Taming an Impossible Rogue (32 page)

“Camille,” her father muttered, his gaze on the list of wines set on the table, “you do this every evening?”

“I have Sundays and every other Tuesday free, and usually I work in the mornings. I’ve been … working less, so when someone needs an evening off, I stand in for them.”

“But who are these other women? You
live
with them?”

“We are all sisters here, my lord. For many of us, this was a last chance before complete desperation.” Another trio of gentlemen walked into the room, and she took a step backward. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have my duties to see to.”

Sophia caught her arm as they walked across the dining room. “Did you know they were coming here?” she whispered.

“I had no idea. And I’m not certain why they did so. If they meant to embarrass me into leaving, I won’t—”

“You know you can’t be a marchioness and work here. Not unless you’re Lady Haybury and own the establishment.”

“I know that. But I’m not walking away from a bed and an income until I have somewhere else to go.”

“You could go home.”

To her surprise, she felt tears in her eyes. Swiftly she rubbed at her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose until the sensation went away. “This is home.”

“Oh, stop it, Cammy. You’ll make me cry.” Sophia hugged her arm. “I’m happy for you. Not many of us get to come here and then be offered more.”

Yes, she was supposed to be grateful for a second chance. When Keating had first delivered the news, the thought that those glances and mutterings would stop had seemed a delirious dream. In the midst of all her wishes that things could be the way they used to be, however, she’d discovered something in an entirely new and unexpected direction.

Keating, though, needed something more than she could give him. Yes, her parents were wealthy, but she’d been cut off the moment she’d left her own wedding. And the only way she could help him was to return to Fenton. It was a very small sacrifice, really. After all, she would have everything she wanted. With one notable, heartrending exception.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Sophia asked.

Camille shook herself, and a daydream of the impossible splintered into nothing. “I think they’re setting a date for the wedding. And they want me to know it—though I’m not certain why they think I would be surprised. I agreed to it, after all.”

“And what about Keating?”

Reaching the podium, Camille flipped through the notes in the daily book. “I don’t want to talk about him. Not out here.”

“Of course. But I think I’m going to procure a bottle of whiskey for later.”

Camille forced a smile. “A very good idea.”

“Yes, I know.”

For two hours she attempted to avoid the table by the garden window without appearing to do so. What a difference from the first time a date had been set for her wedding to Fenton. Back a year ago she’d been so excited she could barely sit still, drawing sketches of the flowers and the ribbons she wanted for the church, imagining how romantic it would be when Stephen Pollard finally arrived on her doorstep to introduce himself.

Now all she cared about was that Keating would have his money—in which case the sooner the event took place, the better. On the other hand, once she married she wouldn’t see him again. He might be Fenton’s cousin, but she had the feeling that he didn’t attend family holidays. Or he wouldn’t after this, at any rate.

“A word with you,” her father said from behind her.

She turned around to see him and Fenton.
Oh, dear
. A shiver went through her. With a nod she led the way through the crowded foyer and out to the front drive. “I only have a moment.”

“Very well. Your wedding will take place in a week, on Saturday the eighteenth. That should shorten both the anticipation and give you too little time to change your mind again.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“Even so. I’ve applied for a special license from Canterbury. We’re making arrangements to let a small church in Knightsbridge, and we will decide the guest list. Only afterward will all financial considerations be settled.” Her father glanced at Fenton. “Is there anything you wish to add?”

“No, my lord. Only that I’m pleased we could come to this agreement. For all our sakes.”

And what little hope she’d had for a bit of romance crumbled into dust. “Very well,” she said aloud. “I’ll give my notice to Lady Haybury for the seventeenth.”

“You should leave now. There’s no need.” The marquis frowned. “Everyone sees you here.”

“You’ve made your arrangements, and these are mine. Now I need to return to my station. Excuse me.”

She turned away swiftly, so they wouldn’t see the tears overflowing her eyes. This would be the second time her wedding would be the saddest day of her life. Only this time she had so much more to lose.

*   *   *

“Explain something to me,” the Duke of Greaves commented as he took a seat in his large, lush barouche.

“This again? What?” Keating wasn’t much in the mood for questions, but considering that Greaves was missing a session at the House of Lords to eat sandwiches on the grass, he supposed he owed his friend a conversation.

“Camille Pryce.”

“No.”

Greaves lifted an eyebrow. “I haven’t asked my question yet.”

“I’m not talking about her. Choose another topic.”

“We’re going to retrieve her and her friend what’s-her-name from the Tantalus. Are you going to ignore her, or just not talk about her?”

“Sophia,” Keating supplied.
Damnation.
He supposed the questions would come sooner or later. Best work out his replies now, so he’d have them memorized the first time he became too drunk to summon an original thought. “What do you want explained, then?”

“You’ve given her to Fenton, yes?”

“I’ve returned her to Fenton.”

“In exchange for money.”

“A great deal of money.”

Adam eyed him. “And she’s willing to go.”

“Wouldn’t you be, if you’d spent the past year or so ruined? She’s a lady. And while she might have made friends at her club, I very much doubt she would choose to live the remainder of her life surrounded by rogues and roués.”

“Meaning you.”

With a scowl, Keating turned to view the street as they passed by. “I suggest you stop attempting to decipher me before I attempt to thrash you for it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And I notice you aren’t disagreeing with my assessment of her situation.”

“I’m still doing my own assessing.”

“Keep it to yourself, then.”

“The eighteenth. That’s four days from now.”

“Yes. I have a calendar.”

Greaves sighed audibly. “This should be pleasant,” he muttered, just loud enough for Keating to hear him.

Keating supposed he might have made an attempt to be more pleasant and to explain that of course he
wanted
to keep Camille in his life, craved her presence and her touch, but that logically she would simply be better off elsewhere. Early on she’d made it quite clear what made her happy—and that was friends and luncheons and dances and strolls where no one looked askance at her.

He had his own reason for seeing her married to Fenton, of course, and the question of what he was willing to give up in exchange for a faceless boy and a mistake he’d made six years ago had kept him from sleep for the past week. For him it was a miasma without a positive outcome—so all he could do was arrange for her to be happy.

“One more question.”

Shaking himself, he looked back at his friend. “Good God.”

“Do I know that she’s agreed to marry Fenton, or am I ignorant?”

“It was in the newspaper this morning, if you’ll recall. And you might as well know, anyway. Sophia more than likely does, and it’ll give the two of you a chance to gossip.”

This time Greaves looked affronted. “I don’t gossip. And certainly not with a gentlemen’s club hostess.”

“Then sit there and look pretty. If I can, I want a word or two with Camille.” Because while he couldn’t do it the other day, today he needed to say good-bye. Seeing her again after this, knowing what had to come next, or worse, what had happened—it was more than his ill-used restraint and self-control could manage.

For several moments they drove on in silence.

“A last question, then.”

“Damnation, Greaves, what do you want from me?” Keating exploded, facing into the barouche to glare at his companion.

The duke gazed at him coolly. “Never mind. You just answered it.” He rapped on the back of the driver’s seat with his cane. “Here will do, Saunders.”

The barouche rolled to a stop. Greaves stood and unlatched the door, then stepped down to the ground. “What are you doing?” Keating demanded. “I need you to chaper—”

“The other chit can chaperone for you,” Adam interrupted. “I have something to see to.”

“So you’re simply going to walk from … here,” Keating returned, looking at the busy Mayfair street around them.

Greaves swung his cane in his hand. “I’ve a good idea I’ll be fine. Drive on, Saunders.”

The fine-grained mahogany cane concealed a razor-sharp rapier, and Adam Baswich knew precisely how to use it. He stood at the side of the street for a moment as the barouche and the annoyed, frustrated-looking Keating Blackwood drove off in the direction of The Tantalus Club.

Once the carriage turned the corner, Adam headed up a side street to hire a hack. Generally he would rather have chewed off his own foot than ride in one of the ill-sprung, smelly contraptions, but evidently haste was of the essence.

He’d expected Lady Camille to balk a bit longer before her second attempt at marrying Fenton, just as he’d thought Keating would put another tree or two in his cousin’s path. Evidently, however, two martyrs aimed in the same direction could easily conquer and destroy any possible means to happiness before them.

In front of a small line of shops and offices in Knightsbridge he stepped down from the coach. “Wait here for me,” he said to the driver.

“I ain’t g—”

“Right here,” Adam repeated, and flipped the man a gold sovereign.

The fellow snapped his mouth shut around his complaint and instead tugged on the brim of his hat. “Aye, m’lord. Right here.”

“That’s ‘Your Grace,’” Adam muttered, but kept his voice low enough that the driver couldn’t hear him. Anonymity was damned annoying. It was also necessary, however.

Stopping in front of one of the narrow doors, he pushed it open and stepped inside the dim office. “Harrow?” he called, removing his blue beaver hat and dropping his gloves into it.

“Your Grace? Back here.” A tall, thin man with spectacles and a slightly hunched back appeared in the rear doorway and then vanished again. “I didn’t expect you today.”

Adam followed him into the even smaller room behind the first. Stacks of books and papers filled the ceiling-high shelves and the two worktables wedged into the space, barely leaving room for a single chair and a trio of sputtering lamps. “Time is more of a factor than I’d realized,” he said, dropping his hat onto one of the shorter stacks of books. “Have you found anything?”

“You nobles are a tight-lipped lot, Your Grace,” Harrow returned, digging through a stack of papers and pulling one of them free.

“Yes, I know. Am I paying you for your insightful commentary, or for results?”

“Both, I hope.” Harrow held the paper closer to one of the lamps, squinting even with the spectacles. “I’ve an appointment on Thursday. First time that Evans bloke has agreed to see me. But it will cost you.”

“Pay it. Add it to my tab.” He reached out and took the paper to look at it for himself. The information there stirred in him an emotion he generally sought to avoid these days. Anger. “You’re certain this is accurate?”

“My people don’t stay in my employment by imagining facts.”

“Then I’ll see to this.” Folding the paper, Adam stuffed it into his pocket. “I need an answer by Friday. Any later will do me no good.”

“You’ll have it then, Your Grace.”

“I’d better.”

Four days to avert a disaster. A difficult task in itself, but when he factored in a rogue who thought he deserved all the pain he’d incurred, he wanted to begin using the word “miracle.” It would take one to resolve this, and another measure of luck on top of that.

Adam sighed. Best get to it, then. And hope he didn’t find himself bloodied and battered for his trouble.

*   *   *

“I can’t imagine why they won’t allow you to invite any of your own wedding guests,” Sophia said ruefully as she handed a platter of biscuits to Keating.

He took four of the ones with cinnamon in them. “For people attempting to step back into Society’s favor, they’re rushing this rather alarmingly.”

“I’m inviting the two of you, anyway,” Camille stated, taking one of Keating’s biscuits from him and biting into it. “And Lord and Lady Haybury and whomever else I wish to see there.”

Keating glanced sideways at her. “Invite Greaves, will you? Your family’s not likely to turn a duke away from the church doors.”

“Certainly.”

He took a breath. “I meant to tell you, I’m leaving for Shropshire on Saturday. I’ve been away for too long, and I wore out my welcome here years ago.”

She wanted to argue with him, tell him that she wanted to catch sight of him at the wedding to remind herself that what she’d agreed to was worth it. That what they would both gain might balance what she felt she was losing. Of course neither of them had ever said anything about forevers, so perhaps she was daydreaming and deluding herself again. But she didn’t think so.

Leaving it unsaid, however, might be infinitely less painful. It was only that she had nothing with which to compare it. “What about the money?” she asked aloud.

“I’ve left instructions for my solicitor to deposit everything in Eleanor’s name.” His gaze lowered to her mouth as she devoured his biscuit. “So if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wish you well today.”

Sophia abruptly stood up. “Oh, look! A duck,” she commented, and sped off in the direction of the quaint wooden bridge.

“Did I frighten her away?” Keating asked, handing over a second biscuit.

“I think that was her way of subtly giving us a moment of privacy.” Camille forced a smile. “Relatively speaking.”