Flirting with Ruin Read Online Free Page B

He’d met him and his rather less forbidding sibling Lord Harry at their club in London, thinking that one or both the brothers would prefer to be the bearer of his news to their family. He’d been wrong. Lord Giles, now the heir apparent to the dukedom, had no intention of going to Derbyshire in the near future, and Lord Harry was about to take up a new post abroad. Fraser had thought at first that they didn’t care. Upon reflection, he realised they cared too much, and could not find it in his heart to blame them even if he wished fervently, now the day was come, that one of them could have had a change of heart.
    He wished it was over. Writing bland letters, making of the bloody reality something palatable in the aftermath of battle for bereaved families was bad enough. Facing them was a thousand times worse. Fraser, who had never once faltered in the line of duty, who was famed for his fearlessness, could almost believe he would rather take up arms again than execute this final commission.
    Inside a gloomy hall dominated by a vast number of stone pillars he was relieved of his hat and gloves by a sepulchral butler. Fraser had dressed with care for this visit. His hat was beaver, his gloves York tan. He had polished his Hessian boots to military perfection himself. His pantaloons were an elegant grey and without a wrinkle, his linen crisply white, his waistcoat sombre. His dark blue cutaway coat of superfine with its polished brass buttons was, Scott, the tailor, had assured him, the latest style. Having lived most of his life in uniform or buckskins, Fraser had been forced to outfit himself from scratch in London after he sold out. Scott had been recommended by a fellow officer. Holby, who made his boots, by another. Well-born and well-healed, these gentlemen had clearly not considered the expense. Fraser was base-born and for much of his life down-at-heel. Fortunately, he had invested very wisely over the years, and though he still flinched at the cost of his new attire, it had hardly made a dent in the allowance he had awarded himself from the capital the manager at Coutts’s bank had been more than happy to keep safe.
    ‘His Grace will receive you in the drawing room with the ladies,’ the butler, who was called Lumsden, announced, turning towards a set of stairs at the rear of the great hall.
    ‘Ladies!’ Fraser exclaimed.
    ‘Lady Katherine and Lady Phaedra, Lord Edward’s sisters. Mrs Landes-Fraser, who is their chaperone and His Grace’s sister-in-law. Miss Araminta Montague will not be present.’
    ‘Miss Araminta?’ Fraser repeated dumbly. He had never heard of an Araminta or a Phaedra or even a Katherine, never mind a Mrs Landes-Whatever.
    ‘Miss Araminta is Lord Edward’s cousin,’ Lumsden explained, obviously disdainful of his ignorance. ‘And Mr Ross Montague, who is currently in India, is her brother, so he will not be present either.’
    ‘I had not realised. I thought it would just be the duke.’
    ‘The family has been much affected by the deaths of the eldest and youngest sons, Major Lennox,’ the servant said, unbending a little. ‘The circumstances of Lord Jamie’s death are as yet unknown. It was felt—to be frank, sir, both Lady Kate and Lady Phaedra insist upon being present. They hope that hearing the details of Lord Edward’s bravery will be some consolation.’
    ‘I doubt the real details would give them anything but nightmares.’
    The butler paled. ‘Forgive me, Major, but may I ask, did he suffer?’
    It was the question they always asked, the truth they never wanted to hear. Fraser closed his eyes. The noise, the stench, the horror of that last and bloodiest of battlefields were never far from him. The war haunted him. It haunted all of them who survived. Opening his eyes again, he found the butler’s anxious gaze fixed upon him. The man had obviously been very fond of Edward. Most likely he’d grown up on the estate, and would have known the lad when he was in short