Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels Book 7)

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 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.”

“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 out 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.

“I can do more than hit targets,” Merritt said. “I can pursue and hunt game while moving behind cover. I’m comfortable with using telescopes and field-glasses, and I’m good at calculating distance even on open terrain. And, unlike Ethan and his agents, I can literally stay within arm’s reach of you most of the time, including at night.”

Her mother’s voice came from beside the French doors. “Merritt darling, you know I’m usually the first to say to hell with proprieties. But it falls to me to point out that you can’t stay at the home of an unmarried man without . . . well . . .”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Merritt said. “We could stop at Gretna Green on the way, just as Uncle Sebastian and Aunt Evie did.”

“First,” Keir said coolly, “I have no’ proposed yet. Second, there are no border weddings in Scotland now. They changed the law twenty-five years ago. People have to bide in Scotland for at least three weeks before they’re allowed to wed.”

Merritt frowned. “Drat,” she muttered.

Uncle Sebastian cleared his throat. “Actually . . .” He pretended not to notice as Keir sent him a damning glare.

“Yes, Uncle?” Merritt prompted hopefully.

“There’s an ancient Scottish tradition called marriage by declaration,” Sebastian continued, “that’s still legal. If you state in front of two witnesses that you both freely consent to become husband and wife, the local sheriff will have it registered.”

“No waiting period?” Merritt asked.

“None.”

“And it’s legal outside of Scotland?”

“Indeed.”

“How perfectly convenient,” Merritt said in satisfaction.

Keir’s expression had turned thunderous. “You’re no’ going with me,” he told her. “I’m putting my foot down.”

“Darling,” she said reasonably, “you can’t put your foot down, I’ve already put my foot down.”

His eyes narrowed. “Mine is bigger.”

“Mine is faster,” Merritt said. “I’m going to start packing.”

She fled before he could reply, and he followed at her heels.

After the pair had left, and Ransom had gone to write some telegrams, Sebastian remained in the parlor with Westcliff, Lillian, and Evie.

Westcliff went to Lillian and slid his arms around her. “Well,” he asked, “would you advise locking her in her room, or should we threaten to cut off her allowance?”

A rueful smile crossed Lillian’s lips. “I couldn’t help but wonder if you regretted having taught her to shoot so well.”

“For a moment,” Westcliff admitted. “But MacRae won’t capitulate. I could see it in his face.”

“I pity the lad,” Sebastian commented. “In her ladylike way, Merritt is a sledgehammer.”

Wryly, Westcliff commented, “All three of my daughters are hellbent on making decisions for themselves. They always have been.”

“Mine as well,” Sebastian said. “Much to my dismay.” Noticing the way Lillian and Evie glanced at each other and smiled, as if at some shared reminiscence, he asked, “What is it?”

“I was remembering the conversations we used to have with Annabelle and Daisy,” Evie told him, “about the things we wanted to teach our daughters.”

Lillian grinned. “The first point we all agreed upon was, ‘Never let a man do your thinking for you.’”

“That explains a great deal,” Sebastian said. “Evie, my sweet, don’t you think you should have asked me before filling the girls’ heads with subversive wallflower philosophy?”

Evie came to him, slid her arms around him, and tucked her head beneath his chin. He could hear a smile in her voice as she said, “Wallflowers never ask permission.”

Keir followed Merritt into her room and closed the door with a little more force than was necessary. She turned to face him, her lips parted, but he held up his hand in a staying motion before she could get a word out. He was angry and worried and filled with agitation, and he didn’t want to be soothed or cajoled. He needed her to understand something.

“Sit,” he said gruffly, pointing to a chair next to a little table.

Merritt complied, arranging her skirts and folding her hands neatly in her lap. She watched calmly as he paced back and forth in front of her.

“Since I came to London,” he said, “I’ve been twisted and spun about like a bobbin winder. I lost the entire whisky shipment, along with every last bottle of Ulaidh Lachlan. I was stabbed and almost blown to smithereens. I gained a new father I’m no’ sure of yet, and a fake father who’s trying to have me murdered. I learned I’m about to acquire a great load of real estate I dinna want, and if I live long enough, a peerage title I already hate. And I learned I’m no’ even Scottish. And more important than any of the rest of it . . . I’ve fallen in love for the first time in my life.” He gripped the arms of the chair and lowered to his knees with his thighs spread to bracket hers. “I will love you, Merry, until my last breath of life. You understand me well enough to know it would destroy me if the least bit of harm came to you. How could I let you risk yourself for my sake? How could you even ask such a thing?”

“I ask because I love you.” Her lips trembled. “And I want to be your partner.”

“You are.”

“Not if you’re planning to leave me behind the way Joshua did. That’s not what a partner does. He tried to protect me by going away to solve a problem on his own, when we should have faced it together.”

“’Tis no’ the same,” Keir said in outrage.

“It feels the same.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a man protecting the woman he loves.”

“Can’t I protect the man I love? No one could dispute that you’ll be safer with me there.”

“I thunderin’ well dispute it!”

“What if someone enters the house at night while you’re sleeping?”

“I’ll have the dog with me. He’ll let me know. And Ransom’s men will stop an intruder long before he comes in.”

“What if the intruder manages to sneak by them? What could you and Wallace do if he has a weapon?”

“I’ll learn how to shoot one.”

“That’s not something you can learn in an afternoon. You need many, many hours of practice, and even then, there’s an enormous risk of accidents when you’re in a situation filled with that much pressure and uncertainty.” She leaned forward to clasp her hands on either side of his face. “Let me go with you,” she said earnestly. A faint smile tugged at one corner of her lips. “I’ll be the extra rib that protects your heart.”

Keir pulled back abruptly. The motion sent a stab of pain through his ribs, and he swore. Rising to his feet, he sent her a glance of mingled torment and frustration. “You can’t, Merry.”

The hint of a smile had vanished. “Because you doubt my abilities,” she said rather than asked.

Keir shook his head. “Because you are my heart.” He turned and left the room while he was still able.