Taming an Impossible Rogue (34 page)

“Have you tried the various other clubs?” Sophia suggested quietly. “I mean, Keating does have a certain reputation for drinking and wagering and … other things.”

Camille didn’t like hearing that at all. Had he simply found another chit to keep him company and forgotten about her already? Even as the thought occurred to her, though, she put it aside. The Keating of six years ago might have gone through several ladies since she’d last seen him, but he wasn’t that man any longer—whether he felt comfortable acknowledging that or not.

Greaves was shaking his head. “I’ve been to a dozen clubs. No one’s seen him. And he’s not the type of fellow that people don’t notice.” He hesitated. “There are several places he used to frequent, but I can’t imagine that he would go back to any of them.” He looked at Camille. “Or perhaps he would,” he said after a moment. “Excuse me, ladies.”

Camille put her arm on his sleeve, and he stopped. “If you hear anything, Your Grace, please inform me,” she whispered, her voice wobbling.

“Don’t fear, Camille,” he returned, patting her hand in a rather un-Greaves-like manner. “If he’s learned one thing, it’s how to live badly.”

“But he has enemies.”

The duke nodded. “That he does. I’ll send word when I’ve tracked him down.”

“Thank you.”

With a last glance at Sophia, the duke excused himself and left the club again. Unsettled, Camille pasted on a smile and began seating the morning’s guests.

What she wanted to do was run out the front door, hire a hack, and go searching for Keating. She had no doubt that he could defend himself if attacked, but that only worked with outside, tangible enemies.

She had resolved to wed Fenton. It was the action she chose to take because it would help Keating. In a sense, she had the easier side of things; she would be the one moving forward with a purpose, while Keating was forced to stand by and simply watch.

“Cammy, stop staring into nothing,” Sophia whispered. “You’re frightening the men.”

Camille shook herself. “Sorry. I’m worried.”

“I know.”

“I want to go looking, but I have no idea where to begin.” She edged closer to her friend. “Two days, Sophia. He’s been missing for two days.”

“Perhaps he did go home to Shropshire. I doubt he would miss his valet for a few days.”

That made sense. She didn’t like it, because it meant that that one last look she’d hoped to have, that one last kiss, had already happened. She hadn’t been ready for it to be over.

“Well, if I haven’t heard from His Grace by this afternoon, I’m going to call on him. I need to know.” Because without knowing where Keating was, much less knowing if he was well or not, she could barely breathe. If something had happened to him … Well, there would be no reason to marry Fenton, would there? There would be no reason for anything.

*   *   *

Adam Baswich was beginning to feel distinctly soiled. Beginning with the loftiest of clubs—White’s, the Tantalus, Boodles, the Society—he’d been searching for hours. By now he’d reached the dregs, and was quickly running out of places to look. For the devil’s sake, he’d visited Jezebel’s an hour ago. The places he had been reduced to visiting now barely seemed to exist in daylight.

Picking his way through an alleyway of trash and unconscious drunks and some other things he didn’t care to examine too closely, he reached the half-rotted door at the end. Someone had carved the words “The Deval’s Club” into the wood, leaving him unimpressed with both the penmanship and the spelling.

Once he pushed open the door, the scent of piss and sour ale hit him like a blow, and he had to stifle the urge to gag. The candlelight inside sputtered and smoked, the cheap tallow adding to the indescribable smell.

As his eyes grew more accustomed to the dimness, he made out a long, rough-wood bar in the far corner of the room, a skeleton standing behind it. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath as the skeleton leaned its elbows on the bartop and gazed at him.

“What’s yer poison?” the skeleton asked through a mouth half devoid of teeth.

“I’m looking for someone,” Adam replied, beginning to realize the difference between someone who drank to maintain a reputation and one who drank … here.

“The girl’s occupied upstairs. Wait ten minutes and ye can have her. Two shillings.”

Oh, good God
. “Not a chit. A man.”

The skeleton squinted one eye. “Three shillings. Louis! Get yer cock over here. Someone wants it.”

A chair squeaked along the floorboards behind Adam. “No,” he blurted, reflecting that this was one of the few times he felt truly uncomfortable somewhere. “Someone who might have come here to drink. Tall, dark brown hair, nice teeth, likes to punch things?”

A hand pressed down on his shoulder. Whipping around, Adam straight-armed the fellow hard in the chest—and Keating stumbled backward, falling onto his arse.

“Damnation,” he said aloud, squatting down to eye his friend. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Keating fumbled up to a seated position on the floor. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Where am I?”

“I’ll tell you later. Come on.” Grabbing an arm, Adam hauled Blackwood to his feet.

“No.” Keating pulled away. “I’m staying here. I’m going to live here.”

“Oh. Very well, then.”

Adam clenched his fist, pulled back his arm, and hit Keating in the jaw. Hard. His friend grunted, then collapsed.

Catching Keating as he fell, Adam hauled him over his shoulder, grabbing an arm and a leg to balance the considerable weight. “My thanks,” he said to the skeleton, and left the club. Outside he carried Keating over to his waiting coach and dumped him inside onto the floor. “Home, Millet,” he instructed his impassive driver, climbing in and taking a seat.

“Right away, Your Grace.”

*   *   *

Keating peeled open one eye. Or at least he thought he did; the outside of his eyelid was as dark as the inside. Then the knife blade shot through his skull and lodged there, vibrating. Ah. Definitely awake, then.

With a groan he levered himself onto one elbow. As his one open eye focused, he realized he was in the bedchamber he’d been using at Baswich House. When had that happened?

At least someone had not only drawn the curtains, but had thrown blankets over the already heavy coverings. Pidgeon, most likely. The valet had learned over the years how best to limit his own exposure to his master while Keating was … recovering from an evening—or several of them—of overindulgence.

A glass of water sat on the bedstand. It would likely make him ill, but his mouth and throat felt like they’d been stuffed with sour cotton. Frowning, he took a single swallow and slowly sat up, waiting to see what the effect might be.

His door rattled and opened. At the flood of light coming from beyond, he closed both eyes again. “Shut it,” he rasped.

The door closed again. “I have tea with an absurd amount of sugar,” Greaves’s voice came. “Pidgeon continues to insist that it helps, but I have my doubts.”

“It does help. Sometimes.” A hazy memory swam through his brain. “You hit me.”

“Yes, well, you said you intended to live at The Deval’s Club with an
a
. I couldn’t allow you to reside at a place where such poor spelling is tolerated.”

“How did you find me?”

“A great deal of searching at some places I used to know, and some I never wished to see again. Are you coherent enough to answer a question?”

Keating squinted an eye open enough to grasp the hot cup of tea and shovel several lumps of sugar into it. “Depends on the question.”

“What, precisely, were you hoping to accomplish? You send a chit off to the chapel, earn your eight pieces of silver, and then crawl off into the sewer? What’s the point?”

“That’s three questions.” The pieces of silver reference, at least, seemed very fitting. Whatever Camille had agreed to, he
felt
like a traitor. Because he knew deep down that she would manage, but she wouldn’t be happy. Not that he could make her happy, but damned Fenton certainly couldn’t, either.

“Take the first one, then.”

For a moment he couldn’t remember what the first question had been. “I thought to make myself unavailable until after the church appointment on Saturday.”

“Ah. You nearly made it, then.”

Nearly?
“What day is it?”

“Friday. Late afternoon.”

“Damnation, Adam. You should have left me there.”

“Hm.” Moving silently even in the near total darkness, the duke reached the side of the bed and handed over a piece of paper. “I would have, except for this.”

“What is it?”

“Since we can’t light a lamp, I’ll tell you. I had someone look into a few things. More specifically, I tracked Lady Balthrow’s movements over the past six years.”

Keating scowled. “What? She’s been in Madrid. I told you that.”

“So she and your solicitor have told you. I’d sack him, by the way. I decided to be suspicious and look into matters myself. Your dear anchor did spend a year in Madrid. Previous to that, she’s rented homes in Vienna, Paris, Rome, Florence, and Venice.” The duke glanced down at the paper. “She seems to enjoy Italy.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” It didn’t make sense, but even if she had traveled more than she’d told him about, he didn’t see why Greaves would care. Or think it significant.

“I can also give you the names of the men with whom she’s kept company. Six years ago it was a Prussian count, followed immediately by some fellow known only as Jean-Pierre, which brought her to Lord Emereaux, then a Spanish troubadour, as unlikely as I found that. My source then couldn’t determine whether the Conte d’Adinolfi was before, during, or after the Marchese de Migliore. Th—”

“You’re making my head ache,” Keating grunted. “And I still don’t see the point of reciting her residences or lovers.”

“I’ll leave you the list. Finish your tea. And think about it.” Halfway to the door, the duke paused. “There is no one so blind as he who thinks he doesn’t deserve to see.”

After Greaves left the room, Keating sat on the side of the bed and finished his cup of tea. The tea tray also had several pieces of toast, he discovered, and he slowly downed those along with a second cup.

Previous to his return to London he’d had more than a few mornings—or afternoons, rather—like this one, but even so he couldn’t remember when his skull had hurt quite this much. But then he’d evidently been drinking for better than two days. Generally he only had a single evening from which to recover.

Finally he stood up and went to find a cravat. Knotting it tightly around his forehead, he picked up Greaves’s list and cautiously inched one of the curtains aside until he could make out the writing.

Evidently Eleanor had been living better off his money than she—or his solicitor—had wanted him to know. Because not only had she resided in the cities Greaves had mentioned, she’d lived on well-appointed streets and in houses with names.

In addition, she seemed to have a new lover every few months, beginning with the moment she’d fled London. But then Eleanor had always disliked being left to her own devices.

While he didn’t much care that she’d lived well, he’d sent that money so she could see to nannies and tutors and clothes for the boy. Not so she could attend every soiree on the Continent over the past six years.

Keating frowned. Then he shoved the curtain open the rest of the way and read the carefully compiled list again, more carefully.

And then, swearing, he yanked on his boots and charged downstairs to order Amble saddled. Eleanor Howard had some bloody questions to answer. Before it was too late.

Chapter Twenty-one

Camille stirred the potatoes on her plate, wondering if food would be this tasteless from now on, or if it was only her nerves unsettling her appetite.

“You’ll be happy to know that Lord and Lady Clarkson will be attending the ceremony tomorrow,” her mother said. Lady Montshire’s appetite didn’t appear to be affected at all by her daughter’s impending nuptials. “As will your dear friend Amelia.”

“My dear friend who’s flung insults at me on every occasion for the past year?” Camille countered. “How delightful.”

“That’s enough of that,” Lord Montshire put in. “You should be grateful. At the least, you will refrain from being insolent and insulting.”

And to think, she’d agreed to have dinner with the family. Whatever she’d been thinking or imagining about a return to her old relationship with her parents and sisters, it would evidently have to wait until after the wedding. Which meant it wouldn’t be the same as it had once been at all.

“I’m only happy you’re going to marry Lord Fenton after all,” Joanna chirped. “I can’t imagine that anyone would wish to marry me knowing that the Pryce girls run away from their responsibilities.”

“I can only hope you find a man who adores you, and whom you adore in turn,” Camille said to her youngest sister. “Then you shan’t have any cause to wish to run away.”

Joanna cleared her throat. “I heard a rumor about your friend,” she said, grinning.

“Which friend?” If Joanna intended to gossip about Sophia or Lady Haybury, or anyone employed at The Tantalus Club, Camille meant to stop her. Immediately.

“Bloody Blackwood. I heard that Lady Balthrow arrived in London just after he did, and that they’ve taken up just where they left off when he killed her husband.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Camille,” her mother chastised. “Calm yourself. And Joanna, we do not speak about unacceptable persons at this table. You know that.”

Clearly Keating wouldn’t be welcome in Pryce House again. It didn’t matter, of course, since she wouldn’t be living here herself. He would always be welcome at her new home, whether his cousin wished to see him again or not, but she doubted Keating would ever come calling.

At least he was alive; Greaves’s note earlier in the day hadn’t said much other than that he’d found Keating, and that he was attempting to sober him up. It bothered her that he’d returned to drinking, but considering that she wished she had a bottle of whiskey herself, she supposed she could understand why he’d been tempted. She only hoped that he wouldn’t return to his old ways; he deserved to be happy and to forgive himself for a mistake he’d made six years ago.