2
“That is my bird,” Jocelyn Byrd-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 her 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.
As the next youngest in a family of much older half siblings, she had always lacked any sort of authority. She’d learned long ago that subterfuge was the best method of accomplishing what she wanted. Better than conking people over the head, at least.
Apparently not so reticent, Mr. Montague growled from near the library fireplace, “I told you to stubble that bird, Bernie. There are ladies present.”
“It’s my uncle’s bird,” Mr. Ogilvie protested. “His Grace would have
me
stubbled.”
Mr. Montague had avoided the ladies all evening, as he was avoiding her now by standing at the opposite end of the room and pretending Jocelyn was a piece of furniture. Being ignored rankled when she’d dressed to impress tonight, but her interest wasn’t in surly Montague, even if his father had hinted that he might include a house in a marriage settlement. A house was scarcely compensation for a man who was prone to violence and who would never possess the patience her eccentric family required. They would not suit.
Over the past few days, she had easily dismissed every man here as a potential suitor. Despite all his elegant sophistication, Mr. Atherton was a notorious rake. From Lady Bell’s investigations, Jocelyn knew Mr. Ogilvie had no income beyond an allowance from the duke, and he seemed to have no ambition toward improving his lot. Couple that with his friendship with her repulsive brother Harold, and he was the last man she’d consider. Lord Quentin was older and even more intimidating than Mr. Montague. He hadn’t noticed her existence. Why should he? He was already rich.
In frustration, she gave up the dream of reentering the society that she’d been denied upon her father’s death. Instead, she would find a home where Richard could own as many birds as he pleased. Since society frowned upon an unmarried lady living on her own—and her younger brother would scarcely be considered a competent guardian—she would start looking for a house outside London. Just escaping the life of drudgery in her half sisters’ households would be a satisfying use of her inheritance.
For the moment, she kept her goals simple—retrieving Richard’s abused pet.
To distract the argument brewing on the far side of the room, Jocelyn tapped her fan on Mr. Atherton’s shoulder. Another younger son, he was on everyone’s guest list simply because he looked pretty and his affability smoothed over many awkward social situations. She flapped her lashes at him, and nodded at the blank spines of the books on the wall they stood beside.
Being of an accommodating nature, he readily agreed to divert the quarrel over the bird by calling out, “I say, these books have no titles, Bernie.”
“That’s the servants’ door, silly,” admonished Frances Montague, Blake’s sister, leaning past them to examine the false facade. “Those are
faux
books.”
“They still need titles.” Mr. Montague joined them, his mood apparently more suited to playing word games than discussing parrots. Or perhaps that was the result of the quantity of brandy he’d consumed these past hours. “
Johnson’s Contradictionary
,” he suggested.
Mr. Montague was of a similar height to Atherton, but somehow he vibrated with a restrained energy that all the other gentlemen lacked. Jocelyn disliked the way she was drawn to his formidable presence—and admittedly clever wit—so she inched away.
“
Boyle on Steam
,” Lord Quentin added, sipping brandy and looking bored now that Lady Bell had retired for the evening. It was well past midnight, and he generally did not attend social occasions except as the marchioness’s escort.
With the argument redirected, Jocelyn removed herself from the game, picking up a genuine book and settling into a wing chair in a dark corner. Her original plan had been to hope they’d forget she was here until she could abscond with the parrot. But she feared that Mr. Montague forgot nothing.