Devil in Disguise

by Lisa Kleypas

  The oddly charged silence made Keir more and more uncomfortable. Finally, the duke dragged his gaze from Keir’s and turned his attention to the perplexed steward, who was looking back and forth between them. “On the other hand,” Kingston said in a careful monotone, “why not? Pour one for me, Hoagland.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Nimbly the steward uncorked a dram bottle and emptied it into a clean glass.

  The duke reached for the glass without ceremony, not bothering to swirl or sniff the contents. He tossed back the fine whisky with a stiff movement of the wrist, as if it were a dose of patent medicine.

  Keir watched in mute outrage, wondering if it had been intended as an insult.

  Gazing down at the empty glass in his hand, the duke appeared to be collecting his thoughts.

  Hoagland was still looking from one of them to the other, appearing more baffled by the moment.

  What the bloody hell was going on?

  Kingston’s head finally lifted, his expression inscrutable, his tone friendly. “You were born and raised on Islay?”

  “Raised,” Keir replied cautiously.

  With undue care, the duke set down the glass. “A superlative single malt,” he commented. “Less peat and far more complexity than I’d expect from an Islay whisky.”

  Slightly mollified by the praise, Keir said, “My father was never one for the big peaty whiskies.”

  “He’s no longer with you?”

  “Gone these four years past.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. And your mother?”

  “Gone as well.”

  After another unaccountably long silence, the duke picked up the empty dram bottle and regarded the label. “MacRae,” he said. “A fine old Scottish name. Do you have family in England?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Have you been to England before?”

  “Once, on business.”

  “You’ve found satisfactory accommodations, I hope?”

  “Aye, a flat at one of the Sterling warehouses.”

  “Have you met Lady Merritt?”

  The mere mention of her name softened the tension in the atmosphere almost miraculously. Keir felt the small muscles of his face relaxing. “Aye, I’ve had the honor. A kind and bonnie woman, she is.”

  The duke’s sudden easy smile was like the sun giving off light. “I’ve known her since the day she was born.”

  Keir’s brows lifted slightly. “You were there during the storm?”

  “She told you about that? Yes, I was one of the volunteers who went out in search of a midwife or doctor. It didn’t look promising when one of us brought back a veterinarian, but to his credit, it all turned out well.”

  “I’d say the credit should go to Lady Merritt’s mither,” Keir said.

  Kingston grinned. “You’re right.”

  Hoagland wore a distracted expression as he beheld the two of them. “Mr. MacRae,” he ventured, “shall we proceed with a partial payment and delivery agreement?”

  “A verbal agreement will do for now,” Keir replied. “I have another meeting soon, and I dinna like to be late.” He paused, thinking over his schedule. “Shall I come back Friday?”

  Hoagland nodded. “Any time before noon.”

  Keir responded with a businesslike nod. “I’ll be off, then.” He turned to find the duke’s intent gaze still on him. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”

  “I’m glad—” the duke began, but fell abruptly silent. He looked away and cleared his throat as if he were just now feeling the sting of the whisky.

  Keir tilted his head slightly, regarding Kingston with a frown. Was the man not well? Had he recently received bad news?

  Hoagland intervened hastily. “Like His Grace, I’m glad to have made your acquaintance, MacRae. I look forward to our next meeting on Friday.”

  Chapter 6

  The rest of the day went well. Keir met with a hotel manager and then a tavernkeep in Farrington, both of whom had agreed to contracts for private bottling. After that he went to collect his men, Owen and Slorach, and accompanied them to the Victoria Railway Station, where they would take an express up to Glasgow, and from there proceed to Islay.

  Slorach, a dour and wizened Calvinist of sixty-five, was more than eager to leave London, which he regarded as an unwholesome den of sin and beggary.

  Owen, on the other hand, a lighthearted lad barely out of his teens, was reluctant to go back to Islay. “There are many things I havnae done yet in London,” he protested.

  “Aye,” returned Slorach dryly, “and ’tis well that you’ll be gang back to Islay before the doing of them.” Turning to Keir, the elderly man said ruefully, “He’ll be griping all the way home. But I gave my word to his mither I’d keep him out of trooble.” Looking grim, he added, “’Twould be my preference to take you back with us.”

  Keir grinned at him affectionately. “Dinna worry, I’ll be keeping myself out of trooble.”

  “London’s no place for the like of you, young MacRae. Dinna tarry one day more than you must.”

  “I won’t.”

  After seeing the pair off, Keir went in search of a hansom cab. As he walked past construction scaffolding, a steam-engine excavator, a factory, and a tenement building, he reflected that Slorach’s reaction to the city of five million was entirely understandable. There was too much activity and noise, too much of everything, for a man accustomed to the cool green quiet of a Scottish island.

  But as Keir thought about seeing Merritt that night, he was filled with anticipation. He yearned for her company, as if she were a drug. No, not a drug . . . a spark of magic in an ordinary life. A good life, which he happened to love.

  But he knew down to his soul how much of a danger Merritt was to him. The more he came to know her, the stronger this yearning would grow, until any chance of happiness had slipped away like sand through his fingers. He’d spend the rest of his days consumed by desire for a woman who would always be as distant from his reach as the most far-flung star.

  Still . . . he had to see her one last time. He’d allow himself that much. After that, he’d finish his business in London and return to Islay.

  Five hundred miles wouldn’t be nearly enough distance to put between them.

  Eight o’clock sharp, she’d said.

  As Keir walked by a barbershop with a sign that advertised “penny cut, ha’penny shave,” he paused to look through the window. The shop was a tidy, prosperous-looking place, with framed mirrors on the wall, shelves filled with bottles of tonic, and a leather chair with adjustable head and foot rests.

  Maybe he should spruce himself a bit before dinner tonight. He ran a hand through his overgrown hair. Aye . . . the wild locks could do with some taming.

  Cautiously he entered the shop.

  “Welcome, sir,” said the barber, a jovial-looking man with an intricately curled mustache. “Cut and a shave?”

  “A cut,” Keir replied.

  The barber gestured to the chair. “If you will, sir.”

  After Keir sat, the barber adjusted the head and foot rests, and handed him a card printed with a dozen little illustrations of men’s heads.

  “What’s this for?” Keir asked, looking at it closely.

  “To choose a style.” The barber pointed at a few of the labeled drawings. “This is called the Favorite . . . and this is the French Cut . . . this is the Squire . . .”

  Keir, who hadn’t been aware there was a choice beyond “short” or “not short,” scrutinized the little drawings. He pointed to one in which the hair was close-cropped and tidy. “That one?”

  “A good choice,” the barber said, walking around the chair to assess his head from different angles. He tried to tug a fine-tooth comb through the heavy, slightly curly locks, and paused. “Hmm. This is going to be the work of two haircuts on one head.”

  After washing and rinsing Keir’s hair in a porcelain sink with a spray connected to rubber tubing, the barber shepherded him back to the chair and fastened a clo
th around his neck. A long session of snipping and shaping followed, first with scissors, then with clippers that cut layers into the locks with each squeeze of the spring-tension handles. Finally, the barber used a razor to neaten the back into a precise line.

  “Shall I trim your beard, sir?” the barber asked.

  “Aye.”

  The man paused, viewing Keir speculatively. “You might consider a full shave,” he suggested. “You certainly have the chin for it.”

  Keir shook his head. “I must keep the beard.”

  Looking sympathetic, the barber asked, “Pockmarks? Scars?”

  “No’ exactly.” Since the man seemed to expect an explanation, Keir continued uncomfortably, “It’s . . . well . . . my friends and I, we’re a rough lot, you ken. ’Tis our way to chaff and trade insults. Whenever I shave off the beard, they start mocking and jeering. Blowing kisses, calling me a fancy lad, and all that. They never tire of it. And the village lasses start flirting and mooning about my distillery, and interfering with work. ’Tis a vexation.”

  The barber stared at him in bemusement. “So the flaw you’re trying to hide is . . . you’re too handsome?”

  A balding middle-aged man seated in the waiting area reacted with a derisive snort. “Balderdash,” he exclaimed. “Enjoy it while you can, is my advice. A handsome shoe will someday be an ugly slipper.”

  “What did he say, nephew?” asked the elderly man beside him, lifting a metal horn to his ear.

  The middle-aged man spoke into the horn. “Young fellow says he’s too handsome.”

  “Too handsome?” the old codger repeated, adjusting his spectacles and squinting at Keir. “Who does the cheeky bugger think he is, the Duke of Kingston?”

  Amused, the barber proceeded to explain the reference to Keir. “His Grace the Duke of Kingston is generally considered one of the finest-looking men who’s ever lived.”

  “I know—” Keir began.

  “He caused many a scandal in his day,” the barber continued. “They still make jokes about it in Punch. Cartoons with fainting women, and so forth.”

  “Handsome as Othello, they say,” said a man who was sweeping up hair clippings.

  “Apollo,” the barber corrected dryly. He used a dry brush to whisk away the hair from Keir’s neck. “I suspect by now Kingston’s probably lost most of those famed golden locks.”

  Keir was tempted to contradict him, since he’d met the duke earlier that very day and seen for himself the man still had a full head of hair. However, he thought better of it and held his tongue.

  Upon returning to his flat, Keir heated enough water to scrub and wash thoroughly, using plenty of soap. He dressed in clean clothes, shined his shoes, and made himself as presentable as he could. A brief consultation of a map of London revealed that Carnation Lane was only a few minutes’ walk away. Before leaving, he tucked a half-pint glass bottle of Priobairneach in the inside pocket of his new coat.

  The evening was cool and damp, the moon reduced to a pallid glow behind a murky haze. The wharf had quieted, with lighter barges, eel boats, and packets now moored, the spars of a large ship pointing upward like the ribs of a clean-picked carcass.

  Keir walked away from the docks toward the main thoroughfare, passing small alleys and byways that were deeply shadowed from overhanging eaves. Laborers and shopkeepers had locked up and gone home for the night, and now a different sort of people had begun to emerge: prostitutes, swindlers, beggars, street musicians, sailors, navvies. Vagrants with gin bottles slouched in doorways, while others huddled in stairwells. A group had built a little fire of rubbish beneath the stone arch of a canal bridge.

  Streetlamps were few and far between in this place, and so far, there hadn’t been a glimpse of a constable or anything resembling law enforcement. Keir kept to the side of the old wood block pavement as a group of drunken revelers staggered past, howling out a drinking song. A slight smile came to his lips as he thought of what his father had always said whenever someone was that far gone: “The lad has a brick in the hat tonight.”

  As Keir began down the street again, he had a creeping, tingling sense that something wasn’t right. A shadow slid across the pavement—projecting from behind him—moving too fast. Before he could turn to see what it was, he felt a shove against his back. The force of it sent him into a dark alley, and he slammed into the side of a brick building.

  Keir hadn’t yet drawn a full breath when a strong hand gripped the back of his neck to pin him against the wall. Enraged, he began to twist around, and felt a blow on the right side of his back.

  He swung to face the attacker, using a raised forearm to break the restraining grip. Too late, he saw the flash of a knife in the man’s free hand. The knife came down to strike Keir’s chest in an overhand stab, but the blade was deflected by the glass bottle in his coat pocket.

  Grabbing the attacker’s wrist and arm, Keir forced the elbow to bend, and turned sideways to gain leverage. Then it was a simple matter to twist the man’s arm as if he were ripping the wing from a roast chicken. The crunch of a dislocated shoulder was accompanied by a howl of agony, and the knife clattered to the ground.

  Keir stepped on the knife deliberately, and gave him a mean look. Now it was a fair fight. “Come here,” he growled, “you sneakin’, bawfaced shitweasel.”

  The attacker fled.

  Panting, Keir reached down and picked up the small folding knife. A curse escaped him as he saw the streak of blood on it, and he reached around to feel the sore place on his back.

  The cowardly bastard had managed to stab him.

  Even worse, he’d made Keir late for dinner.

  Chapter 7

  Although Merritt was aware that Keir MacRae might not accept her dinner invitation, she had decided to be optimistic. She and the cook, Mrs. Chalker, had worked out a simple menu: savory dark beef stew, a loaf of cottage bread, and for dessert, a marmalade cake coated with sugar glaze and tender bits of candied peel.

  At half past eight, when there was still no sign of MacRae, disappointment began to creep through her. She wandered restlessly through the small house she and Joshua had bought from a retired sea captain. The house, with its charming cupolas, gables, and a telescope on the upper floor, was situated on a gentle hill from which one could view the sea. Merritt loved the freedom and privacy of having her own household, but there were times when loneliness would catch up to her. Such as now.

  She went to sit by the parlor fire and glanced at the mantel clock. Eight forty-five.

  “Bother,” she said glumly. “I shouldn’t have tried to coerce the poor man into coming.” She frowned and sighed. “More cake for me, I suppose.”

  The cheerful jangle of the mechanical twist doorbell vibrated through the silence.

  Merritt’s nerves jangled with relief and excitement, and she could barely restrain herself from leaping up like a schoolgirl. She took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and went from the parlor to the entrance foyer. Her footman, Jeffrey, had answered the door and was speaking to someone on the other side of the threshold.

  “You may show in my guest,” she said lightly.

  Jeffrey turned to her with a perturbed expression. “He won’t come in, milady.”

  Puzzled, Merritt went to the doorway and motioned for the footman to step back.

  There MacRae was, disheveled and hatless, but breathtakingly handsome. To her pleased surprise, his hair had been cut and shaped to his head in short layers of amber and gold. He had the cool, sensual allure of a lost angel painted by Cabanel.

  Was it her imagination, or did he seem a bit pale? Was he nervous? Was he ill?

  “Come with me,” she urged.

  But MacRae shook his head, looking uncomfortable and apologetic. “I can’t stay. But I dinna want you to be kept waiting . . . if you were expecting me . . .”

  “I was definitely expecting you.” Merritt glanced over him with concern. He was pale, his eyes dilated into dark pools. “Come sit with me,” she urged, “ev
en if only for a few minutes.”

  “My apologies, milady, but . . . I have to go back to the flat.”

  Realizing something was wrong, Merritt kept her voice gentle. “May I ask why?”

  “There was a wee scruffle on the way here, and I . . . need to rest a spell.”

  “Scruffle,” she repeated, looking at him more closely. “You were in a fight?”

  MacRae’s mouth twisted with chagrin. “As I was walking away from the wharf, a thief pushed me into an alley. I drove him off.”

  Merritt’s worried gaze traveled over him from head to toe. There was a liquid drop of red on the pale stone of the outside landing, right next to his shoe. Was that . . . blood? Another drop landed beside the first with a tiny splat.

  Galvanized by sudden panic, she moved forward to take hold of him. “You’re coming in. Yes, you are. Don’t even think of arguing.” Afraid he might not be entirely steady on his feet, she began to slide an arm around him. Her hand encountered a wet patch on the back of his waistcoat. She didn’t have to look to know what it was.

  “Jeffrey,” she said over her shoulder to the footman, trying to sound calm despite her alarm.

  “Yes, milady?”

  “We need Dr. Gibson. Don’t send a message—go find her in person, and tell her to come without delay.”

  Jeffrey responded with a nod and left promptly.

  MacRae looked down at her in exasperation. “For God’s sake, I dinna need a doctor—”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “’Tis just a wee scratch.”

  “A scratch from what?” she demanded.

  “A knife.”

  “In other words, you have a stab wound?” She towed him toward the parlor, her worry exploding into fear.

  “I’ve been hurt worse during peat cutting, and carried on with the work of a day. I need to pour a splash of whisky on it, is all.”

  “You need to be seen by a doctor.” Merritt paused at the parlor doorway to grasp a bellpull and ring vigorously for the housemaid. By the time she and MacRae had reached the couch, the young woman had appeared at the doorway.