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

That had provoked a reaction, the calcified façade cracking to reveal molten scorn. “I’d never work for a sheep-shagging Scot.”

Outraged, Merritt had been about to tell him exactly what she thought of him, but Keir had smiled at the insult and rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Is that the best you can come up with?” he’d asked. “My friends and I call each other much worse after a round at the local tavern.”

Merritt’s thoughts returned to the present and Duffy as he gingerly gripped his sandy head in his hands and stared down at the table. “I’m not cut out for this kind of work,” he said glumly. “I should have stayed with teaching.”

She looked at him alertly. “You’re a teacher?”

“Assistant master of science at Cheltenham College. And I was good at it.”

“Why did you go into law enforcement?” Merritt asked.

“I thought it was more exciting. And important.”

“Dear boy, there’s nothing more exciting or important than teaching.”

“Platitudes,” he muttered.

“Not at all,” she said earnestly. “Teaching makes people who they are. Perhaps it even shows them who they are. If done well, it’s … magical. A good teacher is a guide to the wonderments of life.”

Duffy folded his arms and lowered his head to them. “It doesn’t matter now,” came his muffled voice. “The position at Cheltenham has long since been filled.”

Merritt leaned forward to reposition the compress against his forehead. “If that’s what you want, I’ll see what I can do to help.” She smiled. “Or perhaps a new opportunity will present itself.”

Keir returned with Sheriff MacTaggart and a deputy, and Duffy went with them to the distillery rackhouse. In the meantime, as dawn approached, the small house was overrun by friendly strangers, some of them neighbors, some distillery workers and their wives, and some of them friends of Keir’s since childhood. They were all excited and outraged by the news of an intruder having been caught at the MacRae distillery, and were full of colorful opinions about what to do with him.

Even if Merritt had been well-rested and prepared for visitors, the deluge would have been overwhelming. As it was, she found herself wandering distractedly among the crowd, smiling and nodding, and repeating names in an effort to remember them. Someone brought a basket of hot morning rolls directly from the baker and began handing them out. Someone else filled the tea kettle and set it on the hot stove plate.

Amid all the bustle, Merritt found herself gently shepherded to the settee. Gratefully she sat, and Wallace hopped up beside her. The terrier licked his lips and stared at the morning roll in her hands. It had been split open, with a curl of cold butter beginning to melt inside. Slowly Merritt consumed the roll and broke off a few small pieces to feed to Wallace. With his solid, warm body cuddled up to hers, and her stomach comfortably full, it took only a few blinks before exhaustion overtook her.

“Merry,” came a low, familiar voice, and she opened her eyes to discover Keir leaning over her. He smiled and stroked back a loose lock of her hair, and glanced down at Wallace, who extended his short legs in a trembling stretch.

She had no idea how much time had passed as she’d dozed in the corner of the settee, but the daylight was much brighter now, and many of the visitors seemed to have departed.

“Poor weary lass,” Keir said, sitting beside her and gathering her close.

Merry yawned against his shoulder. “The first time I meet your friends and neighbors … and I fall asleep in front of them.”

“They understand, love. They’re full of good wishes. Soon they’ll take their leave, and we’ll have a proper rest.” Keir patted her hip. “When I told everyone you followed me into the distillery with your wee pop-gun to protect me, they all said you were as brave as a Scotswoman. ’Tis a great compliment, ye ken.”

Merritt’s lips twitched at his description of the high-caliber revolver as a “wee pop-gun.”

“MacTaggart took the man to a holding cell in Port Charlotte,” Keir continued, settling her more comfortably in the crook of his arm. “We found out his name is John Peltie.”

She glanced up at him in surprise. “You made him talk?”

“No, it was Duffy. He convinced him it would go better for him if he cooperated. Peltie admitted that Lord Ormonde hired him to finish the job after Brownlow failed at it.”

Wallace hopped off the settee, simultaneously yawned and whined, and padded across the room to the door.

“I’ll take him out,” Keir said.

“I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs,” Merritt said, reaching for a shawl draped over the back of the settee. “I’ll go with you.” She drew the shawl around herself and knotted it loosely over her front.

Before they went outside, however, Sheriff MacTaggart met them at the threshold, having just returned from Port Charlotte. “MacRae … and milady … I received a telegram from Commissioner Ransom that you’ll be wanting to know about.” With a slightly theatrical flourish, he took the message from his pocket. “It says Mr. Brownlow was apprehended last night at the Charing Cross station while attempting to board a train. Brownlow confessed to Ransom that he killed Lord Ormonde, after Ormonde fired him and wouldn’t pay what he owed him.”