Taming an Impossible Rogue (7 page)

“I grow wheat and have a number of cattle and sheep,” he returned easily. “I’m out of doors nearly every day.”

“You tend them yourself?”

“I prefer to.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’ve become a monk or some such. I do employ servants. And several men who also work out of doors with me, in addition to fellows who hire themselves out at harvest and calving time.”

“Not what I would have expected from someone who had a poem written about him.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I didn’t write the poem.”

“Cammy, steady,” Sophia said abruptly from just beyond him.

At the same moment Camille heard the telltale chatter of women approaching them. Before she could head in the opposite direction, five young ladies came into view around the hedgerow. “Earlier warning would have been nice,” she muttered at Sophia.

“I didn’t hear them earlier,” her friend whispered back. “Let’s just go.”

“Did I miss something?” Keating broke in, frowning.

“No. They merely … say things I don’t like to hear. I should be getting back, anyway.”

“Ah.” To her surprise, Keating took her arm, and then Sophia’s. “Watch this.”

Short of yanking her arm bodily out of his grip, she seemed to be trapped. Camille
felt
trapped, being dragged toward her worst nightmare. Heavens, she even recognized two of them. One had been a dear friend, until—until she’d upended her own life.

“Stop,” she hissed, putting as much authority into that word as she could.

They kept moving.

At less than a dozen feet distant from the five young ladies, Blackwood released her. Then, just as Amelia Danning’s pretty face, framed in its usual bouncing black curls, began to sneer out the syllables of her name, her escort surged forward.

“Ladies,” he exclaimed, and, grabbing Amelia’s shoulders, he tugged her forward and kissed her full on the mouth. He released her so quickly she stumbled, and then he repeated the action with Olivia Harden. Screeching, the girls fled like a flock of terrorized chickens. In a moment they were alone again, except for the other strollers on the fringes who all stared at Keating and muttered to each other. She was certain she could hear a chorus of “Of age but one-and-twenty, / By three years in Town he’d burned, / All his candles, all his bridges, / His friends and family spurned.”

“What the devil was that?” she demanded, glaring at him.

“I’ll wager you a thousand pounds that no one here is gossiping about you, Camille Pryce,” he said with a jaunty grin that didn’t touch his light brown eyes.

“But … but what happens when the angry papas come after you?”

“I don’t think they’d dare.” He motioned for her to continue along the path with him. “Shall we?”

Well. He had the reputation for being a notorious rogue, and he’d certainly just looked like one. But he hadn’t scandalized her former friends because of his own lack of character. He’d done it to protect her.

With all the upset her actions had caused, she felt like the largest blot on the landscape of Mayfair. It was odd to realize that she’d stumbled across the one person whose reputation and standing were more damaged than hers. And even stranger was the idea that having him about might offer her some respite from those stares and sneers. Yes, they would still be scowling, but they wouldn’t be doing it at her.

Sophia made a snorting sound, and Camille realized that her friend was laughing. “What’s so amusing?”

“I don’t know those girls,” the illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Hennessy returned, chuckling, “but I imagine none of them has ever been so surprised and scandalized in her entire life.”

“I should hope not,” Keating put in. “I’d hate to think all that effort went for nothing.”

“What effort? You merely pursed your lips and walked forward in their direction.”

“I had to steel myself for the contact. Virgins and I generally avoid each other. Something about heaven and hell and the fires of damnation.”

“And what about merely strolling with a pair of young innocent misses?” Camille asked, grinning despite herself.

“With limited physical contact, we should be safe.” Reaching over, he tugged on the brim of her bonnet. “Tell me that wasn’t fun.”

The most fun was the realization that this man who’d crossed her path just yesterday had already shown himself to be more her ally than her parents, her sisters, or any of her previous “friends” had been in over a year.

She had thought that she’d used the last bit of her luck and fortune in finding The Tantalus Club advertisement for hostesses on the same day she’d found herself down to her last shilling at a disapproving relative’s house in Chatham. And then she’d found other young ladies whose unique and frequently scandalous pasts made them her compatriots and allies and friends. And now she’d found Keating Blackwood.

“I am cautiously amused,” she conceded. “If I knew for certain
why
you seem willing to take the blows meant for me, I would even be tempted to remove the modifier from that sentence.”

A slow smile curved his mouth, and this time his eyes twinkled. “Then we’ll have something to discuss when we go driving tomorrow afternoon, won’t we?”

*   *   *

Keating resisted the urge to wipe the lingering taste of virginal affront from his mouth as he rode back to Baswich House. Six years ago the females’ papas might indeed have come after him with torches and muskets. Being Bloody Blackwood, however, offered him a kind of protection he’d never anticipated. And apparently he was expected to misbehave to a certain degree.

At least those chits wouldn’t be wagging their tongues about Camille Pryce tonight. Of course Fenton might prefer if they did; any additional incentive to drive her back to the altar would undoubtedly please the marquis. Keating scowled. That likely should have occurred to him before he decided to attempt being a hero. Or his idea of one, anyway.

Hooper informed him that Greaves was attending meetings in Parliament, so he made his way up to his friend’s generous library to answer the correspondence from Fredericks, his estate manager. It was the first time in six years that Fredericks had had actual duties to see to, but the old fellow had also managed Havard’s Glen for thirteen years before that, when he’d had no guidance at all.

The liquor tantalus beneath the library’s center window glinted in the late afternoon sun, but he turned his back on the damned thing and went to find a book. He’d nearly missed his last second chance today because of his drinking. And apparently he smelled of liquor.

Dropping into a chair, Keating lifted his arm and smelled his sleeve. All he could detect was the faint scent of lemons from where the red-haired chit, Sophia White, had grasped his arm. He opened his coat and inhaled again, but perhaps he was too saturated with whiskey to be able to detect it himself.

“What are you doing?”

The Duke of Greaves sank into a neighboring chair, then reached over to pluck the book from Keating’s hands.
“Pride and Prejudice
?
”
He lifted an eyebrow. “When did you begin reading romantic fiction?”

“Five minutes ago.” Keating retrieved the book and snapped it shut. Wherever his search for insights into Camille Pryce might bring him, he wasn’t about to share any of it with Adam Baswich. “What are your plans this evening?”

“I’ve been asked to a dinner party by Lord and Lady Clarkson. I would suggest that you join me, but considering you assaulted their daughter this afternoon, you might do better to remain away.”

“Ah. Which one was she?”

“The one with black, curling hair.”

“Good to know, then.”

Silence. At the same time, he could practically hear the duke’s razor-sharp mind debating, assessing, plotting. “Very well,” Greaves finally said. “Don’t tell me what the devil you think you’re about. Don’t tell me why you talk about making a new start in the morning, and then become some sort of kissing bandit in the afternoon. In return, I won’t tell you to stop behaving like an ass before the entire House of Lords tars and feathers you.”

Pushing to his feet, Keating tucked the borrowed book beneath his arm. “Fair enough. In fact, in thanks for your fairness,
I
will refrain from mentioning your … rather colorful past.”

“Good.”

“It’s amazing how much menace you’re able to put in a single word, my friend,” Keating returned mildly. If he hadn’t been far beyond caring, he might have found it off-putting. “As for tonight, I think I’ll step out for an early dinner at The Tantalus Club and then retire for the evening.”

“You— Oh.” Greaves cleared his throat. “Do you have any suggestions, then, about how I should answer Clarkson’s demand for your head on a platter?”

“Tell him there’s a queue for that, and I’m likely to be dead long before his turn comes ’round.”

“That might suffice. By the way, I’m going to spend the day at Tattersall’s tomorrow. Care to join me?”

“I have an engagement.” Nor did he have the blunt to purchase any horses. He headed up toward his borrowed rooms to change for dinner.

“You know if something’s afoot you can discuss it with me, Keating.”

He slowed, but didn’t turn around. “Nothing’s afoot, Adam. But thank you. And I’ll attempt to be gone from London before the masses begin calling at your door for my execution.”

Camille’s book of choice kept his interest until well after dark. That Darcy seemed a bit stiff, but he definitely had his eye on the correct Bennett sister. Finally he stretched and sent for Pidgeon to find him something to wear to dinner. In Shropshire he’d ignored invitations—such as they were—until the other area residents stopped sending them. Consequently he hadn’t had much need for proper evening attire, and he was already feeling the lack. As much as it pained him and his purse, he was going to have to purchase some additional clothes.

As he finished tying his cravat, the butler knocked at the half-open bedchamber door. “Mr. Blackwood, you have a caller.”

Keating lowered a brow. “Male, or female?”

“Male.”

That couldn’t be good. “Is he armed?”

The butler blinked. “No, sir. It’s the Marquis of Fenton.”

Taking a deep breath, Keating finished dressing. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Very good, sir.”

As a finishing touch he tucked the slim dagger he always carried into his right Hessian boot. Then, with a swift, reluctant glance at the bottle of whiskey sitting on his dressing table, he descended the stairs. Hooper gestured him toward the morning room, then vanished into the depths of the house. Adam had some very discreet servants.

Keating pushed open the morning room door. “Hello, cousin.”

Fenton was dressed for an evening out as well, though they couldn’t possibly be headed for the same club. After all, the marquis had been banned from The Tantalus Club. His cousin turned from inspecting the clock on the mantel. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to dinner.”

“It’s far too late for you to play at being innocent, Keating. You are here to convince Camille Pryce to return to me. Not to make matters worse.”

“I know why I’m here. And I told you to leave the details to me.” He frowned. “What did you hear?”

“That you’re terrorizing Green Park, kissing every virtuous young lady who crosses your path!”

Well, that sounded like something he would have done—six years ago. “With whom was I strolling, anyway?”

“I don’t give a damn who was with you. There are enough people who know of our kinship that I won’t have you rolling in the mud and dragging me down with you.”

“Interesting. For your information, I was out walking with your betrothed. We crossed paths with her former friends, and I stopped them from beginning any additional gossip.” There. It sounded like that was what he’d intended, anyway. And nothing in heaven or hell would convince him to admit that all he’d been thinking of was the hurt, wary look in Camille Pryce’s pretty blue eyes.

Fenton took a step toward him. “You managed to pry her out of that damned club?”

“I did.”

“You should have informed me. I might have stumbled across you by accident, before you transformed into a public menace.”

“I was already a public menace, and I told you to leave this to me. Now go away before someone sees that you’ve been here and
you
ruin
my
reputation.”

Clear annoyance on his face, Stephen nodded. “Very well. But promise me you’ll stop doing that. I asked you to be discreet.”

“I am being very discreet about you and Camille. If you think to instruct me on how to go about the remainder of my life, save your breath.”

His cousin glared at him. “If you expect your reward, I expect you to do as I’ve asked. Camille Pryce has caused me a great deal of embarrassment. I suppose you did well in stopping more gossip from beginning, but you’re here to see she learns a lesson about the perils of defying propriety.”

“I know why I’m here,” Keating snapped. “What I don’t know is why you’re still here. Leave.”

With a last scowl Fenton stomped out to the foyer, where Hooper had miraculously reappeared just in time to pull open the front door. “Don’t play about with me, Keating. I’ve run out of patience.”

Keating reached past the butler to slam the door closed. “Idiot,” he muttered, then had to pace the hallway for five minutes while he waited for his cousin to be well away from Baswich House. There was nothing worse than putting a satisfying exclamation on a conversation and then having to continue on with it because of ill timing.

Finally he went out to fetch Amble and then rode to The Tantalus Club. Since he was only being admitted because he was Greaves’s guest, he likely should have made certain the duke was with him, but Greaves belonged to at least half a dozen other clubs in addition to the dozens of people who for some reason liked to schedule meetings with him. Keating couldn’t very well accomplish what he needed to in one morning or one evening a week.

Camille wasn’t seating members. Rather, it was the lively redhead. “Good evening, Sophia,” he said, smiling as he stopped at the podium they’d put beside the Demeter Room doorway.