Taming an Impossible Rogue (29 page)

Now, however, he’d have ten thousand quid for her and the boy. It still didn’t excuse what he’d done—nothing could do that—but it would make things easier for Eleanor and Michael. And perhaps he would get to see the boy now.

But nothing would be the same after this. Yes, he’d return to Havard’s Glen. He wouldn’t brawl any longer, because the anger and frustration already filling him wasn’t the sort he could excise with drink or pounding fists. He was giving Camille to his cousin, because it was the best thing he could do for her. But he didn’t have to like it. Ever.

Hooper pulled open the Baswich House front door as he topped the steps. “Mr. Blackwood,” he said in a low voice. “His Grace has expressly asked for you to go directly to his office. Without detour or delay.”

Keating lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, he has, has he?”

“Yes, sir. And if you should balk, I am to say please.”

Well, this was different. “Why are we being so quiet?” Keating asked, lowering his voice to match the butler’s.

“It’s imperative, sir. Please. His Grace’s office.”

“Very well, Hooper. I’m convinced, whatever the devil is afoot.”

“Without detour or delay.”

“I’m going, for Christ’s sake.”

Tired and frustrated as he felt at the moment, a good argument with Greaves might be just the thing. With the butler close on his heels as if to prevent him from veering into one of the side rooms or dashing back outside, he climbed the stairs and headed down the hallway to the duke’s large office.

“What?” he demanded, shoving the door open.

“Shut up and close the door,” Adam ordered in the same low, direct voice the butler had used. “Hooper, back to your previous duty.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Scowling, Keating closed the door. “You have my attention.”

Greaves rose from his chair. While Keating had never seen him less than impeccably dressed, this morning he couldn’t help noting that the duke’s cravat was very simply tied, and that he had an air of distraction about him. In a way, it was a little … alarming.

“Sit down.” The duke motioned at one of the chairs facing the desk.

Keeping an eye on his friend, Keating complied. “Why do I feel like I’ve been caught at university with a naked chit in my rooms?”

“Am I permitted to ask where you were? I sent Pidgeon in to wake you twenty minutes ago, and he said your bed wasn’t slept in.”

“You’re not my nanny, Adam.” Keating frowned. “And since when have I made a habit of sleeping in my own bed, anyway?”

“Since you’ve been back in London,” the duke retorted. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I have a good idea, and I can only hope you know what the devil you’re doing.”

“Instead of interrogating me, perhaps you could tell me why everyone in the house is creeping about on tiptoe,” Keating suggested, his jaw clenching. He would have to give Camille up soon enough; no one was allowed to try to part them before it was absolutely necessary. No one was even allowed to discuss such a thing.

“Very well.” Greaves took a breath. “Someone arrived here twenty minutes ago. She’s waiting in the morning room for you to dress and come downstairs. I sent Pidgeon out to The Tantalus Club to look for you, so I wouldn’t have to make your excuses.”

Ice curled through Keating’s fingers. “So you sit here and chitchat with me when Eleanor’s in the house?” he hissed. “Is the b … is anyone with her?”

“I wanted to give you a moment to think before you walked directly in to her. And she’s alone.”

As angry as Keating was at being delayed now that Eleanor Howard had finally made an appearance, the new, more thoughtful man he’d evidently become had to note that the Duke of Greaves actually looked concerned. Over him.

He stood. “I’ll behave,” he said, lowering his voice as he pulled open the door again. “I’ve already done her enough harm to last several lifetimes.”

Just outside the morning room door he stopped, flexing his fingers over the door handle. He hadn’t set eyes on her in six years. In fact, the last time he’d seen her had been at the Old Bailey when the solicitor had listed the charges against him. She hadn’t even stayed for the trial. No doubt she hadn’t needed to hear that Keating shooting her husband had been to preserve his own life.

Abruptly the image of Camille stepping back into her parents’ house after being thrown onto the streets came to his mind. If she could do that, he could damned well do this.

He pushed open the door. “Good morning, Eleanor,” he said, keeping his voice cool and steady.

At first he didn’t even see her; the servants hadn’t yet opened the room for the morning, and with the curtains drawn and only a pair of candles by the door, it was dull and dim. Then she moved away from the fireplace in his direction.

She wore a dark gown, brown or gray in color, and her long, deep red hair was bound up in a very … matronly knot. Six years ago she’d been stunning, and she was still petite and shapely and very, very pretty.

“Keating. I’d begun to wonder whether you meant to leave me standing here or not.”

“I couldn’t find my boots,” he improvised.

“Interesting, then, that you’re wearing evening clothes.”

“Is that what you wanted to discuss? My attire?” He stepped further into the room, walking to the windows to throw open the heavy curtains. Dramatic dimness or not, he preferred being able to see.

“No. Of course not.”

He faced her again, taking a closer look at her own wardrobe. “You look very demure,” he commented, leaning back against the strip of wall between the windows and folding his arms over his chest.

“My circumstances aren’t what they were six years ago. What do you expect?”

She had a point. “Why did you leave your calling card here and then vanish for a week?”

“I had some matters to attend to just outside of London. I’ve been away for longer than you have, after all.” She tilted her head at him. “I admit to some curiosity. Why are
you
in London after so long?”

“I also had some matters to see to.”

“Matters that include a woman who works at The Tantalus Club. I’m not without eyes and ears, you know.” She moved over and eased into the chair by the hearth.

If any other female in London—with one exception—had attempted to chastise him for his actions or his associations, he would have said something insulting and turned his back on her. He couldn’t say it to Eleanor Howard, however, and instead he decided to try a different tack. “I want to see Michael.”

“No.”

“If he’s mine as you say, then I insist.”

“At the moment I can pass him off as Edward’s son.”

“Then why did Edward’s cousin inherit Balthrow?”

She scowled. “Why? Because the courts refuse to acknowledge Michael as the heir.” She waved her hands in the air. “Evidently a child born nine months after the supposed father’s death and after an affair on the part of the wife is ‘suspicious.’”

“You did try to have him named the new viscount of Balthrow?” He wasn’t certain he liked that, though it certainly would have lessened Eleanor’s money troubles. And thereby, his money troubles.

“I looked into it. Discreetly. Everyone seemed very happy—ecstatic even—to have Edward’s cousin Roger inherit and me gone from London and from memory, so they had their way. If I’m cursed to live on a pittance with a son to raise and no friends or family, then so be it.”

“I send you every cent I can,” Keating returned, his jaw clenched tight. “More than I can afford.”

“It isn’t enough. I had everything, you know—a title, wealth, friends, parties, the latest fashion in gowns and hats. Now I have nothing.”

He scowled. “You have a son. And I wasn’t the only one rolling about in your husband’s bed. You invited me, after all.”

“Don’t blame Edward’s death on me! Everyone knew how much trouble you liked to cause. I should have known better. You have no right to be as handsome as you are when you’re such a devil on the inside. And I certainly didn’t ask you to murder my husband.”

“I’m aware of that.” Keating blew out his breath. “I’m doing a favor for someone. When I’m successful, I’ll earn ten thousand pounds. I intend to sign it all over to you. For Michael’s education and so you’ll be able to afford … nicer accommodations.”

She blinked. “Ten thousand pounds? That’s … That would be marvelous. Such a weight taken from my shoulders.” Eleanor sat forward. “How much of a certainty is this? Because I don’t wish to get my hopes up only to have them dashed again.”

According to Camille, it was very certain. “I’m quite confident.”
And not at all happy about it
.

“Then you aren’t in London simply to go back to your old ways? I have to say, from the rumors I’ve heard I thought perhaps you’d forgotten about me and your son.”

“I will never forget that.”

Eleanor stood again. “Good. Because neither will I.” Halfway to the morning room door she hesitated, facing him again. “If you are able to get me the money, perhaps I will begin to think you have indeed changed. And then, perhaps … Well, we’ll see.”

He pushed away from the wall to watch through the window as she left the house and hailed a hack. After six years this was the closest she’d come to saying she might allow him to see Michael. He should have felt hopeful. At the moment, however, mostly what he felt was despair. Apparently God had a sense of humor, putting a woman in his path who made him truly happy and then making him watch as she walked down the aisle with another man. Generally he enjoyed irony. Not, however, this morning.

Chapter Eighteen

“We can wait here for as long as you like,” Sophia said, sinking back in the hard, lumpy seat of the hack.

Beside her, Sylvie Hartford nodded her agreement. “I’m happy to be out of doors. Pansy’s become obsessed with lavender cologne; our room reeks of lavender.”

That explained why Sylvie smelled rather strongly of lavender herself. Camille didn’t say anything, though; she had enough turmoil in her mind and too few friends to risk hurting one of them.

“Just give me another moment,” she commented, still gazing at Pryce House through the coach’s cracked window.

Keating had volunteered to escort her to her rendezvous with Lord Fenton, but she’d declined. Having him present gave her courage, made everything a bit easier, but it had occurred to her sometime last night or early this morning that she was only making things more difficult for both of them.

Once she married Fenton, Keating would be gone. The heat and temptation of him would return with the rest of him to his small estate in Shropshire, and she would remain. Married. To the cousin of the man she … the man she adored.

Swiftly she pushed the door open and stepped down to the street. Moving, doing something, was much better than thinking about whether what she would gain was better than what she would lose. Because she was fairly certain she already knew the answer to that—at least from her point of view.

As for Keating, though, Camille knew quite well that the entire reason he’d come to London had been to earn ten thousand pounds. He’d chosen that as the method by which he would make amends to Eleanor Howard, and see to the son who more than likely had been raised to detest him.

So was she doing this for the wrong reasons? If so, what were the right reasons? Yes, her reputation would benefit from the match with Fenton. If she’d married him thirteen months ago as everyone had intended, her reasons for doing so would have been even less than she’d discovered since being ruined. A signed agreement made by his parents and hers when she was only three days old. And nothing more. At least now she could help Keating.

“Cammy?”

Starting, she released the coach’s door and faced her friends inside. “Wait for a moment just to be certain I’m not to be left standing at the front door.” She handed Sophia two shillings to pay the hack’s driver. “And then, if all goes well, I shall see you this evening.”

Sophia gripped her fingers as she took the coins. “If you aren’t back at the club by six o’clock, I will come here to find you. And I shan’t be polite about it.”

Camille grinned. “That would almost be worth seeing. I’ll be fine.”

The door remained closed as she reached the short portico. Well, if they wanted her to knock, then so be it. Curling her fingers around the brass knocker, she tapped it against the door three times. Part of her hoped no one would bother to answer, so she would be free to leave again.

With a rattle the heavy oak pulled open. “Lady Camille,” the butler said, with a formal nod.

“Smythe. Has Lord Fenton arrived?”

“He is speaking with Lord Montshire, my lady. If you would wait in the morning room, I shall inform him of your presence.”

It annoyed her that her supposed fiancé was more welcome in her childhood home than she was, but it certainly didn’t surprise her. Not after the way she’d left. “No. I shall wait outside.”

“My lady?”

“That is what I agreed to. If anyone objects, they may argue with me in the garden.”

She walked around the side of the house, intentionally keeping her gaze away from the windows as she meandered around the lilies and roses. It all felt so familiar; she couldn’t even count the number of times she’d paused in that very spot. The person she’d been then, however, would scarcely recognize the one she’d become.

“Camille.”

She looked up as her mother strolled around into view. Inwardly cringing, she kept her expression neutral and nodded. “Mama.”

“You look like you’re ready to bite my head off.”

“I’ve learned that I need to do a better job of protecting myself.”

“And that man, Bloody Blackwood? If you were looking for a way to injure us further, you certainly found it.”

“Yes, a man who made a poor decision, found himself in an untenable situation, and was ostracized from Society and lost most of his friends as a result. I haven’t a clue why we might have felt a kinship.” Much more than a kinship, at least as far as she was concerned, but telling her mother that would likely make the woman drop dead of mortification.

“Your sharp tongue does you no credit.”

“I would have preferred it if I’d never had to sharpen my tongue in the first place.” She wanted to clench her fists and march about, but that would seem overly aggressive. However angry she might be at the woman presently glaring at her, Victoria Pryce was first and foremost her mother.