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forward chit and the cautious, standoffish one seated opposite him. “I was. Keating Blackwood. And you are?”
    She batted lashes over her impossibly blue eyes. “Miss Hampton. Lucille.” Picking up a strawberry, she made a show of sliding it into her mouth. “You were very gallant.”
    “I bloodied a man’s nose, Miss Hampton.”
    “Yes, but you did it in defense of a lady’s honor. That’s so very gentlemanly of you.”
    He sent a glance across the table. Camille sat concentrating on a bowl of pea soup, her shoulders lowered. She looked very like someone who’d been broken, resigned to accept whatever happened to her. Damn Fenton for being so oblivious, ham-fisted, or whatever he’d done to make her run.
    Returning his attention to the younger lady seated next to him, he leaned closer. “So I have a fat man’s bloody nose to recommend me to you,” he murmured. “Is that enough? Why don’t we find a private room where you can demonstrate how much you admire me?”
    Porcelain blue eyes widened, then blinked. Twice. “I—”
    “After all, perhaps I am a hero. Perhaps I defend the reputations of young ladies twice every day and thrice on Sunday. Or perhaps I had an aching head and the idiot’s yammering annoyed me. Or perhaps I simply enjoy hitting people when I know they can’t or won’t defend themselves.” He edged still closer. “Or perhaps you should discover who it is you might be flirting with, Miss Hampton. I might even be a murderer. You never know.”
    Her fair skin turned pale. “You are jesting, Mr. Blackwood. Certainly.”
    “Actually, he isn’t.”
    The deep, sophisticated drawl immediately put him on alert. He generally knew better than to sit with his back to a door, but for the devil’s sake, he was in the attic, in the employees’ quarters, of a chit-filled gentlemen’s club. “Haybury,” he said, centering himself again.
    “Miss Hampton, Cammy, give us a moment, will you?” the marquis said, moving around the table and offering a hand to Lady Camille. “I would like a word or two with an old friend.”
    Camille stood. “Certainly.”
    Keating eyed the marquis as he sat in Camille’s vacated place. “Do you often venture into the ladies’ private area of the club?” he asked, resuming his meal. “Does your wife know about this?”
    Haybury continued gazing at him, light gray eyes assessing and nearly as cynical as his own must be. “Aren’t we supposed to begin with general greetings before the stabbings begin?”
    “Ah.” Keeping his brief appreciation hidden, Keating nodded. Haybury, at least, had once had a foul reputation himself. “Haybury. I hear congratulations are in order. You’ve gained a wife and a gentlemen’s club.”
    The marquis nodded. “Yes. I couldn’t have one without the other.”
    “But which were you after?” Keating pursued, already deciding how much of a stir he was willing to raise if the marquis should ask him to leave. Or to order him to do so.
    “The wife,” Haybury returned immediately. “And I seem to enjoy making her happy. Which leads me to a question: Would she be happier with you in the private areas of her club making all sorts of mischief, or with you outside on your arse?”
    “I know where I’d be happier.” Keating rolled his shoulders. He had a destination clearly in mind; all he needed to do was behave in the manner that would be most likely to gain him what he wanted. “I have no intention of making trouble, Oliver. I’m here for a luncheon and a chat with a pretty chit.”
    “I don’t have much faith in your ability to behave.”
    Look who’s talking, Keating nearly said, but clamped his jaw closed over the words. “People change.”
    “Fenton may have done everything in his power to put distance between the two of you, my friend, but I haven’t forgotten. Nor has it escaped my attention that you’re lodging with the Duke of Greaves. That doesn’t recommend you to me, either. And given that my Diane