The Devilish Montague (29 page)

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 agreed 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 invitations 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.”

Tears appeared in the woman’s eyes. Jocelyn had seen Antoinette produce tears at will, twisting stupid Harold and any man in her company to her pleas. She was not impressed when Tony began patting the corner of her eye. In fact, she was fairly certain the lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief Tony wielded had once belonged to Jocelyn’s mother. Her brother and his wife must be deep in debt, indeed, if they could not afford new linen.

“I have tried so very hard to be the good Englishwoman,” Antoinette wept. “But the English are so . . . how you say? Bigoted? The ladies will not accept me. I have only the birdies for company. If you would see fit to forgive me, perhaps we can help each other.”

The act almost had Jocelyn convinced she had treated Antoinette harshly—until Blake arrived, looking rumpled and annoyed and covered in dust. He waited patiently for an explanation, jarring Jocelyn back to reality.

“Lady Carrington, may I introduce my husband, Blake Montague? Blake, my sister-in-law. I believe she was just leaving.”

Antoinette patted her teary eye and peered up at him from beneath her bonnet. “You would not deprive a poor lady from seeing her pets, would you?”

Blake shot Jocelyn an inscrutable scowl, caught Tony’s elbow, and steered her toward the door. “The pig and roosters are in the yard, my lady. I will be happy to let you pet them. You might take them with you, if you prefer.”

Jocelyn nearly choked on laughter at the dismay in Antoinette’s expression. She did not know what her brother’s wife meant to steal, but a pig was apparently not on the agenda.

 

After Tony had left in a huff, Blake returned to his carriage house office to work on the one coded message he possessed. He spun his homemade wheel to note the next combination of letters. Twenty-six letters and nine numerals had an almost infinite number of combinations.

Just as he was thinking he would perish of hunger and ought to see if supper was far off, Jocelyn poked her head through the trap door in the floor. “Thank you for removing Antoinette.”

Trying to avoid further distraction, he noted the sequence of numbers and turned the next wheel. “It was my pleasure. Is she demented?”

“No more so than the rest of us. Did she have more to say after you dragged her out?”

“Only that she would ruin us, and she will have her vengeance,” he repeated, attempting to concentrate on his work while the loft filled with the scent of lavender and his mind conjured images of his bride’s magnificent, naked breasts.

“Hmm,” she murmured, climbing into his apartment and glancing around.

Blake lifted his head at her odd reticence and watched her chew her lovely bottom lip in thought. Something was on her mind. Prurient images fled when faced with real problems. “What did the duke say?” he demanded.

“He didn’t,” she answered. “Lady Bell says he’s at his hunting box in Scotland. Unless you are interested in traveling north to discuss Percy’s price, we are left to deal with Mr. Ogilvie on our own.”

“He’s a twit. It’s Ogilvie’s choice of companions that concerns me. Can you arrange to send Harold and his wife to perdition?”

“Harold? Harold is a twit, too. A good stout stick should take care of him.”

Blake suspected his gentle wife had never had the physical courage or ability to defend herself or Richard. She must have spent nights dreaming of wielding cudgels and swords. He believed she’d mentioned stout sticks in reference to Harold in the past.

She did not putter or natter or do anything more than fill the vast empty space with her beauty. That’s all it took to distract Blake from his work. With a sigh, he set the wheel and his pen down and let himself enjoy his wife’s charms. It wasn’t as if he had a chance in hell of breaking this code without more information than he possessed, and it was obvious she was chewing on a dilemma of her own.