Taming an Impossible Rogue Read online

  Camille smiled. “Only the gastronomic ones.” And the wagering ones, and the political ones, and most of the bedchamber ones, and who was friends or enemies with whom—but that was not a conversation she wished to have with one of the club’s membership. “I’ll have the tart on your table by the time you’ve finished those poached eggs.”

  The request sent to the kitchen, she stood back for a few moments to watch Lucille seat the next groups of men at the tables. Eyelashes continued to flutter, but that was likely an ingrained part of her character. From what Lucille had said of her life before The Tantalus Club, the girl had lived alone with her mother, a woman who’d evidently craved the affection of men to the point that she viewed her own daughter as unwanted competition.

  Camille sighed again, glancing about the room at the other dozen women who carried platters, poured drinks, or glided among the tables encouraging those gentlemen who lingered too long either to move into one of the even more comfortable adjoining gaming rooms, or to see to whatever appointments they might have about London this morning.

  These ladies had become her friends when she thought she’d lost the opportunity to have any of the kind. Over the past year they’d become her adopted family, women who’d fled their previous lives for a hundred different reasons and found sanctuary at the oddest place imaginable. Silently she sent up thanks once more for The Tantalus Club. And to Lady Cam—no, Haybury now—for allowing her to work in the mornings when the guests were less inebriated and so less likely to speak their minds when they caught sight of her.

  Even as she conjured that thought, fingers pinched her backside. Hard.

  She yelped, whipping around. Her fists curling in abrupt anger, she looked up at the rotund man who was now gazing at her chest. “Stop that at once,” she snapped.

  The fellow lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t ruin that pretty face with talking,” he said. “Come sit with me, and I’ll point out your charms to you.”

  “Farness, leave off.” The man behind the ogre, Arthur Smythe, as she recalled, took his friend’s elbow. “This ain’t a bawdy house.”

  The ogre kept his gaze on her. “You promised me a grand time at this club of yours, Smythe. Stand back and let me have one.” He took a step closer to her. “You’re the chit who fled from marrying Fenton last year, skirts flapping. I heard you were employed here. I’ll pay you two shillings to sit on my lap. Three, if you wiggle.”

  Camille lifted her left hand straight into the air, fingers spread. All the ladies knew the signal, though she, unfortunately, had used it more than any of the others. Even in the less crowded, less inebriated mornings at the club. The perils of a publicly ruined reputation, she supposed. Thankfully, while Lady Haybury might have preferred to have only female employees, it hadn’t taken much to convince her that a handful of very large former boxers might be helpful to have about.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the largest of the Helpful Men, as she and the other girls had come to refer to them, approaching. Only an utter fool would protest Mr. Jacobs guiding him out the doors of the club.

  As she faced the ogre again, a fist and a nicely jacketed arm crossed directly in front of her—and connected with Farness’s chin. The round fellow fell to the blue-carpeted floor on his arse.

  “When I was last in London,” a low, cultured drawl came from beside her, “men did not insult women in such a manner. I can only assume, then, that either you were mistaken, or you’re not a man.”

  The words “Bloody Blackwood” began circling all around her, in the same tone that men generally used to discuss the outcome of the most impossible and deadly of wagers. She sidestepped as the tall, dark-haired man attached to the fist bent down to haul Farness to his feet.

  “Which is it, then?” he murmured. “Were you mistaken, or are you simply not a man?”

  The ogre raised shaking fingers to touch his cut lip. “Good God. You’re Blackwood. Bloody damned Blackwood.”

  “I’m aware of that. Answer my question.”

  “Mistaken,” Farness rasped. “I was mistaken.”

  “Then I suggest you apologize,” Blackwood pursued, in the same tone he might ask for an additional card while playing vingt-et-un.

  “I—”

  “To her. Not me.”

  Farness looked over at her. “I apologize.”

  “For?” her supposed rescuer prompted.

  “For … for insulting you, my lady.”

  “Well done.” With a light but unmistakably serious shove he deposited Farness into the grip of Mr. Jacobs. “Shall I leave, as well?” he asked, looking over at her for the first time.

  Light brown eyes the color of rich tea, one of them circled by a faint, fading bruise, gazed levelly at her. Stifling the abrupt impulse to straighten her hair, she shook her head. “As long as there’s no more punching, I can’t fault you for defending my honor—unnecessary though it was.”

  A slow smile touched his mouth. “Thank you. And I’ve never found defending a lady’s honor to be a frivolity.”

  Just as she realized that she seemed to be staring at the man, the circle around them stirred and parted. Diane, Lady Haybury, emerged into the small clearing. “I will not have fisticuffs in my club,” she said, ignoring Mr. Farness being led away and instead focusing her attention on the punching man. “Whose guest are you, sir?”

  “Mine.”

  The Duke of Greaves moved into the circle, his expression as cool as if he were discussing the weather. “Lady Haybury, Keating Blackwood. Keating, the proprietor of this establishment, Lady Haybury.”

  Oh, dear. Camille resisted the urge to back away. She’d only wished to stop a man from pinching her hindquarters. Involving Diane and dukes and disrupting the running of the club … Perhaps she should have simply accepted the pinch for what it was; after all, of all the ladies employed here, her fall from grace was by far the most public. With some of the things said to her back—and even to her face—whenever she ventured out of doors, at the least she should have expected such discourtesy from time to time within her sanctuary’s walls.

  Diane glanced in her direction. “Is any further action warranted, Camille?”

  She shook her head. “I believe there’s been enough fuss, my lady.” More than enough.

  Diane nodded, returning her attention to the rather tall Keating Blackwood. “If His Grace is willing to vouch for you, Mr. Blackwood, then I will allow you to remain. Your motives in this instance seem gentlemanly enough. Have a good day, sir, and enjoy your time in The Tantalus Club.”

  Keating Blackwood inclined his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Feeling in need of a strong glass of spirits, Camille excused herself and returned to her station close to the front door of the dining room. Wasn’t she supposed to have become accustomed to such assaults by now? To being ridiculed and abused because she’d done what she still considered to be the most sensible thing she’d ever managed in her life? For the most part The Tantalus Club had been her safe haven for the past year. An occasional intrusion of … reality, she supposed it was, was still far better than what she faced on the streets of Mayfair. Eventually everyone would forget, or some other scandal would take the place of hers. Or so she’d been hoping for the past year.

  Lucille made a small sound behind her. “My goodness,” she chirped. “I had no idea men would fight over us here. That’s delightful.”

  Camille frowned. “‘Delightful’ isn’t the word I would choose,” she returned. “I hate this. But the alternative is … well, there truly isn’t one.”

  “Couldn’t you have found work as a governess? Perhaps somewhere in the country?” Lucille returned in a hushed voice, pausing to bat her eyes as Lord Haybury strolled into the room.

  “Yes, because everything is magical in the country, and they have no newspapers and no one knows how to read or write letters to people in London.” Camille scowled. “How foolish I’ve been not to consider that before!”

  “Oh. I merely
hadn’t thought much about it. There’s no need to be rude.”

  No, there wasn’t. And silly though Lucille was, none of this was her fault. With a sigh, Camille patted her companion on the shoulder. “There’s no reason my problems should trouble you.” She sent a glance about the room, relieved to see that everyone seemed to have returned to their seats. “Now, why don’t you go to Lord William Atherton’s table and mention that Mary Stanford is dealing vingt-et-un at this very moment?”

  “How does that signify?”

  “It signifies because Lord William Atherton believes Mary to be very pretty, and I need their table for the three gentlemen waiting in the foyer.”

  “Oh, very well. I have no idea how you keep all of this in your head.” With a flounce of her skirt, Lucille pranced over to the table in the far corner.

  As Camille looked up again, faint uneasiness touched her. Keating Blackwood, his gaze on her face, approached her podium without even making a show of being interested in some other possible thing or person in her vicinity. “Thank you again,” she said as he stopped before her, hoping to forestall his asking for a kiss or something as a reward of his so-called heroics. “How are you finding your breakfast?”

  “Exceptional,” he replied, leaning an elbow on the lectern the hostesses had taken to using to keep their table charts and lists of names and menus and the preferences of individual gentlemen. “You’re Lady Camille Pryce.”

  Hiding her flinch, Camille shuffled through her papers. “That’s hardly a secret. Now, is there something you need? A bottle of wine, perhaps? We have a fine bur—”

  “I’m Keating Blackwood.”

  “So I heard.” She looked at him for a moment, catching the expectant look on his lean face. “You have a black eye.”

  “Nearly gone, now.” He brushed a negligent finger against his left cheek. “You don’t know who I am.”

  “You’re Keating Blackwood. My memory extends past one minute, I assure you.”

  A quick smile curved his mouth. It was a very attractive mouth, she noted peripherally. But it wasn’t the first attractive mouth to decide that as a fallen woman she must be in need of a lover or a benefactor, or worse, that she made a habit of engaging in self-destructive behavior.

  “Stephen Pollard is my cousin.”

  The ground beneath Camille’s feet seemed to turn to pudding, because she swayed alarmingly. Gripping the podium hard, she forced a breath through her lungs. Lady Haybury had thus far done a masterful job of keeping Lord Fenton out of The Tantalus Club. As long as she stayed inside its walls, insults and the occasional pinch had been the worst she’d experienced. But now trouble had breached the walls of her haven in a very alarming manner. “I—”

  “I’m only telling you so that you aren’t taken by surprise later if someone should mention it,” he continued. “I’m making an attempt at honesty.”

  Camille swallowed the lump of coal in her throat. “I … appreciate your candor,” she ventured, using every bit of her self-control to keep from backing away. “However, as you are a guest of a club member and I am merely the breakfast-time hostess, I hardly require your résumé.”

  “Is this your way of saying that I need not have bothered with introducing myself as we won’t be meeting again?” he countered.

  “Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

  That faint smile touched his mouth again. “My cousin is a stiff-backed buffoon, my lady. That said, I don’t believe he’s ever been the sort to pluck the wings off flies or … hurt anyone intentionally. This makes me curious. Did he harm you? Or insult you? Is that why you didn’t wish to marry him?”

  The question took her completely by surprise. Attempting not to gape at him, she glanced away to send a distracted smile at Lord Trask as the viscount entered the room with his two sons. When Lucille approached, Camille had her seat the Trasks … somewhere; it might have been in the kitchen for all the attention she paid.

  “If you aren’t going to answer the question, I wish you’d say so,” Blackwood prompted. “I have a fine plate of ham and cheeses and an annoyed duke waiting at the table for me.”

  “Then you should return to them.” She picked up her seating chart and went to greet the next arrival.

  “Do you ever go walking?” Blackwood’s voice came from directly behind her.

  Oh, dear, now he was trailing her about the room. “No.”

  “You should. At what time do you finish your hostess duties?”

  “I—at—I don’t believe that’s any of your concern, Mr. Blackwood. Now please cease accosting me, or I shall be forced to have you removed.”

  “I mean you no harm, my lady,” he returned in a low voice. “I’ve been away from London for six years, and as I said, you’ve made me curious. Few people stand against Fenton. I’d merely like to know your reasons.”

  Her parents hadn’t even asked her that question. Camille took a stiff breath. “I will be free after one o’clock,” she said in a rush, before she could change her mind. “But I almost never leave the club’s premises. You may find me in the rose garden.”

  He sketched a shallow bow. “I shall do so.”

  She pretended to return her attention to the late-arriving breakfast guests, and after a moment the warmth shielding her back was gone. Of all the things she’d expected ever to occur, the cousin of the man she’d jilted a year earlier appearing and being nice to her wasn’t one of them. And she’d never anticipated anyone asking what Lord Fenton might have done to cause her to flee rather than questioning why she’d lost her senses. Because she hadn’t lost them. Not then, and not now.

  If some relation of Fenton’s wanted an explanation for her actions, she was certainly willing to give one. As long as he realized it changed nothing. And as long as he didn’t think she might be amenable to Stephen Pollard’s cousin after she’d turned her back on the man himself.

  Camille gave a tight smile in response to some lordling’s greeting. Yes, she was quite aware that she’d ruined her life. What no one else—men, in particular—seemed to realize was that she had no intention of making things any worse. Ever.

  Chapter Three

  The crunch of an apple roused Keating from his gaze out the front window of Baswich House. “I expected things to have altered at least a little in six years,” he commented, watching a grand carriage emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Duke of Monmouth clatter down the street.

  “You visited the one difference this morning. Where you nearly began a brawl, by the way.” The Duke of Greaves leaned against the doorjamb and took another bite of apple. “I’m curious,” he stated.

  “Why am I not staying at Pollard House with Fenton?” Keating suggested.

  “It’s no fun if you guess everything I’m going to say.” Greaves waved his fingers. “So answer the question you posed of yourself.”

  “Stephen continues to pretend that he and I are not related, which actually suits me quite well. If you want me to leave, I’ll find lodgings elsewhere.”

  “I never said that.” Greaves shifted to the other side of the doorway so he could see out the front window as well. “There are people who make a point of surrounding themselves with fellows of good character, to reflect well on their own. I, on the other hand, prefer rogues and scoundrels. Not only are they more interesting to converse with, but I look better in comparison.”

  Keating snorted. “I should forewarn you, then, that I mean to attempt to behave while I’m here. A new start.” It sounded promising, anyway; though he could likely trust Greaves’s discretion, he’d given his word to keep his true reason for returning to London to himself.

  Doubt, disbelief—or something of the sort—crossed the duke’s face and then was gone again. It didn’t matter; Keating had his own doubts about his ability to reform his reputation and his character. A good thing, then, that he intended to make this a brief visit. And perhaps if he could manage to stay away from trouble, he could attempt it a second time.

  But that was putt
ing the cart so far in front of the horse that they were in different shires. He pulled out his old, scratched pocket watch and clicked it open. “At least you didn’t say anything disparaging aloud, Adam,” he commented, standing. “I have some doubts myself. But at the moment, I have an appointment.”

  “As do I,” Greaves returned. “And Keating, if you had no qualms about your character, you wouldn’t have hidden away like a hermit for the past six years. Merely keep in mind that your past poor behavior is likely still of much more interest than any propriety you exhibit now.”

  “Thank you for the speech. I’ve heard the poem they made up about me.” He sighed, moving past Greaves and into the foyer. “I’ll see if I can refrain from living up to it.”

  “In your defense,” the duke returned, shifting to keep him in sight, “the poem isn’t very good. And it’s six years old now. I know for a fact there have been a myriad of other poems since then. Some of them at least as poorly written as the tribute to you.”

  Keating gave a noncommittal grunt. If the duke was suggesting that he and his exploits had been forgotten, well, that would be a relief. He had the distinct feeling, however, that there was a large difference between being set on the shelf while new game passed by, and being forgotten. And no, it wasn’t a very good poem.

  He had his dark gray gelding, King William Lord of Horses (as an optimistic breeder had named him), or Amble (as Keating had more realistically dubbed him), waiting on the Baswich House front drive. He swung into the saddle, and as they trotted onto Grosvenor Street for the second time that day, Keating squared his shoulders. Even with the fisticuffs, this morning at The Tantalus Club had proceeded better than he’d expected, both in regard to meeting Lady Camille Pryce and to the reaction of his fellow aristocrats on seeing him once again in London.

  He wasn’t certain whether it was because the club had a particular relationship with scandal that made his own past exploits less … noteworthy there, or if it was because he’d managed to take London by surprise. Whatever the reason for the quietude, he had the distinct feeling that the Town wouldn’t be as welcoming once the residents had time to make note of his presence.