After a small fortune in whisky had been stamped and delivered safely into the bonded warehouse, it had taken every last spark of Keir’s remaining energy to climb the stairs to his flat. He’d slept all through the afternoon and night, and had awakened feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world.
The day’s meetings had required the purchase of a new coat, since the one he’d brought needed to be laundered and was so old it probably wouldn’t survive the washing. First, he’d gone to the penny pie shop, where he’d eaten his fill of pies for breakfast and asked where he might find some ready-made clothing.
For the first time in his life, Keir bought a garment stitched by machine. The black wool peacoat, styled after the ones worn by sailors and longshoremen, was double-breasted and cut short enough to allow the legs freedom of movement. It fit well enough, although the sleeves were too short and the middle too loose. He proceeded to a public house for a meeting with the manager, who intended to place a large order after his lawyer reviewed the details of the independent bottling contract.
His next meeting was on the west side, in the St. James area. At the suggestion of one of Islay’s well-to-do residents, an elderly lawyer named Gordan Catach, Keir had decided to approach a prominent gentlemen’s club with the intention of selling a special lot of forty-year-old single malt.
“The most famous clubs are White’s, Brooks’s, and Boodle’s,” Catach had told him. “Any of those would have the means to pay a steep asking price. But if I were you, lad, I’d first try Jenner’s. It doesnae have so high a pedigree as the others, but ’tis the one everyone wants to belong to. Some gentlemen—higher-ups, mind ye—spend as long as ten years on the waiting list.”
“How’s that?”
“Jenner’s offers the most luxury, the finest food and liquor . . . there’s even a smoking room where they’ll hand-roll a fresh cigar to suit your taste. The club was started lang ago by a professional boxer. His daughter married the Duke of Kingston, who owns the place now.”
Keir, who couldn’t have cared less about some doddering old aristocrat, responded with an indifferent shrug. “’Tis no’ unusual for a duke to own prime London real estate.”
“Aye, but the interesting part is, Kingston ran the club himself for a time.” To make sure Keir understood the significance, Catach added, “Noblemen never work. To their minds it lowers them, ye ken, and costs them the respect of common folk as well as their peers.”
“He must have had no choice,” Keir mused.
“To be sure. But the duke made Jenner’s what it is, and enriched himself in the process.” Catach had shaken his head with a mixture of admiration and envy. “A charmed life, that one’s had. They say in his youth, Kingston was as wicked as the devil himself. The bane of every man with a pretty wife. Then he married a rich woman and settled into a respectable middle age. For Kingston, the wages of sin have been nothing but gold and treasure.”
“He sounds like a selfish pult,” Keir said flatly. “I’ll no’ be selling my whisky to such a man.”
“Dinna be a dunderclunk, lad. You won’t be meeting with the duke himself. He gave over the running of it to someone else lang ago. Now, you’ll want to write to the club steward. He’ll have the charge of placing orders with tradesmen and superintending the cellar.”
At Catach’s urging, Keir had struck up a correspondence with Horace Hoagland, the managing steward of Jenner’s, and they’d agreed to meet when Keir came to London.
Keir did his best to appear relaxed as he entered Jenner’s with a small wooden case containing whisky samples. He might appear a primitive lout to these people, but he was damned if he’d act like one. Still, it was difficult not to stand and stare slack-jawed at his surroundings. Jenner’s was more opulent than any place Keir had ever set foot in, with acres of white marble, plasterwork covered in gold leaf, rich soundless carpeting, and a canopy of crystal chandeliers overhead. The club was centered around a cavernous central hall with a grand staircase and marble balcony railings extending along the upper floors.
Thankfully there were no snouty aristocratic patrons in sight, only servants busy cleaning and polishing things that already looked clean and polished.
“Mr. MacRae.” A stocky middle-aged man, dressed to the nines in a fine dark suit of clothes with shiny buttons, approached him immediately. “Horace Hoagland, the club steward,” he said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
The steward’s friendly demeanor put Keir at ease, and they exchanged a firm handshake.
“Welcome to Jenner’s,” Hoagland said. “What do you think of the place?”
“’Tis very grand.”
The steward smiled. “I count myself the luckiest chap in the world, being able to work here.” He led the way to a series of rooms with box-paneled ceilings and leather Chesterfield couches, and deep chairs arranged around small tables. Freshly ironed newspapers and sparkling crystal cigar dishes had been set out on the tables. “I have a special fondness for Islay single malt,” Hoagland remarked. “Years ago, a Scottish cousin made a gift to me of a bottle from the MacRae distillery.” He sighed reminiscently. “Smooth as cream, with a finish like a charred apple orchard. Extraordinary.”
“My father loved what he did.”
“He taught you his methods?”
“Since I was knee high,” Keir assured him. “I started by carrying bags of malt to the kiln, and went on to learn every job in the distillery.”
They sat at a table, where a round tray of clean drinking glasses had been set out. Keir unlatched the wooden sample box he’d brought, revealing a row of miniature bottles, each containing a dram of whisky.
“This is the batch you wrote to me about?” Hoagland asked, staring at the samples with frank anticipation.
“Aye. After my father’s passing, my men and I took inventory at the distillery and found a hidden cellar where he’d stashed a hogshead of single malt. It had been sitting there untouched for forty years.” Keir uncorked one of the miniature bottles and poured the amber liquid into a glass. “We finished it in first-fill sherry quarter casks for a year, bottled it, and named it Ulaidh Lachlan—Lachlan’s Treasure—in honor of my father.”
“How many bottles in total?”
“Two hundred ninety-nine,” Keir replied.
Hoagland swirled the whisky in the glass, moved it close to his nose, and inhaled deeply. He took a taste, paying attention to the soft, rolling feel of it in his mouth. The subtle variations of his expression revealed the progression of flavors . . . the opening of dry, dusty wood and salt brine, like lifting the lid of a pirate’s treasure chest . . . the richness of bread pudding . . . finishing with a surprising meringue lightness and a touch of smoke.
The club steward was silent for a moment, staring at the remaining contents of the glass. “Isn’t that something,” he murmured. “A rare handsome whisky. I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted its equal.” He tasted it again, savoring it. “How round the malt is.”
“We bottled it at cask strength.”
Hoagland took another sip, closing his eyes to better appreciate it, and released a long sigh. “How much for the lot?” he asked.
“All of it?”
“All two hundred ninety-nine bottles.”
“Three thousand pounds,” Keir said readily.
Hoagland looked resigned rather than surprised. It was a fortune—at least ten times what ordinary whisky would cost. But they both knew this was no ordinary whisky. They both knew, also, that Keir could easily find another buyer.
“For that sum,” Hoagland said, “I’ll expect you to throw in the rest of those samples.”
Keir grinned and nudged the wooden box toward him.
Hoagland parted his lips to say something, but paused and looked over Keir’s shoulder, his face brightening. “You’re in luck, MacRae,” he said. “The Duke of Kingston himself just entered the club rooms. It’s possible you’ll have the honor of meeting His Grace, if he comes this way.”
Having never seen a duke before, Keir resisted a strong temptation to twist in his chair and take a look. “I was told Kingston didn’t have the running of the club anymore,” he remarked.
“No, indeed. But the duke still considers Jenner’s the jewel in the crown of his empire, and he never goes long without stopping by.” Still gazing at Kingston, Hoagland glowed as if in the presence of some celestial being. “His Grace is speaking with the head waiter. No other gentleman of his status would take such notice of an inferior. But the duke is a most gracious man.”
Keir was vaguely annoyed by the man’s reverence, which seemed a hairsbreadth away from fawning.
“Ah—yes—he’s walking over here,” the steward exclaimed, and pushed his chair back to stand.
Keir wondered if he should stand as well. Was that something only servants did, or were commoners obliged to rise to their feet? No—he wouldn’t stand to meet the duke like a boy answering a question from the village schoolmaster. But then he thought of how his father had always cautioned, “The proudest nettle grows on a dung heap.”
Reluctantly he began to ask the steward, “Should I—”
“Yes,” Hoagland said with quiet urgency, his gaze riveted on the approaching duke.
Keir pushed back his chair and stood to face Kingston.
From what he’d been told about the duke’s past, Keir would have expected a florid old dandy, or a rheumy-eyed satyr. Anything but this elegantly lean man who moved with the supple ease of a tomcat. His clean-shaven face was a marvel of bone structure: a gift of male beauty that could never be outlived. The dark gold of his hair was silvered at the temples and sides, and time had weathered his complexion here and there with fine lines. But the signs of maturity only made him seem more powerful. The sheer presence of the man caused the hairs on Keir’s arms to prickle in warning beneath the too-short sleeves of his ready-made coat.
“Hoagland,” Kingston said in a voice like expensive liquor on ice, “it’s good to see you. Your son is better, I trust?”
“You’re very kind to ask, Your Grace. Yes, he’s recovered fully from his tumble. The poor lad’s grown so fast, he hasn’t yet learned to manage those long arms and legs. A rackabones, my wife calls him.”
“My boy Ivo is the same. He’s shot up like a weed of late.”
“Will he grow as tall as your other two sons, do you expect?”
“By force of will, if necessary,” the duke replied dryly. “Ivo has informed me he has no intention of being the youngest and the shortest.”
Hoagland chuckled and proceeded to make introductions. “Your Grace, this man, Mr. Keir MacRae, has brought whisky samples from his distillery in Islay. Will you try a dram? I recommend it highly.”
“No, it’s a bit early for—” The duke broke off as his gaze moved to Keir.
Keir found himself staring into blue eyes, as light and piercing as winter frost. The man’s stillness reminded him of a golden eagle sighting prey on the island.
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.”
