Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,97

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