Taming an Impossible Rogue (6 page)

A warm hand slid down his shoulder. “I know who you are,” came a sultry whisper, and then a warm tongue licked the curve of his ear. “Come prick me, my dear, and I’ll let you in for free.”

He glanced up at the source of the tongue. Jezebel’s wasn’t anything like The Tantalus Club. The young ladies who were employed here weren’t known for their education or their conversation or even their pretty faces. They were known for being inexpensive and willing. “What’s your name, love?” he asked, noticing for the first time that his words were slurring.

“Lizzy, unless you’d care to call me something else. Eleanor, perhaps?”

Keating’s hand was around her windpipe almost before he realized it. Slamming to his feet, he held her close, the tips of her toes just barely touching the dirty floor. “What was that?” he murmured.

She clawed at his fingers. “Nothing, sir … I ain’t … said nothing,” Lizzy croaked.

He released his grip and pushed, shoving her onto the lap of the surprised man seated behind her. “I thought not.” Remembering the note at the last minute, he picked it up and shoved it into his pocket before he strode out of the club. Behind him the jackals were already yapping.

Inebriated as he was, he still realized that he’d been fortunate. Instead of a notoriety-seeking whore, he might just as easily have been approached by a friend of the late Lord Balthrow. As Greaves had warned him—too late, of course—London wasn’t Shropshire. Attempting not to stagger as he made his way into the street, he hailed a hack and gave the driver the address for Baswich House.

Once he was settled in the bouncing, rackety coach, he pulled the note from his pocket and unfolded it. He had to blink hard to clear his vision, and then found that the interior of the hack was too dim for him to be able to read the thing. Finally he pressed the note up against the window. With the flickering lamplight outside, he slowly deciphered the pretty, looping letters.

“‘Mr. Blackwood,’” he muttered to himself, “‘I have considered your offer, and my friend Sophia White and I will be pleased to go walking with you on Wednesday. Please meet us at The Tantalus Club at two o’clock, or if you are unable, send me word to that effect. Kind regards, Camille Pryce.’”

For a long moment he looked at the last block of words on the heavy vellum. “Kind regards.” He touched them with his finger. They didn’t rub away. How long had it been since anyone had sent him that sentiment? Seven years? Eight?

Oh, good God.
Keating punched his fist into his thigh, none too gently. Next he would have tears welling in his eyes. Drinking this much was worse than foolish, especially here. Especially when he had a task to accomplish. He needed that ten thousand pounds. Not for himself. For what his idiocy had created. For what he’d done to Eleanor Balthrow and what she’d had to hide from London. From him. From everyone.

Luckily the hack lurched to a halt before he could begin weeping, and he stumbled onto the Baswich House front drive. He tossed a coin of some unknown value to the driver, and whatever it was it made the fellow tip his hat as he drove down the street.

Adam’s butler, Hooper, pulled open the front door before he could pound on it. Instead he nearly fell on his face into the foyer. Grabbing onto the small bench against the wall, he righted himself again.

“Shall I send Pidgeon up to you, Mr. Blackwood?” the butler asked, his face a mask of solemn propriety.

“No. I’ll see to myself.” Halfway to the stairs, he paused. “Is Greaves here?”

“His Grace returned just moments ago.”

“Had he been gone long?”

“His Grace spent the evening in, sir.”

“When did that note arrive for me?”

“Just before dusk, sir.”

So Adam had decided to wait better than six hours—until he’d demonstrated that he meant to stay out all night drinking—before delivering it to him. Apparently he
did
have a nanny, unlikely a one as Adam Baswich made. Considering that the news was good, he was willing to overlook his friend’s hovering. This once. Because generally he believed he should be left to wallow in the hole he’d dug for himself. No one else needed to be muddied on his account.

He didn’t recall making his way up to the private rooms Adam had given over to him, and he didn’t remember shedding his clothes or falling onto the bed. In fact, his next conscious thought was that he was going to punch his valet in the nose if Pidgeon didn’t stop tapping him on the shoulder. “Bugger off,” he muttered, “or you’re sacked.”

“I don’t work for you.”

Keating forced open one eye. “Bugger off, anyway.”

The Duke of Greaves picked up a pitcher of water and threw it on him.

Cursing, Keating shot to his feet. Shock and throbbing pain in his head both hit him at the same time. With a growl he launched himself at the duke.

Greaves sidestepped, and Keating crashed to the floor. Before he could stumble back to his feet, Adam put a booted foot on the small of his back. “Stay down,” he said evenly.

“I was down, damn it all. In bed. Now I’m on the bloody floor.”

“You know, I can’t decide whether you prefer hitting, or being hit.” The boot heel dug into his back. “You aren’t precisely prime at the moment.”

“I’m not the one who threw water on me.” Keating uttered another epithet. “Get your foot off me, or you’ll find out firsthand.”

The weight came off his back. “Pidgeon tried to wake you earlier,” Greaves commented, moving backward. “I’m here because it’s past noon, and I believe you have an appointment at two o’clock.”

The angry retort Keating had been about to make stopped in his throat. “How far past noon?”

“It’s twenty minutes of one. I had a bath drawn in your sitting room. Use it. There’s tea and sugar and toasted bread in there. Do I need to dress you as well?”

Sitting upright, Keating leaned back against the side of the bed. “No.” He drew a tight breath. “Thank you, Adam.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m all for creating mischief.” He walked to the door. “I’ll send in Pidgeon at one o’clock.”

Once the door closed, Keating swiped a hand through his dripping hair. At least it was water. There were times, a few years ago, when he’d awakened in worse. He couldn’t even count the number of times he’d told himself that he needed to stop drinking to such excess. Previously he’d always managed to take care of his duties as a landowner regardless of—or in spite of—his fondness for drunken oblivion.

Now, however, he had a woman’s trust to gain, with ten thousand pounds at risk. And his head felt ready to pound straight off his neck. Of all the things he felt ready to do, being charming wasn’t one of them. “Damnation,” he mumbled, pushing to his feet and belatedly realizing that he was stark naked.

He stifled a rueful chuckle. That must have given Adam a start. To his friend’s credit, the duke had awakened him, anyway. Not bothering to find a robe, he walked the short distance down the hallway to his sitting room. An upstairs maid shrieked and fled down the stairs, but other than his porcupine hair and beard stubble he didn’t see what was so frightening. Unless she’d been overwhelmed with desire at the sight of his cock, of course.

Though he’d half expected the cast-iron bath to be full of icy water, it was pleasantly warm and steaming. After fifteen minutes of alternating sweet tea and submersion, he began to feel slightly less murderous. That was when it occurred to him that the Duke of Greaves had read his private correspondence.

“Sir?” Pidgeon’s voice came from the door as it cracked open. “His Grace said you would require attire appropriate for strolling. Do you wish the black trousers, or the buckskin breeches?”

“The buckskins. And the new Hoby’s. And the black superfine coat. That looks gentlemanly, doesn’t it?”

He could almost hear the valet blink. “Yes, sir. I believe it does.”

“Quickly, if you please. I don’t wish to be late.”

The door closed again, with a thud that made him wince. So he could dress like a gentleman; the question was whether he could behave like a gentleman. And the answer was that he could, and would, because he had to. Stuffing a slice of toasted bread into his mouth, Keating stood and stepped out of the bath. He toweled himself dry and dressed as soon as Pidgeon reappeared with his clothes.

He supposed he owed Adam additional thanks, but that would mean admitting aloud that he’d needed the duke’s assistance. Instead he went out to the stable while the groom saddled Amble, and then rode off at a cautious, mostly jolt-free walk to The Tantalus Club.

Just as he was beginning to consider that he had no idea where one went to pay a social call on the employees of … of anything, he caught sight of Lady Camille at the side of the carriage drive, a pretty, redheaded chit standing beside her. He took a deep breath, attempting to ignore the tingle that shot up his spine all the way to his fingertips at the mere thought that she’d defied her better judgment to be seen in his company. Swiftly he dismounted and sent Amble off with one of the club’s stableboys.

“Good afternoon,” he said, deciding that bowing would both be inappropriate and would cause his head to explode.

“Mr. Blackwood.” Camille nodded at him. “This is my good friend, Miss White. Sophia, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Keating, please,” he said, taking the other chit’s hand. “Do you ladies have a destination in mind?”

“Green Park,” Camille answered, directly on the tail of his question.

Traditionally those wanting to be seen strolled through Hyde Park, particularly in the afternoon. Interesting. “Green Park it is,” he said aloud, offering an arm to each of the ladies. “I’ll purchase us ices, if you wish.”

“Oh, it’s been ages since I’ve had a lemon ice,” Miss White commented with a smile, wrapping her fingers around his sleeve.

On his left side, however, Camille stood looking at his elevated forearm. “Is something amiss?” he asked. “Do I have an insect crawling on me?”

“No. It’s only that I agreed to a walk. Not to doing something that would make my situation even worse.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you smell like liquor.”

Keating looked at her. She made a damned good point. And he liked the way she scrunched up her nose. It was … fetching. “I bathed,” he said, attempting not to sound affronted. “But I promised I wouldn’t make things worse for you.” He glanced at the lady on his other side. “I’m afraid you’ll have to release me. If I can’t escort both of you, it’ll look as if I’m courting one of you.”

With a brief smile he nearly missed, Camille started off down the street. He strode after her, not waiting to see if Miss White kept pace. In a moment he’d caught up to his cousin’s almost-bride. She’d donned a large, pale blue bonnet, which served to deepen the color of her light azure eyes.

“What changed your mind?” he asked, slowing as he drew even with her.

“Sophia offered to join me. And … I’ve had a shortfall of friendships lately. I decided it would be absurd to turn my back on a possible friend because he is potentially of dubious character.”

“I’m flattered, I think.”

Another swift grin. “I do have one request, however.”

“That I stay at least twenty feet distant from you?” Keating suggested, keeping his expression still. For God’s sake, he’d heard the poem; a chit’s censure could hardly injure him.

“Honesty,” she said.

“Beg pardon?”

“Honesty. I am here because you told me precisely who you are. Don’t ever lie to me, Mr. Blackwood, or I shall decide that we actually do not have anything in common.”

He nodded, something dark and heavy breaking loose in his chest. What that sensation was, he would debate later. “I agree. As long as you do me the same courtesy.”

“Then we have an accord.”

Keating glanced at the park coming into view ahead of them. “Shall we shake hands, then?”

The redheaded lady made a sound behind them very like a snort. Let her laugh; it was thanks to Sophia White that Camille had joined him today. He felt rather kindly toward her at the moment.

Camille held out her right hand. Resisting the odd, abrupt urge to first wipe his own palm against his thigh, Keating gripped her warm fingers. As long as she never asked precisely why he’d returned to London, everything would proceed swimmingly. Of course he’d broken his word before, but at this moment, he hoped he wouldn’t have occasion to do so with Camille Pryce.

Chapter Five

Even though Sophia seemed to be of the opinion—erroneous though it was—that she was serving as a chaperone to her two companions, Camille kept dragging her up to Keating’s other side. They were three … friends, strolling through Green Park, and in her case, at least, hoping desperately that no one else noticed them.

She took a deep breath. While it had been over a year since she’d strolled Mayfair’s parks with a very different set of friends, it felt even longer ago than that. The sounds of London faded to the distance, replaced by the singing of birds and the dull rush of wind through the treetops. Peace. Slowly the tight muscles across her shoulders loosened, and she lifted her gaze above their immediate surroundings.

Beside her the much more lively Sophia was chatting with Mr. Blackwood about hats, of all things. For these few moments, at least, she could feel … untroubled. Her fingers brushed against Keating’s black coat, and she shook out the sudden warmth that tingled through them. If anyone had ever told her that one day she would be grateful to a confessed killer, she wouldn’t have believed it. And yet, standing there in the middle of Green Park with leaf-mottled sunlight making bright patches on her soft blue walking dress, she
did
feel grateful.

“How long has it been since you’ve been for a stroll?” Keating asked quietly.

Camille blushed. She hadn’t realized she was so transparent. “A year. That’s not what matters, though. It’s just very pretty today.”

“It is, indeed.”

She sent him a sharp glance, but his gaze was on a pair of squirrels bouncing from one tree to another. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Had she expected a compliment? Did she expect that he might have something nefarious in mind for her? The answer to both questions was a firm
no,
of course. “Do you go walking frequently?” she queried, attempting to be social.