Taming an Impossible Rogue (35 page)

In fact, she would write and tell him so. Surely corresponding would be acceptable to him. And even if she couldn’t see him or hear his voice, to read his thoughts and sentiments—it would be something, anyway.

“At least your wedding dress still fits you,” her mother went on, as if she’d banished everything unpleasant just by saying it would be so. “You’re costing us enough as it is.”

Camille frowned. “Why, are you bribing people to attend the ceremony?”

“Nonsense. Everyone wants to come.”

“I heard there’s a wager in the book at White’s over whether you run again or not,” Marie whispered. “One man wagered a hundred pounds that you won’t be in the church by the end of the wedding.”

“I can hear you, Marie,” their father snapped. “That’s enough.”

“Who is it?” Camille breathed.

“Lord Bram Johns, from what I heard. They say he never loses a wager.”

Camille didn’t know how much of that was fact and how much was embellishment on Marie’s part, but in an odd way it gave her some hope. At least someone thought she might escape the absolute dullness of the remainder of her life. If only Lord Bram Johns had mentioned what she would do after she fled.

“I only meant that you’ve cost us in friendships and reputation,” her mother said in a high voice, her cheeks reddening.

That seemed odd. Her mother was much better at self-righteous indignation. Fumbling and embarrassment over … over what? Money? A dowry, perhaps? “Have the terms changed for my dowry?” she asked aloud. “As I recall, last year it was two thousand pounds.”

“Which we paid to Lord Fenton, anyway. It was a Pryce who fled the wedding, after all.”

“And this time?”

“None of your affair, Camille. Just don’t embarrass us again.”

Something began tickling at the back of her mind. Clearly, though, she couldn’t ask or answer the questions she had here at the dinner table. She sent a sideways glance at Joanna. If anyone could be tricked or cajoled into discussing something the rest of the family seemed to want kept quiet, it would be her youngest sister.

What she might discover, she didn’t even want to think about. It would lead to too many other thoughts and easily dashed hopes. But she insisted on knowing precisely what arrangements had been made with Lord Fenton. She was done with being a naïve, oblivious bargaining chip.

She managed to down enough dinner to avoid more criticisms, and then made her way with the rest of the female family members to the upstairs sitting room. No one seemed to wish to talk about anything, which she understood, but which made learning the information she wanted even more difficult.

Finally she stood up. “Joanna, I had a necklace hidden in my bedchamber which I particularly wanted to give you.”

“Why was it hidden?” Joanna asked, while their mother frowned.

“Because it was precious to me. I thought to take it with me … after the wedding. The first time, that is. But now I’d like to give it to you.”

Once she’d left the room to find her old bedchamber, she only had to count to five before Joanna hurried into the hallway after her. “What does it look like?” the seventeen-year-old asked, grabbing her arm. “Is it pearls? I particularly want a pearl necklace.”

“It’s a surprise.”

Her bedchamber door was locked, but the key rested in the lock just below the handle. She hesitated before she opened it; she hadn’t been inside in what felt like forever, and evidently no one else spent any time in there, either. In fact, other than her wedding gown she hadn’t seen anything of hers emerge into the rest of the house.

The room was dark except for the pale moonlight squares on the wooden floor. Taking a breath, Camille retrieved a candle from the hallway before she ventured inside the room that had been her place for daydreams and reading mad adventures and sketching portraits of a Lord Fenton she’d never met. One who didn’t even exist.

“It’s dusty in here,” Joanna noted, stifling a sneeze.

“Someone needs to open it up and dust. And for heaven’s sake, someone could make use of the reading chairs and the writing desk.”

Joanna wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like reading. It’s dull.”

While her sister snooped through the bedchamber, Camille removed the key, quietly closed the door, and locked it again—this time from the inside. Then she pocketed the small brass key.

“What did Mama and Papa promise Fenton as a dowry?” she asked.

“You know I’m not supposed to tell you that. Where’s the necklace?”

“Technically it’s
my
dowry, Joanna. I want to know what I’m worth.” Or rather, what her hand with a ring on it was worth. The rest of her didn’t seem to matter all that much to anyone. Well, to anyone except Keating, the only one who was to be removed from her life.

Joanna faced her. Wrinkling her nose, she looked past Camille to the closed door. “There isn’t a necklace, is there?”

“You’ll only find out if you answer my question.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m learning to be so.” She preferred to think of it as taking more of a hand in her own destiny, but she didn’t much care what anyone else might call it. Not any longer. “Dowry, Joanna.”

“Oh, very well. Two bay coach horses and twelve thousand pounds. It had to be twelve, because Lord Fenton already promised ten of it to Bloody Blackwood. You know Blackwood tricked you into getting married to Fenton.”

“He didn’t trick me,” Camille returned, only half listening now. “I know all about it.”

The money for Keating wasn’t coming from Fenton. It was coming from her parents. For a bare moment she locked her knees against the urge to flee from the house and go find Keating. She would throw herself into his arms and never let him go. Fenton didn’t have the money. She didn’t need to marry him.

In the next instant, though, she realized that the information didn’t change anything. Her parents would give Fenton the money once she’d married him. Fenton would give Keating the money once she’d married him. In fact, the only thing it actually changed was the idea that Fenton had spontaneously decided he still wanted to marry her. It was far more likely that he’d approached her parents to ask how much money they would be willing to part with to have this scandal go away.

“You aren’t going to say anything to Mama or Papa, are you?” Joanna asked into the silence. “Because they’ll know I told you.”

“No, I won’t say anything. There’s no point to it.”

“Good.” Joanna took another turn about the room. “Is there a necklace?”

With a sigh, Camille went to her writing desk and pulled open one of the trio of drawers. She lifted out the box of pencils inside, and opened it. “Here.”

“Oh!” Joanna took it, her excited expression slowly folding in on itself. “It’s…”

“It’s clam shells. From the stream at Montshire. I used to pretend they were ivory and pearl. I made it when I was seven.”

“And why do you want me to have it?”

“It reminds me of dreams.”

“Oh,” Joanna said again. “If it’s so precious, I think you should keep it.” She handed it back.

Quite possibly it would be the only thing she had left of her childhood dreams. “Thank you. I will.” Camille carefully set it back into the pencil box and tucked the wooden container under her arm.

Once they’d returned downstairs, she could practically hear the seconds ticking away on the long case clock out in the foyer. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she stood up. “I should be going. I’ll have a busy day tomorrow, after all.”

Her father stood up. “We’re not going through that again.”

“Going through what?”

“You changing your mind the moment you’re out of earshot. Everything you need for tomorrow is here. You’ll spend the night with us, in Marie’s bedchamber. With Marie.”

Abruptly the house seemed to close in around her. “No. I’m expected back at The Tantalus Club. I haven’t said my good-byes yet.”

“Send them a note. Better yet,
I’ll
send a note to Lord Haybury. You embarrassed us once, Camille. I’m not so stupid that I’d allow it to happen again.”

But if she stayed, she couldn’t go find Keating. She couldn’t see him one last time or feel his warm hands on her skin. “No!”

“The more you argue, the more I’m convinced that you mean to do something to avoid getting married. Again. If you persist, I will lock you in the cellar. Now go up to bed. You’ll find nightclothes waiting for you.”

“And your wedding dress for tomorrow,” her mother put in, her expression tight and very, very determined.

Camille narrowed her eyes, wishing for once that she had the same temperament as Keating. Then she could punch her father in the nose and make her escape. But he’d warned her; if she argued further, she would be locked away with no chance even to send word about her discovery. “Very well,” she snapped. “But I will not forget this.”

She stomped back upstairs, Marie on her heels. “It’s not so bad, you know,” her sister said once she’d closed the bedchamber door. “We used to sleep in each other’s beds all the time.”

“You do realize you’ve been tasked with being my guard dog.”

“Which is why you must promise not to do anything foolish.”

While her sister changed into her night rail, Camille pulled a book off a shelf and sat down in front of the small fire. Hm.
Pride and Prejudice
again. It didn’t quite suit her mood any longer; all of Miss Austen’s heroines seemed to find husbands to love, and who loved them in return. Her own story wasn’t going to end nearly as happily.

“You need to go to sleep,” Marie said as she hopped into bed and pulled the covers up to her neck. “Brides aren’t supposed to have ugly circles under their eyes.”

“I don’t think it much matters,” Camille noted. “You get some sleep. I’m not tired yet.”

“Will your … friends worry over you?”

“Sophia will. And Emily. If Papa doesn’t send over a note he may find half a dozen disreputable chits on his doorstep.”

Marie giggled. “Mama would have an apoplexy.”

“I only hope some of them come to the wedding tomorrow.”

“You didn’t ask them!”

“I did.” Camille shrugged. “They’ll know how little wanted they are, however. I doubt they’ll make an appearance. It would be grand, though, since I don’t … I don’t know when I might see them again.” A tear threatened to spill over, and she willed it away. Tears wouldn’t help anything. And she didn’t want Marie staying awake to do something as absurd as attempting to comfort her.

“I heard that your club has ladies’ nights. Perhaps eventually Fenton might allow you to attend one.”

Camille refrained from pointing out that the ladies didn’t want to be attended by other women, and that only men worked on those two nights each month. It didn’t matter. “Perhaps,” she said aloud.

Not bothering to read, she sat slowly turning pages while she listened for her sister’s breathing to quiet. Finally she carefully set the book aside and stood. The entire house had fallen silent, early as it was. If she wanted to see Keating, now was the moment.

Silently she walked to the door of her sister’s bedchamber. She’d given her word, so she would return. But as far as she was concerned, what she did with the remainder of the night was her own affair.

“I knew it!” Marie sat straight up.

Camille jumped. “For heaven’s sake,” she gasped, putting a hand over her heart. “You frightened me half to death.”

“You’re going to run away again. And it will be my fault, because I’m in here with you.”

“Hush,” Camille ordered, stepping over to the bed. “I’m not running away. I need to give Mr. Blackwood a message.”

“Then write him a note. Smythe will see it delivered first thing in the morning.”

Panic touched her for the second time that evening. “That will be too late. He’s leaving for Shropshire before the wedding.”

“Then send it to Shropshire. I’m certain Papa would frank it for you.”

“Marie, just go to bed. I’ll be back before anyone wakes up. I promise.”

Scowling, Marie stood up and stalked over to her wardrobe. “I can’t do that. If you’re sneaking out to go see Bloody Blackwood for God knows what reason, I have to go with you.”

“What? No you don’t. I give you my word that I’ll come b—”

Marie pulled a dark blue dress on over her night rail. She scooped her long, blond hair into a knot and pinned it up, then faced Camille again. “Well? Let’s go. And hurry. I don’t want dark circles, even if you don’t care.”

So not only had she become some wanton, ruined woman, but now she was dragging her sister into trouble as well. Unless she decided to stay where she was. Camille frowned. Even if she couldn’t … be with Keating again, at least she could see him one last time. And that seemed more important than anything else she could ever conjure.

“Put on a wrap,” she whispered. “It’s cold outside.”

“You, as well.”

Taking the dark shawl from her sister, she pulled it over her shoulders. Then putting her finger to her lips, she opened the bedchamber door and crept down the stairs. The front door was locked, but if they hurried she could be back and have the house shut up again before any of the servants could rise and lock them out.

Outside she took Marie’s hand and hurried them down the street to the nearest main intersection. It was still early enough that people and carriages roamed the avenues, and it only took a moment to encourage a hack to stop for them.

“I’ve never been in a hack before,” Marie said in a hushed voice as Camille finished giving the address to Baswich House and shut the door. “It’s very … dirty.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Yes I did. Just remember that if you do anything foolish, you’ll ruin me, too.” Her sister’s brow furrowed. “You won’t do that, will you?”

“Of course not. I never wanted to hurt anyone in the first place. I only wanted to be in love.”

“But you’re marrying Fenton now. Do you love him? It didn’t look like it.”

“No, I don’t love Fenton.”

For a long moment Marie gazed at her. Then her blue eyes widened. “Bloody Blackwood? Oh, my heavens!” She put her hand over her mouth, as though trying to hold the words—and the thought—in. “But he’s … he’s a killer. And he’s dangerous.”