Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,55

continuing. “The second reason Ormonde wanted him dead is that regardless of who sired him, Cordelia was married to Ormonde at the time of Keir’s birth. And therefore …”

“My God,” Merritt whispered. “Keir is his legitimate son.”

Kingston nodded. “Even if Ormonde marries again and produces a son by his new bride, Keir will still inherit his viscouncy. As long as Keir’s alive, there’s no chance Ormonde can pass down his family’s title and estate to his own blood. It will all go to Keir.”

“He won’t want it,” Merritt said. “Oh, he won’t like this at all, Uncle.”

“He doesn’t have to know about that part until later, when he’s ready to hear it.”

“He’ll never be ready to hear it.” Groaning softly, Merritt rubbed her weary face with both hands. “How did Ormonde find out Keir was alive?”

“I’m afraid that was my doing.” Kingston’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Cordelia named me as the executor of her will, and asked me to protect his rightful inheritance in the event he was still alive. The only way to keep the will in probate while I was searching for Keir was to provide a copy of Cordelia’s letter to Chancery Court. From that moment on, Ormonde and I have each done our damnedest to locate Keir before the other one did.” With a touch of annoyance, he commented, “I would have found Keir months ago, had I been able to hire Ethan Ransom, but he gave me some excuse about fighting an international conspiracy.”

“From what I understand, he saved England,” Merritt pointed out gently.

The duke waved away the comment like a bothersome gnat. “Someone’s always plotting against England.”

“As it turned out, you didn’t have to find Keir. He found you.”

Kingston shook his head with a faint, wondering smile. “He walked into bloody Jenner’s,” he said. “I knew who he was the moment I saw him. He has the look of a Challon, even with that scruffy crumb-catcher covering the lower half of his face.”

“Uncle,” she reproved softly. It was hardly a fair description of a handsome, neatly trimmed beard.

Carefully the duke took the thermometer from beneath Keir’s arm and squinted at the line of mercury, holding it farther away from his face until the numbers were clear. After setting it aside, he glanced down at Merritt. “My dear, if you don’t have some proper rest, you’ll fall ill yourself.”

“Not until the crisis has passed and Keir is out of danger.”

“Oh, he is,” came Kingston’s matter-of-fact reply.

Merritt looked at him sharply. “What?”

“He’s past the worst of it. His temperature has fallen to one hundred and two, and his pulse rate is normal.”

She flew to Keir’s side and felt his forehead, which was cooler and misted with sweat. “Thank God,” she said, and let out a sob of relief.

“Merritt,” he said kindly, “you’re turning into a watering pot.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and nudged her chin upward with a gentle forefinger. “Go to bed,” he said, drying her eyes, “or you’ll be of no use to anyone.”

“Yes, but first may I ask … was Aunt Evie very upset when you told her about the letter?”

“No. Only concerned for the boy’s sake, and mine as well.”

“Many women in her position would consider him as … well, an embarrassment.”

That drew a real smile from him, the first she’d seen from him in a while. “You know Evie. She already thinks of him as someone else to love.”

Chapter 18

THE CLICK OF A china teacup on a saucer awakened Merritt from a deep sleep. She stretched and blinked, discovering the bedroom curtains had been drawn back to admit deep slants of afternoon sun. A blaze of coppery red hair caught her gaze, and she pushed up to a sitting position as she saw someone at the little tea table in the corner.

“Phoebe!”

Lady Phoebe Ravenel turned and came to her with a laugh of delight.

They had known each other their entire lives, growing up together, sharing secrets, joys, and sorrows. Phoebe was strikingly beautiful, as tall and willowy as Merritt was short and solid. Like Merritt, she had been widowed a few years ago, although in Phoebe’s case, the loss had not been unexpected. Her first husband, Henry, had suffered from a prolonged wasting disease, and had passed away before the birth of their second son. Then West Ravenel had come into Phoebe’s life, and they had married after a courtship so brief, it hardly even qualified as whirlwind.

“Oh, it’s been too long,” Merritt exclaimed as they