The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  “This party is a waste of time,” he said. “I’ll head back to London in the morning. Maybe I’ll have a better idea after I’ve cleared my head.” To hell with doctor’s orders. He’d ridden sedately earlier, but at the moment, he needed a bruising fight or a punishing ride.

  “You’ll leave without telling your family farewell?” Nick lifted his golden-brown eyebrows skeptically.

  Damn and blast. If he bade them farewell, they’d flutter and protest and ultimately wouldn’t let him leave at all. But sneaking away wasn’t an option. Setting down his glass, he stalked out. Agreeing to this house party had been a huge mistake. Only the presence of Castlereagh had tempted him out of his usual lairs.

  To compound his annoyance, his father was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. As much as Blake’s overprotective family nettled him, he could not return their benevolence with disrespect. It irritated him that they did not recognize he was a grown man of nearly thirty, but he could not change his parents. Nor, he privately conceded, would he wish to.

  “Your mother and I would like to speak with you,” the baron said affably, catching his son’s elbow and steering him toward the ladies’ parlor.

  “I will not become a vicar,” Blake warned, anticipating a much-argued subject.

  Portly, balding, and half a head shorter than his youngest son, the baron did not respond to this opening volley. “I’ve had a bit of good luck at the tables. Your mother and I have discussed this for some months, and we thought perhaps we could put the prize to good use.”

  Blake had long since given up hope that his superstitious mother would allow money to pass into his hand. She was violently opposed to his joining the army, which is what she knew he would do if he could afford an officer’s colors. She had wished for her youngest son to stay in Shropshire as a rural vicar and marry a local girl to provide her with more grandchildren to dandle on her knee. Blake’s bachelor freedom in London was a severe disappointment to her. His penchant for sport horrified her.

  “Mother.” Entering the parlor, he greeted Lady Montague with a nod, noting that even his unmarried sister, Frances, had been excluded from this tête-à-tête. Seeing his spinster sister matched with some respectable bachelor was the presumed reason they had attended the house party.

  With resignation, Blake prepared himself for the onslaught of pleas to cease his careless existence and knuckle down to family duty.

  “Oh, you’re limping!” Lady Montague cried. “Your leg must still be hurting. Sit, sit, why aren’t you in bed by now?” His mother gestured at the cushion beside her on the love seat.

  Blake waited for his father to take the big chair beside the fireplace, then leaned a hip against a writing desk and crossed his arms. His chances of escape were better if he did not make himself comfortable.

  “It is not even midnight, and my leg will heal better if I stand,” he said in answer to his mother’s admonishments. “I’ll be leaving in the morning, so I trust you’ll enjoy the rest of the house party.”

  “Oh, no, no, you cannot leave yet!” Lady Montague cried. “You must hear us out, then stay. There might be dancing! Are you set on breaking my heart?”

  Having heard this plaintive cry since childhood, Blake managed to withstand it. “I hardly believe dancing appropriate on one good leg,” he said dryly.

  “Oh, dear, of course not, but we have had the most interesting conversation with Lady Belden. You must meet—”

  “Perhaps we should explain our intent first,” the baron suggested with good humor. He clasped his hands across the waistcoat straining over his belly and regarded his son with the fondness that always made Blake feel like a guilty child. “I cannot enjoy watching your mother fret over your well-being. Since being tossed from Oxford over the contretemps with the dean, you’ve been involved in three duels that I know of, nearly broken your neck racing horses across country, fought against some of the toughest pugilists in the ring, and now nearly got yourself killed by shipping out to Portugal without a word to us.”

  Blake might have explained that he did these things for money and because he was damned bored, but his father’s solution was for him to become a vicar, have no money, and be damned bored. There was no winning that circular thinking. So he waited to see where his parents’ latest whim might lead.

  “Your mother and I have talked about it,” the baron continued, “and we’ve decided you simply need a little incentive to look around and find a nice girl and settle down.”

  Blake refrained from sighing with impatience. His lack of enthusiasm did not deter his parents.

  “Your father has won the most darling house in Chelsea!” Lady Montague said with enthusiasm, waving her plump hands as she spoke. “We thought perhaps we should use it for Frances’s dowry, but she dislikes London, so it did not seem right.”

  “Chelsea is not London,” Blake reminded her. “It is at the very least half an hour or more outside the city. Frances should be fine there.”

  “But Frances has a dowry, and you do not,” his mother continued. “With a lovely house to offer, you might have a choice of young ladies. Why, we have met the most charming—”

  With the practice of experience, the baron diverted this overflow of information. “It’s Carrington House. A fairly large, respectable estate, I’m told. I’ve not been out to inspect it, but the late viscount often entertained there. He was well known in political circles, so I’m assured it is a substantial asset.”

  Carrington House. The devil in Blake smirked in satisfaction. Harold, Viscount Carrington, had finally lost his family home at a gaming table. At last, the bastard had suffered the penance he deserved. Outwardly, Blake merely tilted his head to show he was listening.

  “I thought to offer the use of the house as a marriage settlement if you decide on a gal before the end of the year,” his father said. “But if you do not, then I’ll have to sell it. A place like that cannot be left empty for long, and I haven’t the interest in maintaining it.” The baron settled back in satisfaction, having said his piece.

  “That is extremely generous of you, sir,” Blake said politely. “I’ll certainly take it into consideration should I chance upon a marriageable female. But I will remind you that marriage is not likely to change my habits, so if that is your intent, you may as well sell now.”

  His mother patted her chest and blinked away tears. “You will be the death of me yet. You know I lost two brothers to war and another to accident who all bore the same silver streak in their hair that you have. It is not just superstition that those who wear it die before they’re thirty. Do not make me bury my son, I beg you! Going off to war and fighting are just asking for trouble.”

  Blake did not need to be reminded of mortality. He had been a lad of six when he’d watched as his uncle was swept away in a flood. But neither did he believe in foolish wives’ tales. “If it is my fate to die before I’m thirty”—which gave him a mere six months to live—“I’d rather go courageously, and with honor, than sleeping in my bed. What is the purpose of living if we do not improve the world we inhabit? I thank you for your generosity, and I give you good day, madam, sir.”

  He bowed himself out, leaving his mother weeping and his father to console her. It had ever been thus. He saw no means to change it.

  Nevertheless, the possibility of owning Viscount Carrington’s home filled him with wicked satisfaction. The bastard had cheated a good friend of his, forcing Acton Penrose to enlist in the army just to have food in his belly, and he was certain Penrose wasn’t the only one Carrington had cheated over the years. In retaliation for Penrose’s fate, Blake had pierced the viscount’s shoulder with a bullet in a duel. It seemed perfect justice that the fat lordling should lose his home after causing others to lose theirs.

  Perhaps he ought to consider his father’s offer for the pure gratification of seeing “Carrion’s” expression when he learned who now owned his family estate.

  2

  “That is my bird,” Jocelyn Byr
d-Carrington said, seething, as the Duke of Fortham’s stout nephew, Bernard Ogilvie, crossed the lawn some distance away with a piteous African Grey parrot on his shoulder.

  “Surely not, dear,” Lady Isabell Belden replied, languidly flourishing her fan as they strolled toward the latest entertainment. “A duke’s nephew has no reason to steal a molting fowl. He is merely attempting to impress you with his knowledge of birds.”

  “I vow, that is Percy. My brother Harold must have sold him to one of his wretched friends. And I told you before, duke’s nephew or not, Mr. Ogilvie will not suit me as a bridegroom. He’s as old as Harold, and twice as mean-spirited, and I want my bird back.” In frustration, Jocelyn twirled her parasol and stalked after their host.

  It was August. The Season was well over, and Jocelyn could not decide on a suitor, although she’d certainly had offers. She did not particularly wish to marry, but living alone would limit her ability to go about in society, and she dearly adored the parties and salons her lovely inheritance had opened to her these past months.

  This house party was one last chance to consider a suitor. The Duke of Fortham had offered the use of his estate outside the city—purportedly in hopes of marrying off Ogilvie, his heir. That Jocelyn had been included suggested that His Grace must be desperate to find a bride for his nephew. She was merely the half sister of a viscount, and the fact that her father had been the duke’s good friend hardly signified.

  The party had seemed an opportune time to examine her marital choices in a charming rural setting. So far, Jocelyn was even less impressed with London’s gentlemen in the country than in the city.

  “It’s the duke’s bird, dear,” said Lady Belden. “Surely you are not thinking of starting another aviary?” A youthful widow, the dark-haired dowager marchioness glanced at Jocelyn in concern. “I doubt there is a house in London that could hold one.”

  “No house that I can afford,” Jocelyn admitted. “I have enjoyed my recent return to society very much, and you cannot know how much I appreciate the opportunity you have offered by opening your home to me. But as much as I have dreamed of London, I see now that it was foolish to believe I could return to town as the carefree child I once was.”

  “You were not a child when your father died. You were seventeen! I truly cannot understand why your father’s heir would throw you from his home when he could have given you a Season and arranged a suitable marriage.”

  Jocelyn shrugged. “Our house was too small to hold the disparate personalities of my family. My mother insisted on ruling the study as she had always done when my father was alive. My younger brother, Richard, threw tantrums if anyone disturbed his birds in the conservatory. My sister-in-law didn’t wish to spend coin on a Season for me, and Harold, who thought inheriting the title meant he should be stuffy, was embarrassed by poor Richard’s admittedly erratic behavior. The arguments were quite fearful. Harold solved his difficulties by foisting us off on my half sisters. They got a nanny and nursemaid in me, although at the cost of poor Richard’s birds and my mother’s eccentricities. It is all quite simple.”

  The sensible marchioness did not protest. She knew of Jocelyn’s family liabilities and patted her arm. “It is a sad pity that your father had no unentailed wealth with which to support you, but now that you have my late husband’s bequest, you have choices. I will not hurry you into making a decision that will affect the rest of your life. If your family comes first, so be it. But your social flair would be an asset for so many men, and even if you do not marry, I’m sure you could find other means of employing your talents. Why, your eye for choosing just the right fabrics and ribbons could make you an arbiter of fashion!”

  Jocelyn laughed as they joined the other ladies at tea tables set up on the lawn. Very few of the women sipped their tea, however. They were all too busy watching the masculine prowess of the men fencing by the garden wall.

  “Blake will be maimed for life!” the Baroness Montague mourned, flapping her fan in agitation. “He can barely walk on that leg!”

  “Which is why he chose a position against the wall,” Lady Bell murmured, looking about to find a table that would give her the best view of the show. “No one can come up behind him, so he need not swing on his bad leg.”

  “Mr. Montague is fencing?” Jocelyn settled at the table her benefactress had chosen and turned to watch as two powerful young men stabbed at each other with deadly skill.

  Stripped to their shirtsleeves and sweating from their efforts, both men were extraordinarily fine physical specimens. Unfortunately, Jocelyn’s needs in a man included understanding and sympathy. Corinthians did not qualify, so she merely admired their athletic prowess.

  “What has the disrespectful Mr. Montague said this time that has him dueling . . .” She strained to identify his opponent. “Mr. Atherton? Surely Mr. Atherton is accustomed to his friend’s rudeness.”

  Lady Bell gestured toward a servant for a teapot and continued to observe the spectacle. “Mr. Montague possesses an inner devil that must be unleashed occasionally. I daresay Nick draws him out simply to avert an explosion of incivility.”

  Jocelyn snickered, but now that she recognized both men working themselves into a lather, she returned her attention to her host’s parrot. England did not abound with African Greys. There was only one other to her knowledge, and that was Percy’s mate, Africa. She could tell them apart by the pattern of white on their faces.

  Richard would weep for joy if she could return at least one of the birds he’d been forced to leave behind after Harold had cast them from their home. He’d been devastated by the loss of his aviary and had never truly recovered. Her troubled little brother didn’t have much joy in his life. The physicians had never been able to determine why Richard had irrational tantrums when anyone interfered with his obsessive interests. He did not adapt well to social situations, and the birds were his only friends. Returning Percy would be a goal worthy of her time and effort.

  Adopting the vapid smile she had learned to wield at an early age to please an audience of adults, Jocelyn excused herself from the table and, lifting the frill of her muslin skirt from the grass, tripped daintily in the direction of the gentlemen watching the match.

  As she neared Mr. Ogilvie and the bird, she pretended to stumble, emitted a peep of distress, and caught herself on her host’s sleeve as he and his companions turned in response to her cry.

  Percy squawked a bored, “Acck, swive the fartcatcher!”

  “Ogilvie, damn you!” Mr. Montague cried abruptly, halting the fencing duel. “I told you to keep that obscene creature caged away from the ladies! That is my mother and sister sitting over there.”

  Although she was appalled that the bird had been taught such phrases, Jocelyn merely righted herself, covered her mouth, and tittered. “Law, I didn’t mean to stop the match. I just wanted to pet the pretty bird.”

  “’Pologize, Miss Carrington,” Ogilvie said gruffly. “Bird don’t know what he’s saying.”

  If Mr. Ogilvie seriously meant to court her, he was making a poor show of it, Jocelyn thought. She doubted the older man would have even offered his arm if she hadn’t caught it on her own. He was simply another selfish twit more interested in the beef on his plate than in the people around him.

  “Someone return the lady to the tables where she belongs,” Montague called in disgust, sweat-soaked linen clinging to his wide chest. Clearly, even in his impatience, he made the more gentlemanly suggestion that hadn’t occurred to Ogilvie.

  Jocelyn pouted prettily and held out her hand to Percy. “Pretty bird. Come to Mama, baby.”

  “Ack, bugger off, looby,” Percy cried, hopping from Ogilvie’s shoulder to hers and affectionately nuzzling her ear.

  “Naughty bird,” Jocelyn cooed, flapping her long lashes at all the gentlemen, who now openly stared at her. “I’ll just take him off your hands, shall I?”

  Lifting her hem, revealing a flash of ankle, she set off across the lawn with Percy nibbling one of he
r carefully curled blond ringlets.

  “Flibbertiwidget,” she heard Montague mutter. “Ogilvie, you’d better escort the lady back before she trips in those foolish shoes and your creature flies away.”

  “Obnoxious bully, that Montague, with all the social graces of a turkey,” Jocelyn muttered under her breath as Ogilvie hastened to catch up with her. Flibbertiwidget, indeed!

  “Can’t lose that bird,” her host announced, alarmed, taking the bird from her shoulder. “Duke would have my head.”

  Ogilvie left her with Lady Bell and strode back to the house, carrying the shrieking parrot in his paws. Jocelyn wanted to weep, but she would not. It seemed poor Percy had been horribly mistreated since she’d last seen him. Greys did not like drastic changes in their circumstances.

  “Oh, Miss Carrington, it was so thoughtful of you to try to stop their foolishness!” Lady Montague came to their table, her eyes wet with tears. “You tried, but that son of mine is as stubborn as the day is long.”

  Still stinging from his insult, Jocelyn merely patted the lady’s plump hand. At least she knew enough not to say rude words, even when she thought them—unlike Blake Montague, who apparently said whatever came into his head. Flibbertiwidget! He scarcely knew her.

  Rather than think impolite thoughts, it was far better to plot how she would retrieve Percy now that she had come close enough to identify Richard’s pet. She had wondered what Harold had done with Richard’s aviary, but she’d been helpless in the wilds of Norfolk for so long that she had given up all hope of ever seeing the birds again.

  Now that she knew one still lived, she had a mission.

  3

  “Percy wanta chippie. Africa knows,” the parrot squawked sleepily later that evening.

  His cage should be covered by now. Flirting with an amused Mr. Atherton, Jocelyn hid her frown behind her fan. It was either that or conk the whiskey decanter over Mr. Ogilvie’s oblivious head and walk out with the bird.