Taming an Impossible Rogue (5 page)

“So you’re commiserating.”

“Yes. We’re commiserating. And she invited me in.” He glanced down for a moment. “She also clubbed me in the head with a book, if that makes you more inclined to allow me about.”

The marquis’s jaw twitched. After a moment, he nodded. “Camille,” he said over his shoulder, “enjoy your luncheon. If Mr. Blackwood gives you any trouble, please inform me.”

The hostess curtsied. “Yes, my lord.”

Once Haybury left the room, the buzz of conversation resumed. Clearly not everyone who worked at The Tantalus Club was as ignorant of his past as Lady Camille had been. He detested being referred to as “Bloody Blackwood,” though at the same time the moniker was likely fairly apt. It was still an idiotic poem.

Camille returned to sit opposite him. “Do you mean to make trouble for me?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

“I do not.” Rolling his stiff shoulders, Keating took another bite of sandwich. “As you may have noticed, however,” he continued, keeping his voice cool and even, “I am frequently glared at and whispered about. Does that trouble you?”

After a long moment she lowered her head. “I thought I might be able to learn a lesson or two from you about keeping my spine stiff even with all the glaring. But perhaps this is a poor idea, after all.”

Damnation
. “More attention on me means less attention directed at you, does it not?”

“Or it could mean twice the attention I would warrant on my own.”

He leaned forward on his elbows. “Go walking with me tomorrow. It’s the only way to know for certain.”

Her guarded expression deepened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Cammy almost never leaves the property,” one of the ladies at the far end of the table offered. “Are you truly Bloody Blackwood?”

Keating began to consider that he might have been better off turning down his cousin’s request and remaining at home. “Yes, I am,” he said, sending the loudmouthed chit a glance that had her looking elsewhere.

Returning his attention to the young lady still seated opposite him, he swiftly reassessed the conversation. He knew he could be charming; what he hadn’t anticipated was that she would be skittish as a colt after her first snowfall. “We needn’t go tomorrow,” he revised, inwardly cursing himself. “Or if you’re worried over my intentions, bring some of your friends with you. I only thought a stroll would be pleasant.”

“It used to be,” she said in a voice so low he almost didn’t hear it. Lady Camille visibly shook herself. “I’m quite busy, but I shall inform you if I change my mind.”

He forced a smile. “Please do.” So his own reputation had doomed the venture before he’d even begun it. A man as cynical as he knew himself to be should have expected that. In a sense it was even amusing that a ruined chit found him too scandalous. In another sense, what he needed was a damned drink. Several of them.

Chapter Four

“He asked you to go walking with him?”

Camille nodded, finishing with the pins holding her hair in its simple bun at the top of her head. “I told him no, of course, but it was nice to be asked. Even by a notorious rogue.”

“He’s the one who told you he was a rogue.”

“I would have discovered that fact shortly, anyway.”

In the dressing mirror’s reflection she saw Sophia White blink light green eyes beneath long, curved lashes. “You know, I think his reputation is worse than yours, Cammy.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Camille put the rest of her toiletries back in the drawer of the dressing table she shared with the Duke of Hennessy’s illegitimate daughter.

Sophia had people looking askance at her as well, but at least she hadn’t done anything to warrant the tongue-wagging. Except come to work at a gentlemen’s club, of course. But Miss White had grown up with the sideways looks and muttering, and it had never seemed to bother her—until she came of age and discovered that no one wished to hire a governess born to an indiscreet duke and an upstairs maid.

“What I mean is, perhaps you
could
go walking with him as your companion,” Sophia pressed. “Everyone will stare, of course, but they won’t be staring at you. They’ll be staring at Bloody Blackwood.”

“Yes, that’s what he said.” Camille shuddered. Not at Keating Blackwood’s nickname, but at the thought of people staring. Oh, she hated that. The staring, the behind-hand whispers, were worse even than being given the cut-direct. “I would prefer to forgo the experience, whoever they might be chattering about.”

Sophia flopped backward onto her bed. “I don’t like being looked at askance, either, but I’ve learned to ignore it.”

Sinking onto the edge of the bed beside her friend, Camille shook her head. “The circumstances of your birth are not your fault, Sophia. You have no reason to pay attention to the spitting cobras outside.”

“Then your solution is to never venture beyond the walls of The Tantalus Club ever again? Ever?”

“Not until everyone forgets me, anyway.” Sighing, she stood again. “If you think me going outside is such a wonderful thing, then you go with me.”

“Very well.”

That stopped her exit from their shared bedchamber. “What?”

“You heard me. I’ll go for a walk if you go for a walk. With Keating Blackwood, that is. I’d like to meet someone more scandalous than I am. It’ll be interesting.”

Oh, dear.
Camille knew she was a coward; she only needed to remind herself about how long it had finally taken for her to stand up for herself to see it very clearly. And that certainly hadn’t gone well. But the other ladies here didn’t know about her faint heart. They’d embraced her when her own family had turned their backs. And she didn’t want her new friends deciding she wasn’t worth troubling themselves over.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll send Mr. Blackwood a note, then. And if anyone else wishes to join us, they are certainly welcome to do so.”

Sophia chuckled as she sat upright again. “Safety in numbers?”

“We’re the scandalous females of The Tantalus Club. I daresay we’ll have ladies of good breeding fainting left and right.”

There. That sounded brave. Sophia likely knew better, but out of everyone at the club, Camille trusted Miss White. Before she could change her mind she headed for the large upstairs common room and sat down to write out a note to Keating Blackwood. He’d said he was residing at Baswich House with the Duke of Greaves, and whatever her employer Lord Haybury seemed to think of the duke, she counted that as a mark in Blackwood’s favor. If he’d been staying with his cousin, the Marquis of Fenton, she wouldn’t have exchanged another word with him. And she likely would have hit him a second time.

The note finished, she delivered it downstairs to Juliet, the evening butleress. Venturing anywhere with this near stranger simply because she felt … drawn to him was likely a very poor decision, and by two minutes after the walk began tomorrow she was certain she would regret leaving the club’s grounds. At the same time, she hadn’t ventured down the street more than a dozen times since she’d been hired at The Tantalus Club. As much as she had always enjoyed long walks, the self-prescribed confinement over the past months had been nearly as difficult an adjustment as being away from her family and former friends. She’d lost both of the latter, but for heaven’s sake, perhaps she could manage a walk.

But simply because she’d agreed to go didn’t mean that she would leave her sanctuary without knowing everything she could about her prospective companion. He’d admitted to killing a man. If her mind had been functioning correctly, that would have sent her fleeing. His admitting it, though, and the sincere regret she’d heard in his voice … had set her more at ease. Not about the deed, but about the man. He hadn’t attempted to disguise it or lie about it or make it sound somehow acceptable.

Frowning, she went to find Pansy Bridger. At the same time she attempted to ignore the niggling warning in the back of her skull that she was once again being behindhand, waiting until it was too late to make up her mind about anything. She wanted to know precisely what lay in store for her if she was to be seen in public with Mr. Blackwood, and if anyone knew ill facts about every man in London, it was Pansy.

She found the petite brunette reading in the common room and sat in the chair opposite. “Pansy, may I ask you a question?”

Dark brown eyes glanced over the top of the book at her. “Have you ever read
Waverley
?”

“Of course I have. Most everyone says Walter Scott is the author, you know. I’m not certain why he bothered to publish anonymously.”

“And do you agree with the ending?” Miss Bridger pressed.

Camille paused. Over the past few months she’d become familiar with Pansy’s eccentricities, but even so, she wasn’t certain what her friend’s objection might be. “It’s based on a historical uprising,” she said carefully. “Surely my objection would be to the fact that a civil war happened at all.”

“Waverley marries Rose,” Pansy said flatly. “Patient, proper Rose.” She snapped the book closed. “I suppose Sir Walter couldn’t tolerate the idea of a man finding happiness with someone like Flora—for heaven’s sake, she’s interested in politics and she has a mind of her own.”

Ah
. “I think Rose is symbolic for peace and order,” Camille ventured, “whereas Flora is unrest and idealism. It’s not so much that they’re two women, as that they represent two diff—”

“I know what they represent,” Pansy cut in, scowling. “And I don’t like it. Logically a man should prefer an intelligent woman. I don’t care if it’s symbolic. It’s idiotic.”

Taking a short breath, Camille nodded. “
Ideally
a man should prefer an intelligent woman,” she countered. “Logically I think a man chooses to pursue the woman who would best … benefit him—either his mind, or his pocketbook, or his bed.”

Pansy pointed a finger at her. “That is well said. Now what was your question?”

She’d very nearly forgotten. “I was wondering what you knew of Keating Blackwood.”

Her friend’s frown deepened. “I know the poem, and I know he’s been in exile in Shropshire for the past six years.” Her furrowed brow smoothed. “‘Too many nights philandering, / Too much whiskey, too much gaming. / Whichever lady caught his eye, / He had no trouble claiming,’” she recited.

That sounded ominous. “Any further details?”

“Oh, yes. The victim was the Viscount of Balthrow. Blackwood was arrested for it, but the court said he had only acted to defend himself.” She snorted. “I should think he would have to defend himself, after Lord Balthrow caught him in flagrante delicto with Lady Balthrow.” She shrugged. “As I recall reading about it, though, Blackwood returned home and Balthrow pursued him, so by law Balthrow was the aggressor.”

So he had told the truth about the circumstances of the fight between himself and the viscount. It still didn’t make Camille feel any easier about being seen chatting with him in public. The two of them together were likely to set wagging tongues aflame. “Thank you,” she said, noticing that Pansy still looked at her.

“I heard that he spoke to you, Cammy. He’s awful, you know. Worse than men who marry to gain money or position. He only cares for one part of a woman. The rest is inconsequential to him.”

“We only exchanged words, Pansy. There’s no need to worry.”

“Good. I’m only trying to prevent you from being further wounded.”

“And thank you for that.”

Camille stood again, and returned to the club’s foyer. As far as Pansy was concerned, no man had anything positive to offer
any
woman, but her information at least seemed legitimate. Time for her to change her mind a second time about going for a stroll with Bloody Blackwood—before it was too late. Cammy stood back as the butleress welcomed a small party of gentlemen into the club, then approached her.

“I sent your note off,” Juliet said. “No need to fret; I’ll inform you as soon as there’s a reply.”

Damnation.
The note was likely already in Mr. Blackwood’s hands, then. Fighting abrupt panic, she thanked Juliet and hurried up the stairs again. Well, she’d made her decision to go walking with him based on her … perception of him rather than the facts of his past. That seemed the more upright road to travel, whether she’d acted rashly or not. Camille stifled a sigh. Acting rashly had yet to net her anything but pain. Now she could only wonder whether she’d just made the same mistake once again.

*   *   *

Keating didn’t bother to look up as someone pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. Instead he concentrated on pouring the dregs remaining in the whiskey bottle into his glass. Spilling any of the liquid would be a tragedy.

“I manage to secure you a guest membership to The Tantalus Club, and you decide to spend your evening at Jezebel’s?” the Duke of Greaves’s low drawl came after a moment.

“I like it here,” Keating returned. “It’s dark, and it stinks of liquor and sweat and tallow.”

“And urine. Yes, it’s delightful. Was that bottle full when you received it?”

Finally he looked up to see dark gray eyes assessing him. “I don’t require a nanny, Adam,” he said.

“I’m merely curious,” the duke stated.

“Curious enough to venture into Jezebel’s yourself. Not precisely your typical haunt any longer, is it? Don’t trail after me. I don’t like it.”

“I see that.” The duke, though, remained seated. “May I ask you a question?”

“No.”

“Very well. I will only suggest that you keep in mind the fact that you’re not in some tavern in Shropshire, and that if you dislike that poem, you should not live up to its poorly written rhymes.” Greaves stood. “Oh, and this arrived for you earlier.” He dropped a note onto the table. A moment later he vanished in the direction of the door.

Keating looked after him. “Yes, well, remind me sometime to tell you what Haybury said about you,” he muttered. A bit too late for a timely retort, but he would attempt to remember it for next time. After all, if he couldn’t manage to set one former friend against another, what good was he?

As he reached across the table and dragged the note toward him, he noticed—not for the first time—that despite the crowd at the gaming hell, a good ten feet of space remained between him and the nearest patrons. For a moment it was as if the past six years had never happened; he was that idiotic … boy, one-and-twenty years old and so full of piss and vinegar that he couldn’t be bothered to pay any heed to anyone.