The Devilish Montague (37 page)

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.

“Jocelyn, give up the bird,” Blake repeated, his voice steady.

“No,” she declared, clinging to the cage. “I would rather you beat Harold senseless with the poker, please.”

Harold stretched her chin higher, endangering her neck, but she still would not surrender. She prayed Blake did not expect her to, that he understood this fight was about more than a bird. It was about self-respect and fighting for what was right.

“I need that bird,” Harold growled. “Release it before your little playmate tries anything stupid.”

“Let him have the cage,” Blake said calmly.

Oh, she’d let Harold have it, all right. She’d crack his skull with the cage, if she could. “Why?” she managed to mutter from her uncomfortable position, wondering if she could possibly let Harold have the cage and still rescue Percy.

“Oh, just a small matter of treason,” her husband claimed with deceptive nonchalance.

Treason? Jocelyn tried to swallow. She heard Blake approaching. She had a strong suspicion that the calmer he sounded, the more dangerous he became. If Harold was a traitor . . .

She choked on bile. Her family could ruin Blake’s good name forever. He would never take a position at Whitehall. He’d go to war and die, just as his mother feared.

She panicked, wondering if Blake was less likely to be blamed if she gave up the cage.

“A matter of survival,” Harold corrected. “Your husband is a bit too clever for his own good if he’s figured out the purpose of the birds, but he doesn’t understand necessity.” He forced her chin higher. “Play nice, and Antoinette’s brother and his cronies will be happy, and the authorities need never know. Give me the bird, Jocelyn, or I’ll blame everything on your new husband and see him hang.”

She almost handed him the cage then. But she couldn’t. She’d changed in these last months. She thought maybe Blake had given her the confidence to develop a backbone of sorts. She simply could not let the bully have his way.

“I don’t believe thieves and liars, Harold,” she declared proudly, “so nothing you can say will change my mind.” Jocelyn knew she was pushing Harold to his limits, that she should not rely on a white knight coming to her rescue.

But this time, she had someone strong on her side, someone who believed in justice and honesty. This time, she was trusting Blake not to call her a flibbertiwidget but to see that she was right and act accordingly. Even if Harold was a traitor—
especially
if he was a traitor—he had to be stopped.

She knew when Blake reached her side, even if she couldn’t see him from the awkward angle at which Harold held her. She could smell his shaving soap and the male scent. She had only one chance to distract Harold so Blake could reach him.

She shrieked at the top of her lungs and slammed her head backward into her brother’s chin.

The blackest moment of Blake’s life was hearing his brave Jocelyn scream and watching her crumple to the floor after the flash of Harold’s knife.

The bastard may as well have stabbed him in the heart. Never could he survive Jocelyn’s loss, even if she was a mule-headed nodcock for placing a bird’s life above her own. She was
his
nodcock and he loved her beyond reason.

For England and honor, Blake knew his duty was to leap out the window and chase the traitor as he fled into the night. Percy’s squawks made an easy trail to follow.

But he could not desert Jocelyn, as every other person in her life had done, not while the beautiful, laughing, defiant creature of moments earlier lay still in a puddle of silk upon the floor. What good were duty and honor if he lost her?

Shedding his hampering monk’s robe, leaving him in shirtsleeves and trousers, Blake dropped to his knees. Anguish washed over him as he dug in his waistcoat pocket for a clean handkerchief to stop the blood marring a loosened silver curl. The knife had slashed off the rope of diamonds, tearing the jewels from Jocelyn’s slender throat. The cut left behind didn’t look deep, but she was unconscious.
Had Carrington broken her neck?

Blake’s hands shook, and inside he screamed at the injustice as he very carefully examined the wound. Jocelyn did not deserve this. Finally, he saw her chest move. She was breathing, so must he. He applied the linen to staunch the bleeding and prayed as he’d never prayed before.

At his touch, her lashes fluttered open and frosty blue eyes glared up at him. “Stop him, Blake! Don’t let the jackass escape!” she rasped.

She might as well have punched a fist to his chest and awakened his heart. Blood pumped through his veins again, air filled his lungs, and rage rushed to his head. Still, Jocelyn came first.

“He’s stealing part of a French code machine. If I catch him and he’s judged a traitor,” Blake warned, “it will mean your family will be ostracized by all society.”

“No.” She shook her head, winced, and grabbed the linen he still held to her throat. “No, England and your future are more important. We can lose the house. I can live elsewhere. But I will not let the bully win. Stop him!”

Blake hoped she would someday forgive him for once believing she lacked depth of character. He wanted to cover her in kisses for giving him the freedom to do as he must. In relief, he pressed his lips to her forehead. She would not regret her sacrifice.

He left her to struggle to her feet and vaulted out the window to the side yard.

Outside, he had to determine Carrington’s direction. Richard and half the party were running frantically about among the dark shrubbery, shouting and chasing a portly figure in a domino.

Bitty, the Pomeranian ball of fluff, had apparently escaped the kitchen. She ran yipping in happy circles around their guests, thinking this a new game designed just for her delectation.

Even as Blake watched, the domino-clad figure carrying a cage holding squawking Africa tripped over the mutt, splashed his way across the lily pond, and attempted to escape down the carriage drive. If Ogilvie wanted the duke’s bird, the idiot was in the process of birdnapping the wrong parrot.