no’ feasible to have a half-dozen guards, or even a brace of them, biding with me indefinitely. I can’t live that way.”

“Let me go with you,” Kingston said.

Merritt could tell from Keir’s expression that he was surprised and moved by the offer. The smile-lines deepened at the outer corners of his eyes as he said, “Thank you, sir … but I can’t imagine you living in a wee hut with a stone floor for weeks or months.”

As Merritt glanced around the room, she found Mama’s fond but incisive gaze on her. There was little doubt in Merritt’s mind about what her mother would do if she were in the same circumstances. As a parent, Lillian had always been lively and playful, prone to leaving clutter in her wake, sometimes talking too loudly in her enthusiasm, and always demonstrative in her affection. A let’s-try-it-and-see-what-happens sort of mother. If Merritt had been forced to offer a criticism, it would have been that as a child, she’d sometimes been disappointed about all the rules her mother hadn’t known and couldn’t have cared less about.

When Merritt had asked her the proper dinnertime etiquette for when one discovered something like a bit of bone or a cherry stone in a mouthful of food, Mama had said cheerfully, “Hanged if I know. I just sneak it back to the edge of the plate.”