The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  Jocelyn nodded. “Most likely. We’ve moved from house to house since then, and he does not adapt well. He needs his birds as you need your books.”

  She waited, holding her breath as Blake silently and expertly parted her hair while pondering her conclusions. His strong hands sensually worked the brush through the long strands, stimulating longings she feared to acknowledge. He caressed her hair, pulling it through his fingers before pinning it, showing that his thoughts were not all on the problem at hand.

  He was a man of many talents. With four sisters. She could imagine him as a youth straightening out his siblings’ ribbons before their nanny yelled at them. He was a man who knew how to take care of whatever needed doing.

  If she allowed herself to believe in good fortune, he was the man she’d searched for all her life. The one she hadn’t believed existed.

  She couldn’t allow him to go off to war. Wellesley would simply have to find another officer. If she was to have babies, she needed a husband at home. Fair was fair. Perhaps they could negotiate a new deal. Not that she had learned to speak her thoughts aloud yet. She was too accustomed to being laughed at and ignored. She needed to find just the right presentation.

  After braiding a length of hair, Blake finally spoke. “I saw Africa last night, when I was prying Richard out of the greengrocer’s. The bird is nearly identical to Percy. If we buy back Africa, it might confuse Ogilvie and his thieves to find two similar birds.”

  Caught by surprise at this response so wildly divergent from her own, Jocelyn coughed to hide her laugh. Here she’d been thinking romantic, sentimental thoughts while he’d been plotting against Ogilvie! In this instance, she heartily approved.

  “Perhaps it would be better if I went to His Grace and offered to buy Percy,” she offered. “Then he might leave poor Mr. Ogilvie alone.”

  “It would be simpler to send ’round a note. The duke is a busy man.” He tugged her braid. “And your wiles will not work on him. He is not like simpleminded Bernie.”

  Jocelyn scowled but conceded the point. “I have no idea how much a parrot costs,” she warned. “And if you use your money to buy him, it will be months before I can repay you.”

  “Your money is mine, remember? Save your wiles for wooing me.”

  She elbowed him, but that was akin to punching a solid wall. Blake didn’t even grunt. He released her after he finished tying her ribbon.

  By the time he was done, her skin felt hot, her heart raced, and her thoughts tumbled. After his declaration that he wished to be wooed for his money, she felt like Richard, needing the reassurance of familiarity. Woo her husband, instead of the other way around? It was too much to consider.

  Unable to speak, she left the room, closing the door quietly after her. She might explode if she tried to decipher all her conflicting emotions. Much better that she find a practical activity.

  The greengrocer would not sell the blasted parrot.

  Blake watched in frustration as Richard stood beneath the cage hung high on the ceiling, whistling to the pathetic creature bobbing its molting gray head. In daylight, Africa looked even more pitiful than Percy had when Jocelyn stole him.

  “It’s the lad’s pet,” Blake tried explaining. “As I understand it, birds mate for life, and this one is pining for her mate.” He doubted if he’d said anything more asinine in his life. The things a man would do to persuade a woman into his bed!

  Just remembering Jocelyn in his bed this morning, all warm and sleep-tousled and available, was not conducive to his sanity. To hell with being honorable. He wanted a wife.

  The stout, balding grocer shook his head in refusal. “My customers like the creature. The boy already has one bird. He don’t need another.”

  A month ago, Blake would have agreed. Before Jocelyn had smashed into his life, he would have scorned the wretched creature. At least this bird wasn’t spouting obscenities, but its unhappy whistles were almost worse.

  But now—he’d seen how Percy had grown healthier and happier simply from a little attention and proper care. Even Richard was looking less skeletal and sallow, although whether that was from better care or happiness at being back home wasn’t easily discerned. Still, it was obvious that all creatures needed love and care to flourish.

  Besides, wasn’t the bird’s health and the lad’s happiness more important than the few extra coins the bird might draw? Given the size of the grocer’s paunch and the value of his silver buttons, the man wasn’t on the brink of starvation.

  “I’m offering enough to cover any loss of business,” Blake asserted. “You can find a less expensive bird and make a profit on the deal.”

  “Nope, they like this ’un. It does tricks and sings.”

  At the moment, Africa was hanging upside down and muttering.

  He wanted Jocelyn back in his bed tonight. He was pretty damned certain that recovering the bird for her brother would do the trick. Courting her didn’t work. Making her family happy did. And aggravating this smug bastard in the process would add to the pleasure.

  Stealing the bird back was becoming a temptation, if straightforward bargaining and honesty didn’t work.

  “Come along, Richard. We’ll go to the river and look for swans.” In disgust that he couldn’t accomplish this one thing for the woman who was driving him mad with lust, Blake turned on his heel and started for the door.

  Richard didn’t follow. He’d climbed up on a flour barrel and was now unhooking the cage, as if he’d been granted possession. Africa flapped her wings and emitted cooing sounds that sounded incredibly like encouragement.

  “Richard, you can’t take Africa with you.”

  “Won’t,” Richard responded promptly. “I’ll stay right here.” To prove his point, he sat on the barrel, wrapped the cage in his arms, and, whistling happily, rocked back and forth. Africa pecked Richard on the nose as if kissing him.

  The greengrocer turned purple with rage.

  Blake nearly laughed aloud at how easy it was to manipulate one stubborn old man. Maybe—just maybe—Jocelyn had a point. People were not necessarily swayed by logic and reason.

  “Fine, then, old chap,” Blake said cheerfully. “Come along home at lunchtime or your sister will come looking for you.”

  “All right.” Richard nodded agreement, pushing a walnut kernel through the cage bars.

  “You can’t leave the nodcock here!” the grocer shouted. “He’ll drive off my customers!”

  “He won’t leave without the bird,” Blake said with a shrug.

  “I’ll call the magistrate, I will!”

  Blake polished a button on his coat before reaching for the door. “Good luck with that. I’ll send his sister down later. She has an affinity for useless creatures.”

  He stared up at the ceiling and whistled, as if just realizing something, which in a way he had. His eminently social, clever wife would know precisely the best way to approach his plan. “I daresay she knows a lot of your customers. Used to live here, you know. Wonder what she’ll say when she learns you won’t let her little brother have his pet. Send word to Carrington House if you change your mind. I think my offer for the bird may have been too generous, after all.”

  He strode out, leaving the grocer shouting and cursing.

  26

  After Blake had returned and explained his newly hatched plot, one that so eminently suited her gregarious nature, Jocelyn had been thrilled by the excuse to visit all their neighbors. Raising a crowd of mothers and children to save a pet was hardly difficult. She was even more thrilled that Blake understood how her social skills could do what his keen mind could not. There was hope for the man yet.

  Laughing in delight, Jocelyn watched the neighborhood women and children crush into the grocer’s shop and gather around Richard and Africa to watch the bird do a parrot dance to the tune Richard whistled. Unmindful of the crowd, concentrating on his beloved pet, Richard looked as if he were in heaven. All the mamas nodded in approval at his bird training abilities and ag
reed that the bird belonged with the lad. The children cheered him on.

  As the tide turned against him, the grocer scowled even blacker than Blake on a bad day. Jocelyn threw him a cheerful smile. “It is so very kind of you to return Richard’s pet,” she called over the mob.

  The grocer muttered something she thankfully couldn’t hear. “Come along, Richard, we must take Africa home. Then we’ll look for a lovely pair of canaries for Mr. White, shall we?” She gestured for Richard to cover the cage with the linen she’d brought, then called to the grocer again, “This is incredibly kind of you, Mr. White! Thank you so much for looking after Richard’s bird for him.”

  Then, without paying the man a penny, she took Richard’s arm and stepped into the brisk autumn day. A few of the children followed, hoping to hear more of Africa’s nonsense, but the bird had wisely shut up.

  Two birds and her home back. This was beginning to look like the start of a very happy life. And she owed it all to her brilliant husband.

  Whoever would have thought the arrogant, insulting Blake Montague would enjoy thwarting a greedy grocer for the sake of her younger brother? She really must not be so hasty in passing judgment from now on.

  She arrived home to an oddly silent house. Bitty wasn’t chasing the kitten. Molly and Teddy weren’t flirting or fighting in the back hall. Blake wasn’t shouting at her mother for scattering her genealogy books across the parlor. Her mother . . .

  Where was Lady Carrington?

  Watching Richard murmur to Africa while carrying the Grey back to the conservatory and Percy, Jocelyn stood in the corridor and listened. And heard nothing. A house filled with people and pets ought to give some evidence as to their presence. She’d been gone only a few hours. What could they be about?

  She tiptoed down the dimly lit corridor and pressed open the study door. Within, her mother had covered every inch of the carpet with her family tree charts. Teetering stacks of books lined the edges of the floor. Engrossed in her research, Lady Carrington sat inelegantly in the window seat, furiously marking up documents, leaving a trail of ink across her person as well as the paper.

  Terrified that the hero of the hour may have fled for the Continent in a fit of pique for being banished from his study, or in search of more peace than he’d find in his own home, Jocelyn hurried toward the conservatory, aiming for the exit to the carriage house.

  “Africa knows!” Percy squawked when she entered. He bobbed happily on the one tree in the room.

  “E pluribus unum,” Africa sang, nuzzling the mate she hadn’t seen in months. “Seventeen seventy-six.”

  Shaking her head at their nonsense, lifting her skirts off the stone floor, Jocelyn started across the room until she realized Richard wasn’t inside the conservatory, but outside. She stared out the glass panes, trying to make sense of the odd scene in the backyard.

  Blake sat on an old garden bench, feeding kitchen scraps to a feral pig, while Richard scattered corn to the flock of abandoned hens, and Bitty raced through the weeds, yapping after rabbits.

  Blake had on a shapeless tweed coat and a cap against the October breeze, instead of his usual elegant attire. Was he wearing a disguise? Was he attempting to tell her something? She wasn’t much at puzzle solving. She’d rather he just said what he wanted.

  Jocelyn hurried outside. The pig and chickens scampered the instant she appeared, but Bitty ran up to be cuddled. Jocelyn happily obliged.

  “We’ll need a better fence to hold them,” Blake said as Richard started after the fleeing creatures. “They’ll be back.”

  “I thought you hated pigs.” Suspicious, Jocelyn nuzzled Bitty’s head while taking the seat beside her husband. “And why is Mother in your study while you’re out here?”

  “It’s too cold in the carriage house for her. I’m accustomed to the cold, so I can work out there. And pigs make good bacon.”

  She elbowed his arm. “You’ll not make bacon out of pet pigs. I won’t allow it. And Richard will come after you with a pitchfork if you eat his chickens, so don’t even think of it. You might smuggle an egg or two upon occasion, especially if he’s occupied with the parrots, but I wouldn’t set my heart on custard.”

  “I’ve married into a family of crackbrains.” He leaned back against the bench and sprawled his boots across the barren kitchen garden, apparently unconcerned. “What did the parrot cost us?”

  “Nothing,” she said, pleased. “Or a pair of canaries, perhaps. Sally has a pair she wishes to be rid of. I’d rather keep them, but I suppose it’s only fair.”

  “Sally, as in the Countess of Jersey?” he asked without inflection.

  “She’s a year younger than I and trying much too hard to be higher in the instep than her mother-in-law these days, which is to my advantage. Canaries are apparently no longer fashionable and thus beneath her dignity.”

  “You can socialize with earls and their wives. You are familiar with dukes. Why on earth did you marry me?”

  “Hmmm, let me think. . . .” She pretended to ponder as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Aside from the fact that I don’t own a bank as Sally’s family does, or that my only family connection is Viscount Pig, and I have no estates of my own, or anything that an earl could conceivably want, I simply cannot imagine why I chose you.”

  He made a rude noise but circled her waist. “Fine, then. Who is Tony?”

  “Tony?” she asked in puzzlement. “Antoinette? Harold’s wife?”

  “She has a French brother?” he asked casually.

  “My mother has been talking about Albert again,” Jocelyn surmised. “She disliked him, but we have not seen him in years.”

  “Tony’s brother is mean,” Richard acknowledged, returning with a chicken in his arms.

  “Mean, like Harold?” Blake inquired with interest.

  “Harold is stupid,” Richard said scornfully, before heading for the battered chicken coop.

  “What is this about?” Jocelyn demanded.

  “I am deciphering a puzzle,” Blake said, without explanation. “What do we have to do to find me a position in the War Office? I cannot guarantee that will be sufficient to obtain the information I need, but it might at least give us an income until I find another situation.”

  She gazed up at his stubborn jaw with amazement. He did not look happy to concede to using her social connections, but at least he admitted he needed her aid. “You don’t mind escorting me to salons and soirees? There are not many other events this time of year.”

  He glared at the crumbling garden wall. “I’d almost rather attend balls and dance the night away with you than listen to people natter mindlessly. My leg has begun to heal, so dancing I might do. Gossip . . . I don’t suppose they’d appreciate Shakespeare.”

  Of course, that was the way into his heart! Her boy thrived on action. Blake was a very physical man, despite all that activity buzzing around in his brainbox. He needed one or the other—physical or intellectual exercise. Preferably, both at the same time.

  “One day, we’ll hold our own galas, have dancing, and only invite people who like Shakespeare,” she said dreamily. “But for now . . . I’ll send a note around to Lady Belden. She’ll know which gatherings will be best for our purposes and will help us obtain invitations.”

  He looked down at her. “You are very sure of yourself.”

  She beamed up at him. “You are the one who believes only you can crack this mysterious code. Our mutual arrogance is boundless.”

  “I think you terrify me,” he said with what appeared to be sincerity. “Let us both get to work then, and see if we can at least turn London upside down, even if we cannot save England from itself.”

  “We are a little frightening together, aren’t we?” she murmured, as much to herself as to him. If he would truly accept her as helpmate, they would be a very dangerous pair, indeed.

  In the parlor after luncheon, writing notes offering to buy Percy from the Duke of Fortham, and to Lady Belden inquiring about which invitat
ions they should accept, Jocelyn looked up at the discreet knock of the footman. She had her own footman. She could only marvel at her good fortune.

  “A lady to see you, miss,” the young man intoned dutifully.

  “Did she present a card?” she asked, hoping one day Teddy would learn to ask for one.

  Since they did not employ enough servants to guard the door and carry messages at the same time, it was no surprise when the lady appeared in the doorway before Teddy could reply.

  “My dear Jocelyn!” Antoinette gushed, pushing past the startled servant. “How happy it is to see our home restored so excellently!”

  “Teddy, I am never at home to Lady Carrington,” Jocelyn admonished. She did not worry about insulting her sister-in-law, who had insulted her so many times over the years that it had become a way of passing time. “Please fetch Mr. Montague from the carriage house, if you will.”

  “Ah, can we not put the past behind us?” Antoinette cried in her best demonstration of regret as the footman departed. She’d barely covered her thick dark tresses with a tiny indigo bonnet lined in white frills. Her matching spencer was cut to emphasize her splendid bosom. “We were very young before. I am only come to see that the poor birdies are safe. I was devastated, so crushed when that beast of a husband of mine sold them! I told him he had no right, but would he listen? No, he does not listen!”

  “Then you are well matched,” Jocelyn replied disagreeably. “The birds are fine, and no, you cannot see them.”

  “But I can tell you where to find the other birdies,” Antoinette declared in triumph. “You may have all manner of them twittering in your lovely birdhouse. If only I might have the pretty pair of Greys back. They are special to me in my loneliness, you see.”

  “No, I do not see. They are Richard’s birds. Harold sold them. I cannot imagine you have a place in town that would suitably house them. And I can find the others without your help. If the birds are all you want, you have wasted your time.”