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.

  “Keating. Are you alone tonight?”

  “For the moment. You’re not allowed to dine with me, are you?”

  Color touched her fair cheeks. “Heavens, no.” She cocked her head at him. “You do go looking for trouble, don’t you?”

  “Whenever possible. Your shy friend isn’t about, is she?”

  “Cammy’s dealing vingt-et-un tonight.”

  She was actually sitting at a table with men who might look askance at her? That was interesting. “I thought she only worked in the Demeter Room.”

  “We’ve all trained in every position. Sally is ill, and Cammy said she supposed she could count well enough to sit in for one evening.”

  The part of him that had felt … coiled up, steeling himself for a night of being glared at and avoided, loosened just a little. Mentally he counted the blunt in his pockets. Nine pounds give or take, about half of which he could afford to lose. Considering that he hadn’t played cards in six years it was a risk, but then again he could lose five pounds in exchange for ten thousand more.

  “I believe I’ll go play some cards,” he said, nodding at Sophia.

  “We do have a lovely roasted pheasant on the menu this evening,” she returned, gesturing at the crowded room.

  He grinned. “I’ll pass on dinner, but thank you.” Looking toward the three doors that exited the dining room, he frowned. “Where do I go?”

  “The Persephone Room. Don’t tell her that I mentioned she was working.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  The Persephone Room seemed to be the largest of the gaming rooms, and if he’d needed more proof that The Tantalus Club was thriving, it lay all around him. Crowded tables, the scent of expensive American cigars, the murmur of cards and conversation, and pretty young women everywhere carrying drinks and dealing cards and supervising the tables. Some of the most powerful men in London, paying for the privilege of having ruined chits tell them when they were wagering too deeply and needed to leave for the evening.

  It took him a moment to find Camille. Her ash-blond hair had been pulled up into a curling knot, whitish tendrils escaping to frame her angled cheekbones. The demure muslin of the afternoon was gone, replaced by a shimmering blue gown that clung to her appealing curves. Good God. No wonder that even with the scandal attached to her, four men sat at her table while half a dozen more stood about, supposedly watching the game.

  And no wonder Fenton was so determined to get her back in hand. Camille and the marquis’s name were inexorably linked, and the men surrounding her spent their days at the House of Lords with Fenton, at other clubs with Fenton, at soirees with Fenton. He would never be able to move past the fact that he was technically still engaged to a woman who’d fled their wedding to work at a gentlemen’s club.

  That had taken courage. The young lady with whom he’d walked this afternoon had been cautious and hurt, but the one he looked at now was confident and even … sultry. Earlier today he’d thought swaying her back into Fenton’s—and by extension, Society’s—arms would be a simple matter. Camille Pryce, however, had more facets than he’d expected. He needed to discover what motivated her, what it was she truly wanted, and what it would take to send her back to her betrothed. And he needed to be someone she trusted if he meant to accomplish any of that. Which meant that he needed to stop staring at her like a cat sizing up a mouse. However much he might wish to pounce.

  She glanced up, and the corners of her mouth turned up as their eyes met. He smiled back at her, nodding, shoving back at his predatory instincts until they subsided and returned to the cave. Apparently she’d decided that his kissing spree of earlier wasn’t so awful, after all. Considering that he had at least two additional families cursing him now, he was glad it had been worth it.

  “I think I’d like to play,” he said.

  “Only four players at this table, Blackwood,” the Viscount of Swanslee commented, glancing up from his cards. “Go find another table.”

  “I’d like to play here.”

  Next to the viscount, Jonas Atherling stood. “Take my seat,” he offered, gathering his coins. “I’d prefer to be in a different room from you, anyway.”

  “Likewise.” The stodgy fellow was practically swimming in cheap French cologne, and it followed him like a cloud as he departed. Wondering how Camille had managed to breathe, Keating took the abandoned chair. “And how do your fare this evening, my lady?” he asked, putting his own blunt on the table.

  “Very well, Mr. Blackwood.” Camille gazed at the players. “Ready, gentlemen?”

  “Deal the damned cards,” the stocky gentleman on Keating’s left grumbled. “Here’s hoping Blackwood’s ill luck alters my own.”

  “I don’t have ill luck,” Keating protested. “I make ill choices. There’s a very large difference.”

  “Isn’t that rather like debating degrees of death?” the fourth fellow, seated just to his right, commented in a low voice.

  Swiftly Keating reassessed his general opinion of the club’s membership. At least one of them seemed to have both intelligence and some spleen. “And who might you be?”

  “That’s right, you’ve been away for a time, haven’t you?” The man gestured for a third card. With his left profile partly obscured by too-long dark brown hair, the best impression Keating could get was that he was in his mid-twenties and lean.

  “What are you, my replacement in debauchery? You should be at a less reputable club.” He glanced at the glass sitting at the fellow’s elbow. “And you shouldn’t be drinking brandy. You’ll want something that sinks into your gullet quickly. Whiskey. Or Russian vodka.”

  Finally the man faced him. The thin white scar that ran from halfway down his right cheek and glanced off his chin was only made more striking by his milky white right eye, an unsettling balance to the dark blue left one. “I don’t think I require your advice, but you make a valid point.” He pushed to his feet, sliding a quid to Camille. “Good evening.”

  No one else took the one-eyed gentleman’s seat, so Camille dealt two face-up cards to the trio of men before her. To herself she dealt the seven of clubs and the king of spades, both face up. “Gentlemen?”

  “Who was that?” Keating asked, disliking that his curiosity made him ask.

  “He didn’t give his name, Mr. Blackwood.” She glanced up. “Do you wish a card?”

  So now she pretended they weren’t acquainted. He glanced down at the nine and queen in front of him. “I’m staying.”

  Only a flicker in her eyes betrayed that she might be reading more into that statement than he’d actually said. At least he hoped that was the case; considering he’d just realized that while his reputation might help her, it wasn’t doing him any favors, he was a bit distracted. If she pretended not to know him, he couldn’t expect her to trust him. Evidently he was going to have to attempt to behave. Good damned thing, then, that he’d stopped drinking.

  Chapter Six

  Camille dealt cards for an hour, then signaled to the room captain that she wanted to go stretch her legs. And she wasn’t the least bit surprised when Keating Blackwood left the table immediately after she did.

  “Please don’t do that,” she muttered, feeling him walking behind her as she headed for the doorway leading into the back of the club and some privacy.

  “Don’t do what?” his quiet voice returned.

  “Follow me about. People will think you’re pursuing me.”

  “I’m not.”

  The odd responding … thump in her chest didn’t feel at all pleasant. “Good. But it looks as though you are, and that will only have more people talking. I don’t want that.”

  From the envious looks some of the other ladies were sending her as she left the room, she was being an idiot. Keating was devilishly handsome, witty, and fearless. And he played a fine game of cards. If not for his reputation, she wasn’t certain she would be able to conjure any objection to his presence.

  Then it struck her. She was doing the same thing to him that others did to her. Camille nearly stumbled in the doorway to the back rooms, and a strong hand gripped her right arm. “Steady, there.”

  “Thank you.” For heaven’s sake, if not for her reputation, she imagined she would have quite a few friends. Perhaps even parents and her own home again. “I apologize.”

  He’d stopped in the doorway, and stood looking at her. “For what?”

  “For being put off by your reputation. It’s hypocritical of me.”

  A grin tugged at his sensuous mouth. “No it isn’t. It’s very wise of you. We don’t compare.”

  Glancing past him at the busy, curious room, she gestured for him to come through the door. “You might as well come in here.”

  With a slight hesitation she almost didn’t notice, he walked into the narrow corridor and shut the door behind him. “This is nice. You can travel up and down the length of the club without men drooling on you.”