Taming an Impossible Rogue (11 page)

“I’m doing a good deed,” he said slowly, quite aware of how his cousin would react if Fenton discovered that anyone else knew the particulars of his request. “In exchange for a substantial reward. I can’t tell you anything else.”

The duke chewed and swallowed. “You’re hardly the person I would have chosen to maneuver a chit back to the altar,” he finally commented, “given how far you generally sway them away from it. But you’ve certainly got a better chance at convincing her than Fenton does.”

“I never said any of that. And I have no idea what you might be gabbing about.” He wasn’t even surprised that Greaves had put the puzzle pieces together. The duke was masterful at games.

“I’m just astonished to see you at Fenton’s beck and call for any reason. I thought he’d disowned you years ago.”

“Not so much disowned me as simply pretended I didn’t exist. Which suited me quite well, believe me.”

“That must be quite a substantial reward, then.”

“It is. So don’t go about glaring at my cousin. Not all of us are descendants of Croesus or Midas or whoever it is who left you his fortune.”

“We both know I inherited from Lucifer himself, but I take your point.” Greaves frowned. “I could lend you a sum, if that would aid you.”

“A loan won’t do, Adam. But thank you for offering.” He’d actually considered asking the duke for blunt from time to time, when the crops produced poorly or the price of wool and mutton dropped, but this was his penance. He needed to suffer for it. More importantly, he needed to be the one earning the money to pay for his mistakes. Even if he had to resort to unconventional means to do so.

The duke cleared his throat. “Very well, then. Suit yourself. In fact, I’ll help you. What would you say if I were to offer a private tour of the Tower menagerie as an excursion? Your project could bring along her scarlet-haired friend for safety again. And I’ll lend you some of my so-called propriety.”

“You mean you’re offering to escort us on an outing?” Keating asked, surprised.

“It just seems that with the combination of your reputation and her standing in Society, without my assistance you’re limited to walking in an abandoned corner of some park or playing cards at her table.”

He’d been thinking the same thing himself. As charming as he intended to be, there were only so many times they could walk in the park before she realized that he couldn’t actually do anything to improve her reputation. Particularly when she disliked being looked at askance as much as she seemed to. “I accept.”

“I’ll make the arrangements. Thursday afternoon?”

“Could you make it Thursday morning?”

“I thought she had duties then.”

Keating nodded. “She does. I think a demonstration of what she could be doing if not working at a gentlemen’s club is in order.”

“Ah. Very devious of you.”

If Keating were the suspicious sort, he would think that Adam might be plotting at something. Well, he
was
the suspicious sort, but considering he could count his good and loyal friends on one finger, he decided that perhaps the duke was indeed feeling charitable and was attempting in his own way to assist matters. “It’s all a means to an end, my friend,” he said aloud.

“Just keep in mind that you can’t save her if you ruin her in the process.”

Attempting to hide his flinch, Keating muttered something that not even he could decipher and resumed eating his pheasant. Publicly ruining Eleanor, Lady Balthrow, had been only a consequence of a night’s other events, but in one evening he’d managed to accomplish both that and kill her husband. Of course, by the time he realized precisely everything that had happened, it had been far beyond his power to save her reputation, but at the least he could keep her comfortable in the shadows where she was now forced to live.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me,” he finally grumbled.

Greaves was eyeing him again. “As I said before, my friend, I shall be the soul of discretion if you ever want to talk.”

“Tell me why Haybury detests you these days, and I’ll tell you my sad tale,” Keating suggested.

“Bugger off.”

“I thought so.”

Curiosity satisfied or not, that bit of conversation had served its purpose; Greaves stopped asking him those sticky questions he couldn’t—wouldn’t—answer. Ever.

*   *   *

“How is it that you have all this if you’ve only been in London for just over a year?” Camille asked, looking up from the newspaper spread on the floor in front of her.

Genevieve Martine set another neatly bundled stack of newspapers out and sank down onto the floor beside her. “I have found it wise to always be informed of London’s goings-on, wherever I happen to be,” Jenny returned in her unusual French accent.

Lady Haybury’s oldest and dearest friend, Jenny had no official title at The Tantalus Club. At the same time, she frequently knew more of what transpired than anyone else, and she had the uncanny ability to be precisely where she was needed. The rumor was that she had once been a spy for Wellington, but for heaven’s sake, despite the severe blond bun and the demeanor of a governess, Genevieve was only three-and-twenty.

And yet, Camille didn’t know anyone else who kept ten years of past issues of the
Times
to hand, neatly organized and bundled by month. “Do you know anything about Keating Blackwood?” she asked.

“I know the poem,” Jenny returned, untying the string holding the bundle together and unfolding the top issue. “I know that Lady Balthrow has spent much of the past six years living abroad on the Continent. And I know that…” She turned a page, then nodded and handed the paper over to Camille. “And I know that most of Lord Balthrow’s property was entailed and went to his nephew.”

An odd hitch stuttered through Camille’s heart. “You think Keating is supporting her. Lady Balthrow.”

“I didn’t say that. You asked what I
knew,
and that is what I’m telling you.” She slid over another newspaper. “Here’s another.”

Keating Blackwood’s name seemed to appear in the pages of the
Times
more often even than Prinny’s six years ago. Outrageous wagers, deep gaming, and women. The gossip sheets mostly used initials for the ladies he was apparently escorting. On four different evenings he was seen with five different women; after six years she wasn’t certain who Lady M, RS, WA, or VV might be, but she had a good idea who Lady B must be. And that was all in only one week’s worth of papers.

“Goodness,” she muttered, picking up another newspaper. “I’m somewhat surprised he’s alive.”

Jenny chuckled. “A man raised by relatives who already had a young marquis to see to apparently looks for other ways of being noticed. Or perhaps he’s merely a bit mad.”

Camille paused in her page-turning. Jenny’s first supposition sounded logical enough; given Keating’s own stated dislike of his cousin, she could well imagine that he’d been the neglected one of the two of them. On the other hand, his wildness, his apparent penchant for causing havoc simply because he could—perhaps he
was
a bit mad. And that made him so much more interesting. Even more interesting than she already found him.

“Do you have the newspapers that reported the death of Lord Balthrow?”

“I believe so.”

They found them three stacks later. Other than the scandalous, lurid details of his affair with Lady Balthrow, from the writers’ word choices alone it was clear that Mr. Blackwood’s antics were no longer amusing to London at large, or Mayfair in particular. For two days in a row the headlines reported that he was to be hanged at Newgate.

Camille put a hand to her throat. He’d told her that he regretted everything that had happened with Lord and Lady Balthrow, and she could guess that was partly because the scandal had brought an end to his fun. “He wasn’t ordered to leave London,” she mused, half to herself.

“It couldn’t have been pleasant to stay. Balthrow wasn’t terribly popular, but he was a member of the nobility. Killing one of them is rather frowned upon, particularly by their fellows.”

Lower on the page, announcing that the Blackwood deed had been deemed self-defense by the courts, she caught sight of a much smaller headline. “Lady Balthrow left London even before Keating’s trial ended.”

“She did have an affair that ended in the death of her husband.”

“I mean, if she’d truly cared for Keating, wouldn’t she have stayed to speak for him at his trial?”

Jenny smiled a little. “That is a nice thought, Cammy.”

Ah, she knew that look. She was being naïve. Of course Lady Balthrow would have been more concerned with her own freedom than with assisting Keating in gaining his. But if what Jenny … insinuated was true, Keating was still aiding Eleanor Howard six years after his acquittal. Not that that was any of her concern, except now that it had occurred to her, she couldn’t seem to get it out of her mind.

“Might I borrow these?” she asked, motioning at the newspapers they’d pulled from the stacks.

“Of course.” Jenny stood. “If you find that having Mr. Blackwood about is too unpleasant, I can see that his guest membership here is revoked.”

“If you and Lady Haybury denied entry to all the men that one of your employees here dislikes for some reason or another, you wouldn’t have much of a gentlemen’s club.”

“Fenton’s absence hasn’t destroyed us, by any means. And when Diane hired you, she promised you would be safe here, Cammy. That doesn’t change.”

“Thank you.” Gathering up her armload of newspapers, she rose from the floor as well. “If not for you and Lady Haybury, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“We have succeeded together, where I do not think we could have done so separately.” Genevieve followed her to the door. “If I may, be cautious, Camille. In the past Blackwood tore through London rather like an exploding cannon. I cannot help but think that an aimed cannon could be even more troublesome.”

“I think I am already too cautious these days, but thank you, Jenny.”

“Do as you will.”

Back in the bedchamber she shared with Sophia, her friend sat practically bouncing on the edge of the bed. “You have a note,” she said with a grin, waving the paper in the direction of the windowsill. “And flowers. And another note.”

Camille looked where she indicated. A lovely bouquet of yellow roses bound in red ribbons sat in a vase that had clearly been borrowed from elsewhere in the club. Flowers. She’d never received flowers in her life. Her fingers shaking a little, she walked over and pulled the folded note from the middle of the blooms. “‘A very belated happy tenth birthday,’” she read aloud.

“
Very
belated,” Sophia agreed. “Who is it from?”

She looked again, and turned over the note. “It doesn’t say.” Leaning down, she breathed in the soft spice of the roses.

“Blackwood,” her friend supplied. “Don’t you think?”

“I did mention to him that Fenton never sent me so much as a letter,” Camille said slowly, “but my tenth birthday has no special significance. How did Grace know the flowers were for me?”

“I don’t know. She had them sent up, and Mary said they’d arrived for you.” Sophia waved the note again. “Perhaps this explains it.”

As Camille took the folded paper, she had to acknowledge that she hoped the flowers were from Keating. Otherwise she could only think of one person who might have sent them, and she didn’t wish to contemplate that. She unfolded the note and read through it. Then she read it a second time.

“What does it say? Is it from Blackwood?”

“Just a moment, for heaven’s sake.” She took a breath. “‘Dear Camille,’” she read aloud for Sophia’s benefit. “‘If you and Sophia can arrange to have Thursday morning free, the Duke of Greaves has offered to escort us on a private tour of the menagerie at the Tower of London. As I’m terrified of being eaten by a lion, I hope you will be able to attend. Please inform me of your decision. KB.’”

“Oh, the Tower!” Sophia exclaimed, bouncing on the bed again. “Say yes, say yes!”

“We have duties on Thursday morning, Sophia.” Inside she felt like jumping up and down herself, but she sternly resisted the temptation. “We need to speak with Jenny or Pansy first.”

Sophia shot to her feet, grabbed Camille’s hand, and pulled her out the door and down the hallway. “Then let’s speak with them. Oh, he didn’t say anything about the flowers, did he? Do you think that means he didn’t send them? Who else could it have been, then? Oh, the Tower. I’ve always wanted to go, but who in the world could I have convinced to accompany me?”

Camille wished Sophia would be quiet for a blasted minute. Because while she did hope they would be able to join Keating for an outing, at the moment she was more concerned over who must have sent the flowers if it hadn’t been him. Because she could only think of one person who’d failed to acknowledge her tenth birthday and might wish to do so now. And the idea that the Marquis of Fenton might suddenly have decided to make amends to her made her distinctly uncomfortable. Especially now, when she’d just met his very compelling cousin.

Chapter Eight

Joseph Bullock, the keeper of the Menagerie himself, guided them through the collection of beasts. Keating stayed back a little, watching, as the fellow proudly paraded them past a bored-looking wolf, a jackal, and a white fox who refused to emerge from his box despite offers of some sickly looking chicken’s wings and a pig’s snout.

“He’s nocturnal, you know,” the keeper announced, pelting the box at the back of the cage with one of the wings. “From Greenland. It’s dark there much of the winter.”

“Perhaps he’s worried he’ll be made into a fur muff,” Greaves commented dryly.

Camille was leaning down, attempting to gaze into the recesses of the box set in the cage’s far corner. “Poor fellow. He merely dislikes being gawked at, I’m certain.”

“I’ll fetch one of the underkeepers with a hot poker, and we’ll have him out for you to see, Your Grace.”

“That’s not necessary, Bullock,” the duke replied, after Sophia gave an dismayed squeak. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Of course.”

They turned the corner to another set of cages, several of them emitting low rumbling growls. Camille edged a shade closer to Keating, and he offered his arm. “You’re to protect me, I thought,” he drawled.