Taming an Impossible Rogue (18 page)

She glanced over her shoulder to see the dozen or so men in the process of entering or leaving the club all looking in their direction. In the past she would have been mortified, but it abruptly occurred to her that Keating was correct. Whether these men dared to be seen in public with her or not, they envied Keating for doing so. They wanted her company—for something nefarious, no doubt, but it was an eye-opening realization, nonetheless.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned,” Keating murmured as he helped her sit beside Sophia, “there is a certain … allure to being notorious. Not always, but there are moments when one realizes that there is a freedom to having no boundaries. Or in being seen that way, at least.”

“I believe the ‘freedom,’ as you call it,” she countered, “only occurs when one isn’t attempting to do anything within Society.”

“True enough.” He tightened his grip on her fingers, then released her hand as the barouche rolled into the street. “Thank you for trusting me today.”

“I’m attempting not to think about where I’m going, thank you very much.” She shivered, then resolutely set her gaze on the scenery and attempted to concentrate on the latest fashion in hats.

“Am I to be silent and polite?” Sophia asked, patting Camille’s knee. “Because I shall volunteer to punch Lord Fenton in the nose if the opportunity arises.”

“You’ll be behind me in the queue, Sophia,” Keating returned, a smile in his voice.

Camille looked back at him. “Are you going to tell me whether this was his idea or yours?”

“He wants an opportunity to chat with you. I’ve been put in command of arranging the details. The matchmaking liaison, I suppose.”

“You’re very masculine for a matchmaker.” Sophia giggled.

“Thank you for noticing. And Cammy, he will behave himself. If he doesn’t, he’ll answer to me.”

Yes, to the man who stood to make ten thousand pounds if the match—or rematch, rather—was successful. If anyone had divided loyalties, it would be Keating. Even so, to this point he’d been honest and forthright with her. And blasted charming and intriguing and eminently kissable. She sighed, irritated that she couldn’t put the heat and allure of him out of her mind.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said, treading on the tail end of them.

She narrowed her eyes. “I was just thinking that your methods of matchmaking would leave most mamas horribly scandalized.”

His expression darkened. “Put that to my weakness and general lack of good character. If my poor behavior offends you, I shall attempt to restrain myself.”

Oh, she didn’t want that, either. In front of Sophia, however, she wasn’t about to tell him that she very much wanted his kisses and caresses to continue. Of course if—
if
—she and Fenton reconciled, the kisses would have to stop. That shouldn’t even be figuring into her equations for her future. But it was. She decided not to reply; there didn’t seem to be a good response. He could make of that whatever he wished.

It only took a few minutes before she realized they weren’t going anywhere in Mayfair. “So it’s to be Cheapside, is it?” she muttered, curling her fingers into a fist. “Or perhaps Charing Cross?”

“No. The Mug and Pipe just to the north of Town. No one who knows either of you to gawp and gossip, hopefully.” Keating sat forward, taking her hand and uncurling her fingers one by one. “This is a second chance, Camille. Nothing more, nothing less. If it pleases you, take it. If not, pass it by.”

“And you’ll stop your matchmaking, just like that?” She snapped the fingers of her free hand.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I don’t know.”

“I see. Then I still thank you for making this attempt on my behalf, but stop pretending that you’re merely the Samaritan of happy matches.”

He released her and sat back again. “Very well.”

Sophia looked from one of them to the other. “Did I miss something?”

She’d missed ten thousand somethings, but Camille didn’t feel inclined to tell her. That would mean admitting that she’d been duped from the beginning, and that she was now an idiot for trusting him when she knew he had ulterior motives. “Suffice it to say,” she commented after a moment, “that Keating isn’t quite the neutral party.”

“Well, neither am I.” Sophia scooted closer to Camille. “I side with you, my friend.”

“You—” Keating snapped his mouth closed. “I am not accustomed to being the voice of reason. Clearly I’m not very proficient at it, but just … don’t make up your mind until after luncheon. Please.”

For a moment she heard the desperation in his voice, and it made her stop the retort she’d conjured. Clearly he didn’t care overly much for his cousin, and in a sense he was as trapped in this mire as she was. Ten thousand pounds was a fortune, and she had no idea how truly badly he might need the money. “I gave you my word that I would come with you today,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t do so lightly.”

He nodded. “That will suffice.”

They sat in silence for the next twenty minutes. That gave Camille enough time to decide that she likely should have waited until after she returned to The Tantalus Club to begin a fight with Keating, because when she wasn’t bantering with him she had far too much time to think about what would happen when she walked into the inn.

Would Lord Fenton be pleased to see that she’d kept her word about sitting down with him? Would he take the opportunity to lash out at her again? Would he be as cold and distant as she’d known him to be even from the far side of the church aisle? Would he look at his pocket watch?

She sent a sideways glance at Keating, who sat with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the opposite view from her own. The question that pressed at her most, even angry with him as she attempted to be, was what would happen if Fenton was perfectly pleasant. Camille took a breath. One blasted disaster at a time.

Chapter Twelve

Despite her stated resolve to go forward with this meeting, Keating kept an eye on Camille as they left the barouche and walked into the small inn. It had taken years of disinterest on Fenton’s part to cause her finally to flee once, but it would only take a misspoken word or—God forbid—a single check of a gold-inlaid pocket watch to send her out the door a second time. Hopefully Fenton was aware of how thin the ice was, and hopefully he would at least make a minimum effort to be polite and politic.

Sophia edged closer to him as the proprietor showed them past the crowded common room and into a private sitting room at the back of the wood and stone building. “Are you two fighting?”

“Evidently,” he muttered back, watching Camille’s spine stiffen as they all caught sight of the lone figure seated before the fireplace. “If being angry with me lends her courage, well, my hide is thick enough to withstand it.”

“Just remember that you promised to keep her safe. And that a large part of Cammy is her heart.”

He glanced sideways, attempting to reconcile Sophia White’s sudden thoughtfulness and insight with her general effervescent humor. “Don’t bother pretending to be silly and frivolous with me any longer,” he whispered, “because I shan’t believe you.”

“We all do what is necessary to survive, Mr. Blackwood.”

While he digested that further bit of wisdom, Camille stopped a few feet into the room.
Get up
, he silently urged Fenton, doing his damnedest to shout at his cousin without making a sound. Finally the marquis stood. “Lady Camille,” he drawled.

Camille inclined her head. “Lord Fenton.”

That looked to be the end of their conversation. Before the silence could deafen the lot of them, Keating ordered a whole pheasant from the curious innkeeper and closed the door on the man’s face. “Stephen, this is Miss White. Sophia, Lord Fenton.” He pushed past Camille and took a seat at the long table. “I hope you requested a good wine, Fenton.”

His cousin stirred, then slowly approached the table. “French and red.”

“Excellent. Now for God’s sake, everyone sit down. Fenton, was that a new pair I saw pulling your coach outside?”

“Yes. I’m partial to bays. They’re called Achilles and Ajax, and according to the breeder, they’re half brothers.”

“They’re well matched,” Keating returned, shifting a little so Camille could sit beside him. Sophia took a seat on his left. Fenton likely wouldn’t appreciate being glared at by a trio of unacceptable persons, but with no witnesses, hopefully the stiff-spined marquis would tolerate it.

“I wouldn’t have purchased them, otherwise.”

Keating mostly refrained from rolling his eyes. Just when he’d become the levelheaded arbiter of cordiality for the outing he had no idea, but he felt supremely unsuited for the position. “Stephen, tell us about Fenton Hall. I know it used to have good fishing in the pond there, but I haven’t visited the grounds in some time.”

“I would rather hear Lady Camille explain her actions over the past year, beginning with her embarrassing performance at the church.”

Even though they weren’t touching, Keating could feel Camille stiffen beside him. From someone as socially obtuse as Fenton was, it was likely a reasonable, honest question, but Fenton was supposed to have been pretending to have a heart. “I thought we might begin a bit more slowly than that,” he said aloud.

Thankfully the innkeeper and two serving maids reappeared before anyone could say anything too damaging. He poured the wine himself, reluctantly dismissing the trio of witnesses. For a long moment he eyed the slowly swirling ruby liquid in his glass, then he downed the lot of it. Anything to dull the sharp edges of his temper for today.

“First I suppose I should thank you for the flowers,” Camille said unexpectedly. “I’m very fond of lilies.”

Keating flinched.
Roses
. They’d been roses.

“Yes, well, I suppose I might have paid you a bit more attention over the years,” Fenton grumbled with clear reluctance.

If she’d discovered the ruse, Camille gave no sign of it. “And I might have sent you a letter or two myself, instead of waiting for you to begin a correspondence.”

Fenton set down his glass of wine. “Excuse me, but are you saying that you refused to marry me because I failed to correspond with a female I had no need to woo or flatter or otherwise coerce into marriage?”

“Stephen, we’re commiserating here. Don’t lose the trail,” Keating put in, swearing inwardly.

“I know if I had a husband-in-waiting,” Sophia said, as she finished a bite of pheasant, “I would hope he considered me to be more than a piece of furniture. A kind word or a smile or a
rose
over fifteen or twenty years isn’t too much to expect, I don’t think. A measure of human kindness, I mean.”

“And who the devil are you? Sophia what?” Fenton demanded, his face darkening.

“Sophia White,” Sophia said very distinctly. “I’m employed with Cammy at The Tantalus Club.”

“White.” Blinking, Fenton lurched to his feet. “You’re Hennessy’s by-blow. For God’s sake, Keating, what the devil are you attempting to do? I’ve told you countless times that I won’t be subjected to your penchant to associate with degenerates and dishonorables.”

“Sit down, Stephen.” No longer amused, Keating slammed his hand onto the wooden tabletop. “None of us are saints or angels, or we wouldn’t be here. You’re at fault in this as well, and the sooner you loosen your spine, the sooner you’ll find yourself where you wish to be.”

The marquis sat again. “If anyone outside that door recognized me, I’ll never live this down. You’d best pray you managed to find the most discreet establishment in England.”

“I pray for other things, but I take your point.” Keating refilled his glass and emptied it again. “You’re angry and embarrassed that you were left standing with a priest and no bride. Camille is worried that she’d been doomed to a life with a cold, uncaring boor. Sophia, well, Sophia is here because I asked her to join us. Don’t insult her again.” He banged his fist on the table a second time. “Now. Stephen, do you enjoy riding or walking out of doors?”

Silence. Then his cousin slowly lifted his fork again. “Yes. I enjoy a bit of exercise. And I like fox hunting, especially.”

“Camille,” Keating pursued, wondering if he would next be forced to wear a judge’s white wig, “do you enjoy a walk or a ride out of doors?”

“I quite enjoy either. I miss being able to do so.”

“Fenton. Your favorite poet.”

“William Browne.” The marquis took a breath. “‘Now as an angler melancholy standing / Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, / A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook, / Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook.’”

Oh, grand, a fishing poem. “Very nice,” Keating said aloud. “Camille, same question. Favorite poet.”

“Lord Byron,” she answered without hesitation, a touch of defiance in her voice. “‘In secret we met / In silence I grieve, / That thy heart could forget, / Thy spirit deceive.’”

“So we’re engaged in dueling quatrains now? At least this is more entertaining.” Despite the unhealthy urge to grin at the way Camille had just demonstrated the very great difference between the potential bride and groom, Keating ventured a bite of pheasant. “Very well. Shakespeare. Favorite play, Stephen.”

“King Lear.”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,”
Camille put in.

This likely wasn’t going to help them to get along, but they were becoming better acquainted—whether they realized it or not. At the same time it struck him that she’d named the very play he’d attended with her. He just barely refrained from looking over at her. “Gemstone,” he continued aloud, attempting to keep the luncheon from running into the hedgerow.

“Diamond.” Fenton actually offered a competitive nose flare as he sent a glare across the table at Camille.

“Sapphire.”

“Favorite vehicle.”

“Coach and four.”

“High-perch phaeton,” Camille contributed, and he began to wonder now if she was being intentionally difficult. Of course he could hardly blame her for that. Fenton was as warm as a fish.

“Dance.”

“The waltz,” Camille slipped in, before Stephen could comment. She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t like always being second.”