Regardless, Tavish dressed for dinner and left his room, muscles tense, waiting for the guillotine blade to fall. He was halfway down the second flight of stairs when Ross hailed him from behind.
“Ho there, Balfour!”
Tavish paused, waiting for his friend to join him. Like himself, Captain George Ross was the son of a Scottish gentleman. Unlike Tavish, Ross’s father owned the lucrative Bracklamore whisky distillery, and Ross himself had a pretty property in Moray with tenants and a thousand acres of decent farmland.
Tavish and Ross had served side-by-side from the first day Tavish arrived in the 95th Rifles. The 95th was different from other rank-and-file regiments. They were the crack elite troops charged with slipping ahead of advancing forces and removing enemy officers before they took the battlefield. To aid in this, Rifles worked in pairs—one shooting his Baker rifle while his partner reloaded.
Until the point of their rank advancement, Ross had been Tavish’s partner. To say that Tavish had no better friend would be a gross understatement. He would trust Ross with his life and had on more occasions than he could count.
“Ye looked about ready to cast up your accounts seeing Grayburn and his sister here.” Ross said the words easily, but Tavish registered the concern in his friend’s eyes. “Is all well?”
“As well as could be, I ken.” Tavish shrugged.
“I cannot believe that Fletch forgot about your family rivalry with the Dukes of Grayburn.”
Rivalry? Tavish would have gone withvitriolic hatredhimself.
“We both know Fletch has no head for these sorts of things,” Tavish said. “Though Lady Milmouth should have been more aware of who she was inviting.”
Ross twisted his mouth and glanced about the stairwell, checking no one else was near.
“This is the same duke who instigated the ruination of your sister, correct?” he murmured.
“Aye. The very same.”
“Bloody hell. Will ye stay the week then?”
Och, that was the question, was it not? Haring off felt too much like ceding the field to enemy forces, something Tavish had never done with ease.
But staying and having to make polite with Grayburn, all while pretending Isla was a stranger to him . . .
“It would be a shame if ye left,” Ross continued. “We’ve much to discuss with Fletch.”
“Agreed.”
That was also the truth. Fletch was the third partner in their whisky endeavor. He brought needed capital while Ross contributed knowledge, and Tavish brute labor, some capital, and an intense desire to succeed. This was to have been their week to hammer out the fine details of their plan. Grayburn and Isla would be a hindrance to that.
“I am sure Grayburn will avoid us as surely as we avoid him,” Tavish said.
“Aye. If nothing else, the young ladies will have him dancing a merry jig.”
“True. The ladies did seem decidedly eager for His Grace’s arrival.” The thought cheered Tavish immensely.
He rather liked the picture of His Lofty Dukeship dodging impertinent questions and incessant flirtation. From what Tavish had already deduced from the Misses Forsyth and Miss Crowley, they would no doubt pester Grayburn nigh to death. Prudence and restraint were two characteristics he had yet to see the young women embody.
As Tavish and Ross crossed the landing toward the final run of stairs, Fletch came striding from the family wing, a hand lifted in greeting.
Tavish couldn’t recall when Colonel Edward Archer had becomeFletch. It was some sliding progression fromArchertoArrowtoFletchertoFletchin the eccentric way that nicknames developed. The moniker had stuck for years now.
As usual, his friend sported a wide grin. The sort Tavish couldn’t help but mirror.
“Gentlemen.” Fletch stopped before Tavish and Ross. “I see you have yourselves sorted.” He nodded toward their evening attire.
Tavish had long resisted dipping into the nest egg of funds he had from the sale of his commission, but he had realized that a few elegantpieces of clothing would be a necessity for civilian life. His dark green superfine coat, striped waistcoat, and tight-cut breeches spoke to that this evening. After all, a gentleman did not continue in regimentals after selling out of the military.
“Is all well?” Fletch continued, meeting Tavish’s gaze.
Tavish understood his friend’s unspoken question—are you content to spend a week under the same roof as the Duke of Grayburn?
