Lady Bell laughed. “The Belden ladies never threw out good fabric. These gowns have probably been wrapped in linens for a hundred years. I don’t fancy being a victim like Lady Anne, though. That color is gorgeous with your ice blond hair. You could be an ice queen.”
Jocelyn swept the gown about her, admiring the yards of silk. “Blake says we must go as monks in homespun and ropes. That may suit him, but . . .”
“You belong in silk,” Lady Belden said firmly. “I will wear rubies with the black, and you must wear the diamonds.”
“But ice queens aren’t real.”
“Masquerades aren’t real,” Lady Belden said, adjusting the gown’s bodice to Jocelyn’s waistline. “Our purpose is to prove the rumors aren’t true, that you and your husband are blissfully happy and well set for funds. Diamonds are perfect.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would conspire and spread lies to harm us.” Jocelyn fretted at a worn bit of lace while thinking of the note Blake had received that morning. “I have written the duke about his parrot to say we will pay him for it with my next allowance, which should satisfy Ogilvie. What purpose does lying serve?”
Lady Bell patted her shoulder. “If money would help, I could give you the price of the bays I’m about to acquire from Lord Quentin. Just the pleasure of winning is worth every penny.”
“But if you gave me money, I’d have to buy Blake’s colors,” Jocelyn objected, willing to be distracted from Horrid Harold. She already knew the details of her friend’s wager. “And then you’d lose. Although I must say, Lord Quentin’s half of the bet is very murky. If I give Blake all he wants by spring? Who is to judge what he wants?”
Her hostess laughed. “Oh, I mean to bring out his sister no matter what the outcome. She’s a Hoyt, after all, and deserves the benefit of my late husband’s wealth. It’s merely the winning that counts. Quent is much too sure of himself.”
“I’m inclined to agree if Lord Quentin’s wager means that he believes Blake can talk me into buying colors and sending him off to be shot at. It’s the honorable thing to do, I know, but no one has ever claimed that I am honorable. I can’t help hoping there are other means of accomplishing what he wants.”
Especially if she could keep him home so they could continue what they’d shared last night! She blushed every time she thought of where Blake’s hands and mouth—and her own—had been, so she tried not to think too much.
“We’ll never get him into the Foreign Office if Ogilvie and Carrington persist in their slanders,” Lady Bell said fretfully. “I don’t know why that would be their intent, but your husband already has a curmudgeonly reputation that works against him.”
The marchioness tapped her chin in thought. “If we are to overcome the slanders, it might be best to arrange an exclusive entertainment, so exclusive that it requires traveling outside of the city to Chelsea.”
“I’m not sure Carrington House”—or her family—“is ready for a masquerade,” Jocelyn said worriedly. She had vaguely hoped Lady Bell would offer to host it.
“Our purpose is to show the proper people in Whitehall that Mr. Montague could be valuable to their goals, is it not? Can you think of a better way of discrediting Carrington and his lies than by opening your home with an elegant entertainment to prove you have nothing to hide?”
“An entertainment that does not include Viscount Pig in the home he claims is still his own,” Jocelyn said. “The perfect bait to snare a conniving rat.”
“The women are scheming,” Quent said with unconcern, watching Blake tack an alphanumeric frequency analysis chart on the carriage house wall. “You’re about to lose me my bays, aren’t you?”
“Your cattle are scarcely my concern,” Blake reminded him. “But if the women are scheming, it’s over Carrion.” He hung an analysis of the coded message beside the larger chart.
Quentin glanced at the charts and dismissed them. “I’m more concerned with what the ladies are about.”
Blake gave up on work. “The invitation list is inside. Do you wish to see it?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.” Quent rose from the desk chair and brushed straw dust off his hat. “I don’t suppose you care to explain why you work in a carriage house instead of in your study like a civilized man?”
“You’ll see.” Blake backed down the ladder stairs to the barn, where he’d installed his father’s cabriolet and carriage horse while his father was out of town, thus saving stable rent. Living out here had several advantages it seemed.
He led Quent inside the house through the conservatory door. Percy shouted, “Fermez la bouche,” from his perch in the palm tree, and Africa retorted, “Seventeen seventy-six.” At the sight of Blake, Percy began singing his hey-nonny song.
Blake put his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply. At the sound, Percy quit singing his obscene ditty—as Blake had taught him to do. The birds learned very quickly.
Richard looked up from whittling a code wheel that would match the one Blake had made. As Jocelyn had predicted, the lad was settling down now that he felt safe. He’d even lost his haunted look. He still stuffed eggs in every nook and cranny and got frantic if one was out of place, but then, no one was perfect. It just necessitated looking under cushions and pillows before sitting on them.
“You have a way with birds,” Quent said as he followed Blake into the house.
“Animals are easy. It’s humans who are complicated.” Blake pushed open the study door, hoping he’d see Jocelyn engaged in her party planning.
But only Lady Carrington occupied the room, filling a table with her books and papers. She looked up, wiggled an ink-stained finger in greeting, and returned to her scholarly pursuits. The puppy lay on its furry back, legs curled, snoring before the fireplace, oblivious of intruders.
Blake found it hard to believe he had an entire household teeming with irritating complications and that he suffered their presence without annoyance. He needed to study that anomaly, but he suspected it had much to do with having a wife he lusted after and more important things to occupy his mind than worrying over minor nuisances. As long as he was doing instead of stewing, he could tolerate almost anything. It was idleness that frustrated him. He’d not suffered a dull moment since his wedding day.
Blake rummaged through the papers Jocelyn had left scattered over the desk and produced a list of names, and handed it to Quent for his perusal. “As I understand it, since this is the off season, the company was limited.”
Quent raised his eyebrows and chuckled as he studied the list. “She’s even invited the Duke of Fortham! You have acquired an exceedingly devious bride, Montague. If you had the funds to join White’s, you might reach some of these men on your own, but most of them are semiretired, with young wives who will adore the idea of a masquerade. You’ll despise most of the lot, but they have the connections you need. A martyr to the cause, you’ll be.”
“There you are. A masquerade of stuffed mummies.”
“The duke isn’t back from Scotland,” Quentin reminded him, returning the list.
Blake shrugged. “We owe him for the bird. I assume Jocelyn considers the invitation a social obligation. If the masquerade is a success, I daresay she will gladly throw any number of parties for the younger set like your sisters to attend. She isn’t a high-stickler.”
Blake admitted this last with approval. His wife would be far more likely to discriminate in favor of interesting people over wealthy, aristocratic ones.
Blake thought his mental ledger was leaning heavily on the approval side of a woman he’d once thought a bird-wit. He ought to punch himself out for blind stupidity.
Quentin laughed at Blake’s stunned expression of discovery. “If I lose those bays, I’ll make your wife oversee my sister’s come-out next Season.”
“Marry and have your own wife do it,” Blake replied in disgruntlement. “The cost of gowns alone would break us. Are we standing here cackling like hens or studying Richard’s bird talk list to find any connection to
Carrington or Ogilvie?”
“Me? You’re asking me to solve your puzzle? I’m just checking on my investment.” Still grinning, Quentin donned his hat and headed for the front door.
Blake threw his friend a black look and returned to the conservatory, where Richard was happily looking for patterns in the birds’ nonsense calls. Despite the intellectual distraction, Jocelyn preoccupied Blake’s mind.
He wasn’t yet ready to admit his obsession with his wife, but his every thought these days seemed to be connected to her. He couldn’t even remember why he’d once wanted to remain a bachelor.
31
Blake watched Jocelyn flutter around the bedchamber they’d shared this past week. They’d done more than share a room and a bed. They’d shared their bodies in every way but one. He knew now that she was a generous woman, willing to shower him with all the devotion she offered her family and animals, if he would only let her.
But not knowing his future, he couldn’t let her, and he suffered pangs of . . . emptiness . . . in consequence, needing something he could not quite define. He blamed it on the fact that they’d done everything except consummate their marriage—his wife was still a virgin. And he knew she ought to remain that way if he must enlist as a common soldier, which was an increasingly likely event.
He had no right to rob her of the security she prized so much, but he was no further ahead on solving the code than before. Unless they performed miracles at Jocelyn’s masquerade and convinced powerful men that he was capable of working with others, so he could find employment at Whitehall . . . He was more likely to learn bird talk.
Despite applying his analytical mind to the problem, he’d not been able to put together all the pieces of the other puzzle that lay tauntingly out of his reach. Carrington, his French wife, the birds, and a mysterious intruder could very well be a danger to Jocelyn. He feared he was missing a significant piece of the riddle. He’d had Atherton keeping an eye and ear open for the Frenchman offering a reward for the birds, but even Nick had uncovered no trace of him.
Blake’s patience almost unraveled when Jocelyn appeared from behind the dressing screen wearing a diaphanous night shift. He flung his neckcloth across a chair while she let down her hair, cautiously watching him in her mirror.
The tension between them could not continue much longer. Thanks to his own greedy stupidity, Jocelyn was now as aware of the pleasures of the flesh as he. An eager student, she kept pressing for more, unaware of how much his restraint cost him.
“I am nervous about tomorrow night,” she admitted, ignoring his pacing. “What if no one comes?”
“It’s a masquerade, and there is little entertainment in the city until society returns over the next month. Your guests will show up, if only to satisfy their curiosity and be the first to carry the gossip.” Blake shrugged out of his coat and resisted reaching for her hairbrush. He’d tried stroking the tangles out of Jocelyn’s silken tresses the other night, and they’d ended up naked, rolling across the carpet, inches away from doing what he’d promised not to do.
Closing his eyes and thinking of duty and England wasn’t helping much anymore. He walked about in a permanent state of arousal. He clutched his fingers into fists and willed his body into submission.
“I’m afraid Harold may attempt trouble,” she said in a voice so low, Blake wasn’t certain he was meant to hear.
“I’ve prepared for it,” Blake replied curtly. “I cannot imagine what he and Ogilvie hope to achieve except a bit of birdnapping.”
“It does not make sense,” Jocelyn fretted, slamming her brush onto the dressing table. “I can see that Mr. Ogilvie might be peeved because I stole Percy, but Harold must know that he cannot squeeze blood from a turnip. What does he have to gain by helping Mr. Ogilvie steal Percy back or by spreading lies about us?”
Blake feared he knew the answer. “The duke wanted Bernie to marry you. So Bernie’s now in disgrace not only for losing the parrot, but also for losing you and your funds. When I refused his challenge the second time, he took insult. Worse yet, I shot Harold in a duel some years ago,” he admitted. “He may want retaliation, too.”
He waited for a storm of accusations about his violent ways and how he risked lives—and how their current predicament was all his fault.
Instead, Jocelyn looked up at him, nearly glowing with approval. “Did you really shoot Harold? I wish I could have been there. I’m utterly sure he deserved it, whatever the matter was.”
Blake thought he might laugh and fall at her feet in relief that she did not hold him in contempt. He ought to kiss her, but that was dangerous territory. “What kind of sister approves of a man shooting her brother?”
“One who has spent the better part of her life hiding from that brute of a brother. He used to hit anyone who crossed his path.”
“He hit you?” Blake thought his rage would explode the walls.
“He never got near enough to hit me after the first time. I learned to be very good at staying out of everyone’s way,” she said, as if men striking women and women hiding from men were a perfectly natural occurrence. “What did he do to cause you to duel?”
Blake could scarcely keep his mind on the conversation while fury boiled his blood. Jocelyn didn’t deserve a display of temper. He’d reserve that for Harold when he caught him.
“Harold encouraged a good man to invest his last ha’penny in a fraudulent shipping scam. Your brother pocketed a commission for the bad investment and walked away free. My friend merely wanted to better his lot so he could court his childhood sweetheart. Instead, he is serving in the army just to put food on his plate, and the woman he loved married someone else. I thought Harold ought to pay his fair share of the pain he caused, so we dueled and I shot him.”
Jocelyn rose from the dressing table to envelop him in lavender scent and sensual silk. She pressed eager kisses to his newly shaven jaw. Blake hugged her bounteous curves against him, resting his chin on her moongold hair. Just having her in his arms served to reduce his rage, if not his lust. She tore him in two with emotions he had little experience in fighting.
“I’m glad you shot him,” she said fiercely. “It is a pity he did not rot from the wound. I do not know how he could have grown up so vile.”
“I suppose he was a pampered only son and heir for many years,” Blake suggested, letting her head on his shoulder calm the beast inside him. “He no doubt resented your mother and her babies and having your father’s attention diverted to a second son. It happens.”
“Or he could have been born a pig,” she added, stepping away before he was ready to let her go. Her expression was fierce. “He was out of university and on his own by the time Richard arrived. He had no reason to resent him, but he did, most horribly.”
“He hurt a baby?” Blake asked, incredulous.
“Every time Harold came home, Richard had some dreadful accident.”
Temper stained her cheeks with pink, and Blake realized she hid her emotions as well as he did. And she was trusting him enough to let him see who she really was.
“Poor Richard simply never understood what he was doing wrong,” she said tearfully. “I finally took to hiding him until Harold left again. The pig usually only came home for money.”
“Accidents?” Blake asked, processing this confirmation of his suspicions. “What kind of accidents?”
She looked at him with curiosity. “Richard would fall down entire flights of stairs, or his pony would throw him off, things that Harold could not possibly be blamed for. But it simply happened too often when he was home for it to be a coincidence.”
Rage rose in Blake’s gullet at a coward who would harm the helpless. His hands itched to form fists, but he merely tugged her back into his arms and hugged her. He had a family to protect now. He could not go about challenging Harold to duels any longer.
“That reminds me, I must teach Richard to defend himself,” was all he said while his mind fit this puzzle piece into the bigger picture.
Random events began to connect. Harold and Ogilvie had gone to the same public school as boys, a public school where they might learn the same ugly “accidents” for tormenting each other. That first burr under his saddle—that may have been Ogilvie’s idea of retaliation for the duel. The andiron had been placed immediately after Blake had argued with Ogilvie over the parrot. The runaway horse had occurred after Jocelyn had turned Harold away and gone out with Blake.
He wasn’t clumsy and fate wasn’t trying to kill him. Ogilvie and Carrington had been behind at least some of his earlier accidents, motivated by spite, rage, and frustration. That’s how the small minds of bullies worked. Ogilvie could have hoped to marry Jocelyn if Blake was out of the way. Carrington might have hoped to gain control of his sister’s inheritance. And the birds? They didn’t fit—yet.
“Teaching Richard to hide worked when he was little, but he’s almost a man and must learn to fight back,” was all Blake said aloud.
Jocelyn nodded against his shoulder. “Since Harold has no children, Richard is his heir. If he may someday be a viscount, he needs a man to help him grow up. Viscount Pig is not a man.”
Blake smiled into her hair at her ferocity. “I have learned not to get on your wrong side, my deadly queen. And I shall keep pistols away from you until you have learned to shoot them properly.”
“I don’t think I should like shooting anyone. I think I prefer stout sticks.”
“No, you prefer hiding. Perhaps I’ll teach you both to fence.”
He was about to carry her off to bed when the unmistakable pounding of teenage male feet on the stairs echoed through the corridor outside.
“Blake!” Richard shouted. “Blake, come see!”
Jocelyn froze. “Richard, what is wrong?” She rushed for her robe before Blake had time to protest.
He caught her arms, preventing her from donning it. “I’ll be there in a minute, Richard. You needn’t alarm your sister like that.”
The Devilish Montague Page 26