Devil in Disguise

by Kleypas, Lisa

  “Let the lawyers negotiate,” Keir suggested. “I’d settle for dividing the London properties and giving him half.”

  Kingston’s face hardened. “Like hell you would. It was your mother’s dying wish for you to be given the trust. Besides, even if you handed over the whole bloody inheritance to Ormonde, he’ll still hunt you like a bag-fox. He’ll never stop.”

  “Why?” Keir demanded, baffled. “What motivation would he have after the will is settled?”

  “My boy,” the duke said quietly, “we’re all subject to a system of descent and distribution that’s been in place for a thousand years, based on handing everything down to the eldest son. It’s called primogeniture. You’re not going to like what I’m about to say. However, as soon as the court acknowledges you as Cordelia’s legitimate issue, you’ll be established as Lord Ormonde’s rightful heir. You’re the first and only male offspring, which means you’re next in line for his viscountcy. He’ll do everything in his power to keep that from happening.”

  Keir was so aghast, he could hardly speak. “But you’ll have just told the court that I’m your son. How could they turn around and rule that I’m Ormonde’s son?”

  Westcliff broke in to explain, his expression grave but kind. “Your mother was married to him when she gave birth to you. Therefore, you’re legally Ormonde’s son, even though you’re not of his blood.”

  “But … everyone will know it to be a lie. I’ve never even met the bastard!”

  “The law has its limitations,” Westcliff said ruefully. “Something can be legal without being true.”

  “I’ll refuse the title and estate.”

  “You can’t,” Kingston said curtly. “Peerage titles don’t work that way. You may as well try to change your eye color. It’s who you are, Keir.”

  Keir was filled with panic and fury as he felt his future closing around him like the jaws of a steel trap. “No. I know who I am, and it’s no’ that. A viscount? Living in a big dank house with too many rooms and … God help me, servants, and … far away from Islay … I can’t do it. I won’t.” He stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. “I’m going to talk to Merry,” he muttered, and walked away with ground-eating strides.

  “What are you going to tell her?” he heard Kingston ask.

  Keir answered in a growl, without looking back. “That I have too many fookin’ fathers!”

  Chapter 33

  IN THE AFTERNOON, THE Challons and Marsdens gathered in the upstairs parlor to await Ethan Ransom’s arrival. Seraphina and Ivo had gone to attend an informal dance at a friend’s home. The event, a combination of afternoon tea and dancing, was called a thé dansant … a phrase which, as Ivo had remarked dryly, was never used by actual French people, only English people who wanted to sound French.

  When Ethan finally arrived at Heron’s Point and was shown into the parlor, Merritt was a bit concerned by his appearance. He was obviously exhausted, with sleepless shadows beneath his eyes, and uncharacteristic grooves of strain carved into his face. Ethan’s iron constitution and Napoleonic ability to go without sleep had always been a source of ready humor among the Ravenels. But he was still a young man who shouldered a weight of worldly responsibilities that would have crushed nearly anyone else. And this afternoon, it showed.

  “You look like an ill-scraped haggis,” Keir said bluntly as he shook hands with Ethan.

  Merritt winced, wishing he’d worded it more diplomatically.

  Ethan grinned, however, taking no offense. “We can’t all lounge in the lap of luxury,” he retorted.

  Keir nodded ruefully. “Aye, I’ve been treated like a king, but I need to go back to work as soon as possible. My distillery’s been shut down for too long. By now my men have all gone soft.”

  “My men are probably conspiring to lock me in a basement,” Ethan said dryly. “And I wouldn’t blame them. I’ve pushed them hard.”

  “No luck with the search?” Merritt asked softly.

  Ethan’s mouth flattened in a grim line, and he gave a quick shake of his head. “Not yet.” He went to exchange pleasantries with the rest of the group, and soon they all settled in front of one of the parlor’s two hearths.

  Keir took a place beside Merritt on a settee, a hand resting close to hers in the space between them. Their fingers tangled gently, concealed by the mass of her skirts.

  Kingston stood beside the fireplace mantel, his face bathed in fire glow. He glanced at Ethan expectantly. “Well?”

  “The man we’re searching for is Sid Brownlow,” Ethan said without preamble. “We found the name through the identifying number on the cavalry knife MacRae recovered from the alley. According to War Office records, the knife was one of a limited series issued to a special unit within the 1st Dragoons.”

  “A distinguished regiment,” Westcliff remarked. “They saw action at Balaclava during the Crimea.”

  “Yes,” Ethan said. “Although Brownlow enlisted long after that. He was a skilled marksman and won an inter-regimental shooting match two years in a row. But he was discharged with a pension before his term of service was even half over.”

  “Why?” Kingston asked. “Was it a medical disability?”

  “The War Office pension list doesn’t explain the reason for the discharge, or the pension, which is highly unusual. However, one of my men searched through muster rolls and disciplinary actions until he uncovered evidence that Brownlow was twice put in a regimental cell for malicious conduct toward other soldiers in his company. After his discharge, he returned to Cumberland, where he’d been raised. His father was a gamekeeper at a grand estate, and helped secure a job for him at the stables.”

  Kingston’s jaw hardened, his eyes turning ice-cool at the mention of Cumberland. “Who owns the estate?” he asked, although he seemed already to know the answer.

  Ethan nodded in confirmation before replying. “Lord Ormonde.”

  A few soft exclamations broke the silence.

  Merritt glanced at Keir’s expressionless face. He didn’t speak, but his hand moved to enclose hers.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not enough to implicate Ormonde,” Ethan continued. “We’ll need testimony from Brownlow. I’d hoped to apprehend and interrogate him by now, but we’ve run out of leads. I personally questioned Brownlow’s father, who claims to have no knowledge of his whereabouts, and I’m inclined to believe him. Ormonde wouldn’t agree to an interview, but he allowed me to question most of his household staff, and none will admit to having witnessed any interaction between him and Brownlow. Nor can I find evidence of any incriminating financial transactions in the bank records.”

  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 se
nd 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.”

  “Should I use a fork or fingers?”

  “There’s not really a right way to do it, darling, just be discreet.”

  “Mama, there’s always a right way.”

  In retrospect, however, her mother’s irreverence might have been one of her greatest gifts as a parent. Such as the day when Merritt had run crying to her because a group of boys hadn’t wanted her to play rounders with them.

  Lillian had hugged and comforted her, and said, “I’ll go tell them to give you a turn.”

  “No, Mama,” Merritt had sobbed. “They don’t want me to play because I’m not good at it. I mostly can’t hit the ball, and when I do, it doesn’t go anywhere. They said I have baby arms.” The indignity of that had been intolerable.

  But Mama, who’d always understood the fragility of a child’s pride, had curved her fingers around Merritt’s upper arm and said, “Make a muscle for me.” After feeling Merritt’s biceps, her mother had lowered to her haunches until their faces were level. “You have very strong arms, Merritt,” she’d said decisively. “You’re as strong as any of those boys. You and I are going to practice until you’re able to hit that blasted ball over all their heads.”

  For many an afternoon after that, Mama had helped her to learn the right stance, and how to transfer her weight to the front foot during the swing, and how to follow through. They had developed her eye-hand coordination and had practiced until the batting skills felt natural. And the next time Merritt played rounders, she’d scored more points than anyone else in the game.

  Of the thousands of embraces Mama had given her throughout childhood, few stood out in Merritt’s mind as much as the feel of her arms guiding her in a batting stance. “I want you to attack the ball, Merritt. Be fierce.”

  Not everyone would understand, but “Be fierce” was one of the best things her mother had ever told her.

  Suddenly the right course of action became clear in Merritt’s mind. She switched her attention to Ethan Ransom. “Ethan,” she asked, “are you carrying a pistol?”

  “I might be,” he said.

  “Would you come out to the balcony with me, please?”

  Ethan followed readily as Merritt headed to one of the sets of French doors. The balcony, furnished with a few pieces of wicker furniture woven in filigree designs, extended the entire length of the house’s main section.

  Ethan came to stand at the railing with her, surveying a paved terrace with steps that led to acres of velvety green lawn. A stone retaining wall extended from the house, finishing in an urn-shaped planter spilling over with ivy. There was a fountain surrounded by stone benches, and a collection of decorative objects … a reflective gazing globe on a wrought iron base … a pair of French style obelisks … a bronze armillary on a sandstone pedestal … and a whimsical pair of pottery rabbits set on the stone wall.

  As Keir came to Merritt’s other side, she glanced up at him with a faint smile before turning her attention back to Ethan. “May I see the pistol?” she asked.

  Looking perplexed, Ethan reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver with a short barrel and heavy cartridge. Deftly he opened the cartridge gate, pulled out an extractor rod, and removed the cylinder and its central pin from the frame. He handed the frame to her and set the cylinder and pin on the balcony railing.

  The revolver was chambered for .442 rounds, which meant there was only room for five. “These are large caliber bullets for such a short gun,” Merritt remarked.

  “It’s designed to stop someone at close range,” Ethan said, absently reaching up to rub a spot on his chest. “Being hit by one of those bullets feels like a kick from a mule.”

  “Why is the hammer bobbed?”

  “To keep it from catching on the holster or clothing, if I have to draw it fast.”

  Keeping the muzzle of the gun pointed away from him, Merritt reassembled the revolver, slid the extractor rod into place, and locked it deftly.

  “Well done,” Ethan commented, surprised by her assurance. “You’re familiar with guns, then.”

  “Yes, my father taught me. May I shoot it?”

  “What are you going to aim for?”

  By this time, the others had come o
ut from the parlor to watch.

  “Uncle Sebastian,” Merritt asked, “are those pottery rabbits on the stone wall valuable?”

  Kingston smiled slightly and shook his head. “Have at it.”

  “Wait,” Ethan said calmly. “That’s a twenty-yard distance. You’ll need a longer-range weapon.” With meticulous care, he took the revolver from her and replaced it in his coat. “Try this one.” Merritt’s brows lifted slightly as he pulled a gun from a cross-draw holster concealed by his coat. This time, Ethan handed the revolver to her without bothering to disassemble it first. “It’s loaded, save one chamber,” he cautioned. “I put the hammer down to prevent accidental discharge.”

  “A Colt single-action,” Merritt said, pleased, admiring the elegant piece, with its four-and-a-half-inch barrel and custom engraving. “Papa has one similar to this.” She eased the hammer back and gently rotated the cylinder.

  “It has a powerful recoil,” Ethan warned.

  “I would expect so.” Merritt held the Colt in a practiced grip, the fingers of her support hand fitting neatly underneath the trigger guard. “Cover your ears,” she said, cocking the hammer and aligning the sights. She squeezed the trigger.

  An earsplitting report, a flash of light from the muzzle, and one of the rabbit sculptures on the wall shattered.

  In the silence that followed, Merritt heard her father say dryly, “Go on, Merritt. Put the other bunny out of its misery.”

  She cocked the hammer, aimed and fired again. The second rabbit sculpture exploded.

  “Sweet Mother Mary,” Ethan said in wonder. “I’ve never seen a woman shoot like that.”

  “My father taught all of us how to shoot and handle firearms safely,” Merritt said, giving the revolver back to him grip-first.

  Ethan reholstered the gun and stared into her face for a long moment. He nodded slightly, understanding the reason for her demonstration. “It’s up to him,” he said, his gaze flickering to the man just behind her.

  Merritt turned to Keir, who was staring at Ethan, his eyes a chilled light blue. “She’s no’ going to Islay with me,” he said flatly.