“No violence,” Jocelyn warned. “We are all civilized, mature citizens with a healthy desire to satisfy our curiosity about Harold’s peculiar behavior. There is no call for violence.”
He had not told her of his suspicions about Harold’s wife and French codes. Jocelyn still thought they were trying to stop birdnappers and her brother’s lying gossip. If, after tonight, she took up swords and killed him, he could hardly blame her.
“Shall we have sherry and brandy in the parlor?” she suggested, leading the way.
“What peculiar behavior are we curious about?” Lady Danecroft inquired.
“Peculiar thieves,” Nick said with deceptive joviality, already having been apprised of Blake’s plot. Behind his blithe insouciance, Nick was on full alert tonight.
“Birds are peculiar,” Quentin replied, entering the parlor to discover Richard and Lady Carrington hanging Percy’s cage to a warning bell Richard had concocted to protect his pet. The dowager viscountess was looking distinguished in a velvet gown from her youth, with her hair elaborately coiffed. Richard had dressed in a proper jacket and trousers, but his neckcloth was already awry.
Jocelyn had not been happy when Blake had insisted on setting the birds up where they could be seen. He couldn’t explain his plot without making her even less happy. The ice queen hauteur was probably for his benefit. She still hadn’t learned to express her anger well, which was probably for the best.
“Awwwk, Percy want a canary,” the parrot called, preening the fluffy new gray feathers he’d grown since being rescued.
“Fermez la bouche,” Blake told the creature, reaching for the brandy bottle.
“Africa knows,” the Grey replied happily, doing a little jig on his new perch and inspecting the guests gathering around him.
Africa knows. The birds repeated anything they heard. Africa knew the code key. How often had Percy heard the phrase? Blake’s stomach soured at the treason hanging over their heads.
“You’re training the bird to be a courtier,” Nick decided. “Teach him flattery and we’ll take him to Prinny.”
“Nick doesn’t really mean that, Richard,” Blake reassured the boy, who looked alarmed. “Nick says a great deal of meaningless things, just like Percy.”
Jocelyn sighed and took his arm. A rich perfume more potent than her usual lavender enveloped him, rendering him momentarily speechless. Which was probably her purpose, since she took charge. Lady Bell was correct. Jocelyn was meant to lead society.
“You are all here because you are our friends and would not spread the ridiculous rumors my half brother is perpetrating about town,” Jocelyn blithely declared. “Blake has important information for the War Office, and we must make our guests aware that Harold’s vicious rumors are untrue so they will take Blake seriously. I don’t think that kind of plotting requires weapons, only common sense and your support.”
In the light of new knowledge, even Harold’s rumor-mongering pointed to evil intent—he, or his wife, was hoping to discredit anything Blake should discover. If Jocelyn’s party did not cement Blake’s reputation as a respectable citizen, the War Office might laugh off his spy theory as Castlereagh already had.
“Hear, hear!” Fitz cried, lifting his glass in a salute. “Well said. Am I allowed to fleece your guests in the game room, just a little?”
“Fleece them all you like,” Blake agreed, “as long as they come away thinking you’re a jolly good fellow and they ought to heed you when you tell them I’m not a desperate cad preying on my impecunious bride, as Carrington is spreading about.”
With the bird secured, Lady Carrington smiled vaguely at their guests and drifted away. Richard stayed to monitor his pet. They’d divided the parrots in hopes of confusing any thieves. Now that Blake had a facsimile of the original spindle and the key to the code, he didn’t need the ivory perch. Percy swung on it now, taunting villains, as planned.
“This isn’t just about Carrington’s rumors, is it?” Quentin murmured to Blake as the general conversation took a more lighthearted turn.
“Squelching rumors is what the ladies hope,” Blake replied, watching Jocelyn as she charmed his friends with laughter, gentle touches, and an adept word or question here and there.
“But you think Carrington will show. Why? Was he added to the invitation list?”
“Hardly. Richard would run for the hills if the viscount showed up. Jocelyn would take a fire iron to Harold’s head. But Carrington has a reason for maligning my name and for conspiring with Bernie. And I think I know what it is.”
“Do you intend to tell me or remain enigmatic?” Quent asked in disgruntlement.
“I have Jocelyn’s mother and brother to consider. You’ve seen them. They’re helpless as babes in the woods. Jocelyn has stood between them and the real world for years. She’s very good at it because she enjoys attention and diverts it from them. If Carrington is what I fear he is, his treachery could ruin them.”
“I’m not following,” Quentin admitted. “Carrington is a termite, I understand, but I don’t see how that can harm your wife or her family.”
From across the parlor, Jocelyn sent Blake a knowing glance. He lifted his glass in salute, as if he wasn’t being torn by powerful forces. Even the suspicion of treason would destroy Jocelyn’s social standing. He needed proof first. “Just keep an eye out for Carrington and Ogilvie. I expect them or their hired scoundrels to be lurking.”
“Fitz and Nick are watching for them also?”
Blake nodded. “I’m hoping we can catch the cads without an audience, but the chances aren’t good. Jocelyn’s invitations have all been accepted, and she’s expecting a crush. You should find yourself a wife like her. She’d erase the stench of trade and have half of society believing you’re heir to a kingdom.”
Quent snorted. “Apparently love infects the brains of even the smartest men. I hope she’s worth it, old chap.” After pounding Blake on the back, he wandered off to annoy Lady Bell.
Leaving Blake to ponder his words. Lust might be affecting his brains, but love? That would indeed be dangerous.
And might explain why he was oddly reluctant to catch a traitor and blot the name of Carrington.
33
Jocelyn sighed happily as the house filled with laughing, cheerful people—just as she’d once dreamed, and all thanks to Blake.
Because of the crowd, it wasn’t obviously noticeable that the surroundings were a little shabby. The company was too busy preening in their costumes, drinking Lady Bell’s fine wine, and exclaiming over one another to care if the sofa was outmoded or the draperies were muslin. She’d purchased some greenery on credit, and Lady Bell and Lord Quentin had contributed more, so the heated glasshouse looked both spacious and elegant.
The diamonds she wore were having an amazing effect. All her father’s old cronies patted her on the back and murmured about knowing her father had taken care of her and that the rumors clearly weren’t true. Their wives hummed with envy and assured Jocelyn they’d be sending invitations to dinners, the kind of invitations Blake needed to make his way in government. It was amazing how much society judged on appearance.
She was astoundingly fortunate to have found the one man who saw her, and not just what she wore. A man who could even see beyond what she said to what she meant. Someone probably ought to slap some sense into her, but she was giddy with happiness. Her brilliant husband thought she was clever and useful and not a burden!
She sought a glimpse of Blake across the conservatory and hoped he was succeeding in meeting the men he needed to impress.
Because so many of these people were old friends of her father’s, they accepted Richard’s peculiarities without the usual maliciousness. Well, most of them just ignored him, but Richard preferred to be ignored. She watched as he showed Lady Jersey how to feed Africa. The lady might regret giving up her canaries if birds became all the rage again.
Blake had found local musicians to play country dances—nothing sophisticated, but a
pleasant diversion for those so inclined. She had hoped to join Blake in the dancing later. She’d spent this first hour memorizing costumes as their guests arrived. If their ploy worked and drew out the miscreants who were causing them such grief, she needed to differentiate between guests and intruders.
Jocelyn narrowed her eyes as an unfamiliar domino wove through the colorful costumes in the center of the conservatory. That domino hadn’t been among those she’d greeted.
“Lady Danecroft, may I impose upon you?” she murmured to the countess, who had stopped beside her at the buffet table.
With the ruff of her Queen of Hearts costume slightly askew, Abigail Wyckerly paused in her contemplation of the tarts. “Gladly. Fitz has deserted me for the gaming table, and I do not know half these people, so any task will amuse me.”
“I will be happy to introduce you to any and all, but right now, I need my husband or one of his friends to keep an eye on that man in the domino, the short one, not Lord Quentin. Whoever you find, tell him I’ll be in the parlor. I suspect that stealing Percy may be the intruder’s purpose in coming here.”
“You will tell me the story sometime?” Lady Danecroft asked, picking up on Jocelyn’s urgency.
“It could easily become the evening’s entertainment,” Jocelyn promised grimly. It would most certainly be diverting to punch Bernie in the beak if he meant to steal Percy back. She didn’t understand why Blake had insisted on placing Percy in plain sight.
The Queen of Hearts nodded and dived into the crowd.
Clenching her fingers into fists, Jocelyn wended her way toward the conservatory exit, stopping to chat when she was approached while keeping an eye on the figure in black.
Instead of aiming for the front parlor and Percy, the unidentified guest gravitated toward the greenery where Richard and Africa were entertaining a small group. Was she wrong? Was that not someone attempting to retrieve Percy for the duke?
She hesitated, then noticed the Queen of Hearts and the formidable Lord Quentin striding toward Richard, and sighed in relief. Blake’s friend would make mincemeat of the intruder. Still, she’d feel better if she checked on Percy.
A few ladies asked for the retiring chamber, and she directed them to the top of the stairs. In the foyer, she noticed that the front door had been left open. Her footman was nowhere about. She supposed some of the gentlemen might have stepped outside to smoke. That was the trouble with a small house. There was never enough room for everyone’s bad habits.
Blake’s study had become a gaming room, routing her mother from her usual hiding place. Jocelyn saw that Lord Danecroft had amassed a stack of coins in front of him. She waved when he winked at her, but she continued on. Blake had said his friend was short of funds, with a costly estate he hoped to return to profit. She liked his countess and wished the earl well, but she was glad Blake was not in the habit of gambling.
A few elderly ladies had congregated in the parlor, away from the dancing and music. They had set up their own card table and scarcely glanced up at Jocelyn’s entrance. Lady Bell was there, chatting with several of her friends and feeding Percy. The bird was safe for the moment.
The only male present was Teddy, the footman, offering a round of punch to the ladies. The man in the domino would look exceedingly out of place if he charged into this chamber.
Relieved, Jocelyn swept across the parlor to speak with Lady Bell. The billowing old-fashioned skirts and panniers she wore made her feel like a ship rolling across the sea, and the diamonds felt like an anchor around her neck. She’d be happy to divest herself of them soon.
She noticed someone had opened a casement window overlooking the side yard. The heavy stench of perfume and candle smoke required fresh air, but it would be better if one of the windows away from Percy were opened. She could fix that.
“Jocelyn, there you are,” Lady Bell called as she approached. “I was just telling Lady Ann that you designed this brilliant costume for me.”
Jocelyn curtsied to the Duke of Fortham’s daughter. “That is an amazing watered silk, my lady. Angelic, with all the lace and petticoats. I do believe your fashion style suits Mr. Atherton’s costume.”
Tall with dark hair that set off the ivory silk of her gown, Lady Ann did not smile. “I believe Atherton chose his costume to outdo me on purpose. His sisters knew what I would be wearing.”
“I cannot imagine why he would—” Jocelyn paused, seeing movement outside the window. Perhaps it was just one of the smokers. She hurriedly finished her sentence—“do such a thing, unless he seeks your attention.”
“Atherton? I hardly think so. My father would cut Nick’s throat.”
“Your father is one of the many reasons you are not married,” Lady Bell said with a laugh. “Is His Grace here? We sent him an invitation in case he’d returned from Scotland.”
“He’s home. He mentioned an impudent woman and putting her in her place, but I doubt he’ll show. In any case, you needn’t worry. Mostly, he’s all bark and no bite, though the bark is terrifying enough.”
Jocelyn laughed. “I shall have to correct His Grace’s notion of me if he deigns to put in an appearance.”
“Which just proves your impudence,” Lady Ann pointed out with a smile. “No one corrects my father.”
“He’s not met Mr. Montague then,” Lady Bell said. “He and Jocelyn are two of a kind.”
Trying to determine how she and Blake could possibly be alike, Jocelyn didn’t immediately reply. Before she could, the sounds of an escalating tumult reverberated from the conservatory.
Blake was already halfway through the crowd, pursuing Jocelyn, when Richard cried out in outrage, and Quent nearly knocked over a prancing Egyptian in his effort to reach the boy. Blake cast a hasty glance after his wife’s swaying skirts, but a struggle involving overturned greenery ensued as Richard dashed after someone hiding behind the potted palms. Blake changed course to follow the lad.
Before Blake could cross the crowded room, a pudgy man in a domino climbed from under a fallen palm and snatched Africa’s cage from Richard’s arms. The boy shouted, waving his hands and causing a commotion. Cursing the throng of costumed guests, Blake fought his way toward the back and the nearest exit—the thief’s apparent goal. Women screamed as the birdnapper stepped on the trains of their gowns. The musicians halted their playing in uncertainty.
Africa’s squawks rose above the screams, matched by Richard’s frenzied yells as the boy stumbled after the thief. Deciding the assemblage was too dense for him to elbow his way through, Blake turned back toward the empty corridor into the house with the intent of reaching the street to cut off the thief. Quent and Nick were closer to the rear and could block the back.
By the time Blake reached the parlor, the ladies at the card table had leaped up to see what was happening. Skirts and feathers and petticoats filled the corridor as Lady Bell and her friends raced past him, toward the conservatory.
Where was Jocelyn?
As the women’s gowns foamed around him like sea froth about a boulder, Blake fought to see if his wife was guarding the other trap Richard had set. He relaxed as he arrived at the door and saw Jocelyn reaching to shut the window near Percy’s cage. As if she was expecting him, she turned and lifted questioning eyes in Blake’s direction.
Alarm punched him in the gut at a sight just past his wife’s shoulder.
At his expression, Jocelyn whipped around.
A cloaked figure leaned through the open window, wielding a wicked knife and reaching out to slash the ropes attaching the cage to Richard’s makeshift alarm system. The bells rang a clarion, but the noise was drowned out by the crowd’s uproar in the conservatory.
Shouting his fury, Blake raced into the room and nearly died a thousand deaths as he watched Jocelyn grab a fireplace poker and whack at the wrist holding the cage.
The thief screamed in agony, grabbing his arm and dropping the cage, but not the knife. Apparently intent only on rescuing the bird, Jocelyn caught and cradled the
immense cage against her chest, nearly coming unbalanced from Percy’s terrified flapping.
To Blake’s horror, instead of fleeing, the cloaked intruder cursed and climbed over the sill, into the room. Before Blake could pull Jocelyn out of harm’s way, the villain had her in a stranglehold and was pressing the knife to her throat. With her arms full of cage, she couldn’t easily struggle.
One swift stroke, one wrong move, and Jocelyn could lose her life.
“Stand back, Montague, or I’ll make my pretty sister a little less attractive.”
Jocelyn thought her knees would give out, but Harold jerked her chin up so she couldn’t see Blake’s expression. The horror she’d glimpsed in her husband’s face as he’d entered was sufficient to make her regret that she’d involved him in another of her family’s disasters. She did not want him to regret marrying her, but for the first time in her life, she intended to fight back. Blake had shown her the meaning of courage.
Heart thudding, she clung to Percy’s cage, praying for a distraction before either man did anything rash. The commotion in the conservatory seemed to have grown in volume and had spilled into the yard.
She and Blake were alone in the parlor with Harold.
“It’s the bird or her life,” Harold said maliciously. “I’d hate to see a bastard like you gain her inheritance if I have to kill her.”
Setting her jaw, Jocelyn wriggled, attempting to force Harold to loosen his grip, but she refused to drop the cage. The knife pressed into her skin.
“Jocelyn, give him the damned bird,” Blake ordered in a calm voice.
She heard the ominous undertone to his words. She hoped he didn’t have a pistol. She didn’t want Blake hanging for murder.
If she let Percy go, Harold would win. They would never be safe again.
Everything she’d hoped for the future would be transformed into bleak emptiness unless she fought back now. She would not let Harold destroy their happy nest—again.
The Devilish Montague Page 28