The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  Quentin snorted and returned to the writing desk, where he was apparently working through a stack of documents requiring his signature. “I’m amazed she considered you bait at all. If Castlereagh is still here, he’s even less likely to listen to you than before, if he hears of this latest escapade.”

  Blake winced, but it was far too late to appease the war secretary.

  “I simply need to get my hands on more of that blamed French code before I can crack it,” Blake argued. “I have to be in Portugal, where messages might be intercepted. To hell with Castlereagh, I need colors.”

  “You don’t need a damned code. You need a woman, someone like that nice, malleable Carrington chit.” Quentin’s head jerked up, and a gleam appeared in his eyes as he finally caught the direction of the conversation. “Has Isabell rejected you as a match for her latest protégée?”

  “So I understand. I was not even aware I was under consideration. I’m more inclined to shoot the birds Miss Carrington collects. It’s not precisely an obvious match.”

  Quentin leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and sprawled his long legs across the carpet. Blake knew he ought to run and hide, but out of curiosity, he waited to see where his friend’s mind would wander. For the sake of England and his future, he hoped Quent would find a way of returning him to the Continent.

  Quent’s large family had lived on breadcrumbs for decades and couldn’t afford to be particular about their offspring going into trade. In contrast, Blake’s conservative-minded father had a solid country income and no need for his sons to work anything except the fields. Unless he wished to completely alienate his family, Blake could not scandalize them by becoming a merchant. He wasn’t the kind of cruel bastard who would jeopardize his sisters’ chances in society, but marriage seemed an unnecessary torture to submit to for his family’s sake.

  “The Carrington wench possesses a fortune of a thousand pounds a year. You could do worse,” Quent said thoughtfully.

  “She shot me in the foot! What woman does that?”

  “She carries a gun?” Quentin asked, raising a dubious eyebrow.

  “It was my gun. She does not behave normally,” Blake quibbled, his toe still aching from the incident. But he knew better than to belabor the point and went on to the next. “I just want your aid in diverting Lady Bell while I distract my mother before they concoct a scheme that will embroil us all.”

  “Considering the compromising circumstances in which you were found . . .”

  Blake gestured dismissively. “She stole a bird! There was nothing compromising about our argument.”

  “Women do not necessarily look at things the same way we do. Does Miss Carrington express an interest in marriage?” Quentin asked, the dangerously thoughtful look still on his face.

  “What does it matter? We would not suit,” Blake argued.

  Even he knew he protested too much. But he was feeling trapped and harried and desperate, and wanted someone to tell him he had alternatives.

  Quentin narrowed his eyes. “No woman would suit you unless she was a camp follower. And I suspect you’d be too fastidious to accept even that relationship.”

  Blast the man! That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “It hardly seems fair to leave a woman alone at home while I follow my duty to the Continent. If I had any other means of obtaining more of that code, I might consider marriage, but the army is my only hope.”

  “Admittedly, Miss Carrington is a trifle pale and delicate,” Quentin said, staring at the ceiling. “She would no doubt dissolve with grief should you leave her.”

  “Pale and delicate? Are you mad? Are we talking about the same woman? She’s a damned dangerous Venus!” Blake bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to admit that.

  Quentin returned his gaze to study him. Blake felt like an insect caught on a pin.

  “What if your marriage to Miss Carrington thwarted Lady Bell, bought your colors, and gave me the satisfaction of matching another of my friends with one of Isabell’s protégées?”

  Blake’s foot ached and his soul rebelled. “You would make Miss Carrington miserable for the sake of annoying Lady Bell?”

  “On the contrary,” Quentin mused, smiling like a cat with a canary, “if I gauge her correctly, Miss Carrington would very much like a husband who will conveniently remove himself to the Continent.”

  Blake didn’t like the sound of that at all. It had taken him years to admit that marriage might be the only solution to his perennial bankruptcy. He’d wasted additional time contemplating the best wife for his purposes. Harebrained and bird-witted weren’t part of the qualifications he had considered.

  But he had yet to find a wealthy woman with intelligence who was willing to accept an impoverished younger son, and Miss Carrington certainly did not lack in physical charm.

  And Miss Carrington would not grieve should he manage to get his head blown off in Portugal, as long as she had the dratted house.

  With Percy well fed and hidden safely in the carriage, Jocelyn changed into her travel gown and began a discreet search for her quarry.

  Lady Bell would be down shortly, they’d be on the road soon, and she had not yet found any of the dratted gentlemen. They were no doubt all sleeping off the effects of last night’s indulgence. She was almost relieved she did not have to face Mr. Montague again, but she could not seem to get the foolish notion of marrying him out of her head.

  A masculine hand caught her elbow and dragged her from her search of the breakfast room. She recognized Mr. Montague’s treacherously earthy scent of horse and leather. He’d found her first.

  “If I might have a word with you, Miss Carrington.” Without waiting for permission, he tugged her toward the library.

  “Outside,” she insisted. Heart pounding, she resisted his pull and hurried toward the carriage entrance for the second time that day. “I must keep Percy quiet.”

  “I hardly think a stable yard an appropriate setting for what I wish to say,” he objected.

  She cast him a startled look. Could he possibly have changed his mind? That would be a remarkable occurrence, if so. She studied him warily.

  He’d shaved. She could still see a bit of moisture glistening on his square jaw. Blake Montague could hardly be called civilized by society’s pretty standards. Still, with a blade of a nose and hollowed cheeks, and that very interesting bronzed coloring, his features were striking in a manner that stirred her interest far more than was safe.

  The intensity of his gaze would have her blushing if she did not look away.

  His limp was more pronounced when he limited his stride to match hers, and she felt an unusual warmth at his consideration. “On the contrary, Mr. Montague, given our inclinations, perhaps outside is the very best place for us to converse.”

  “Do you plan to screech like a parrot?” he asked with suspicion.

  “No more than you intend to bellow like a bull,” she said prosaically, hurrying down the outside steps. “It simply happens.”

  “I do not bellow. I am considered an even-tempered man.” When she did not immediately object, he took charge of the conversational opening to continue listing his attributes. “I am ambitious, hardworking, and have access to a fine home in Chelsea, one I’m told has a conservatory suitable for birds.”

  Jocelyn almost laughed aloud. Among all his annoying character traits, Mr. Montague’s cleverness was the most useful. Remarkably, he’d come to the same conclusion that she had, and he’d worked out all the benefits, disposed of the arguments, and was acting on the knowledge without hesitation. She liked a man of action—especially one who agreed with her.

  A conservatory suitable for birds? Carrington House had a conservatory. . . .

  She’d had Lady Bell’s driver take her past her old home and knew it was empty, but she could not be so optimistic as to believe Mr. Montague owned it now. It didn’t seem possible that Harold would be so deep in debt as to sell it a mere six years after their father had died.

  “You onl
y have access to a fine home if your father approves of your choice of bride,” she reminded him. “And while Lady Bell has no legal authority to deny me, I am very fond of her and would not hurt her feelings by ignoring her advice. She does not approve of you.”

  Still holding her arm, Montague checked the courtyard and the waiting carriage, and finding no one about, studied her face with cynical disbelief. “How can you be so blamed sure of what I want to ask?” he demanded. “We scarcely know each other.”

  “I may not be as learned as a man who attended Oxford, but I am well-tutored in matters of matrimony. After this morning’s debacle, your decision is a simple matter of deduction. Society bears pressure, whether we like it or not. Gossip can ruin your chances as well as mine. Marriage might not be a palatable choice, but sometimes it’s the lesser of all evils.”

  She had a tendency to prattle when nervous. She drew in a deep breath and changed the topic. It was time to learn if he could be trusted. “Will you take Percy back to London for me? I fear Lady Belden will not be in a receptive mood to my arguments should she discover I’ve purloined a duke’s pet.”

  Incredulity darkened his icy eyes to nearly black. “You want me to steal the featherbrain?”

  “He is already stolen. You need only transport him. I assume you have rooms where you may keep him until I can make other arrangements?” She checked to be certain the driver was still idling in the barn and opened the carriage door.

  “Why?” he demanded. “Why would I possibly agree to this inanity?”

  Well, if he was going to act all male and stupid . . . Jocelyn turned and batted her long lashes at him. Tapping a finger to her dimpled cheek, she smiled angelically. “Because you think you can tell Lady Belden about my parrot theft and blackmail me into marrying you so you can have access to my funds and join the army in the spring?”

  “Of all the sapskulled . . .” He halted his insults and studied her through eyes darkened with interest and cynicism. “And I suppose you know this because you intended to blackmail me into marrying you so you could have my house with its aviary?”

  His eyes turned a tarnished silver when he was angry. Jocelyn felt a dangerous thrill at the intensity of his focus. She was glad she had some experience in dealing with the results of risky behavior or she’d faint.

  “Check and checkmate. I think we shall get along very well together,” she announced. “Especially if we are a thousand miles apart.”

  She leaned inside the carriage and lifted the seat to produce a box with air holes. Percy squawked, “Africa knows!” and shifted his weight so she nearly dropped him. “He will probably travel easier pinned on your shoulder, but the cage can be tied to your saddle.”

  “You are not normal, you know that?” he asked, warily taking the box, which muffled Percy’s protests. “Women do not marry for birds.”

  “Most men do not marry to get themselves killed, either,” she said cheerfully. “We must get to know each other before making a permanent decision, I suppose. Consider this preliminary negotiations to see if we will suit. Feed Percy as many fresh fruits and vegetables as you can find. Apples are good as long as you do not let him eat the seeds. Turnip and dandelion greens are excellent. His diet affects his behavior, which is why he’s been pulling out his feathers. Once he’s eating better, he’ll be better behaved.”

  Mr. Montague still looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. Perhaps she had pushed too hard, but they had little time, and he seemed a decisive gentleman who would not change his course once he set upon it. That could work against her in the future, but she already knew her choices were limited. And the possibility of Carrington House . . . she must investigate that. She couldn’t expose her interest too early in the bargaining.

  “If you’ve changed your mind, let me know now, and I will find another way to transport Percy,” she said with a trace of sympathy. “Perhaps by the time the Season commences in the spring, all will have forgotten our little adventure.”

  “We were caught in a barn at dawn. You shot off my toe. I doubt we’ll ever hear the end of the ridiculous tales that are sure to spread among the ton.”

  He glared at her, and she nearly trembled in her shoes until she gave herself another mental shake. He had proved to be an honorable man who would not harm a woman, even after she’d shot him. He didn’t look too much a pirate now that he’d shaved and fastened his neckcloth. She’d survived cutting insults all her life. She could make this work—especially if they kept their distance. And if he accepted Richard’s peculiarities. That part might be problematic. She didn’t dare mention her mother’s predilections. Besides, Mama might choose to stay in the country.

  “I allow that we need further discussion before we can reach an agreement,” he continued, much to her relief. “But my horse is already saddled. I can take Percy for now.”

  “If you think to strangle him if I disagree with you, do not underestimate my wrath,” she said sweetly. “There have been times when birds were my only companions, and I am a loyal friend.”

  For the first time, he looked more intrigued than furious. Despite his superior education and brainpower, she thought perhaps there were a few things she could teach him.

  “I trust you are as loyal to your human friends as to your feathered ones, Miss Carrington. I shall call on you upon my return to London. In the meantime, you might wish to convince Lady Bell that I am not a violent man.”

  He bowed and limped away, all stiff, noble pride and resolution—a valiant, terrifying man, indeed. She heard a muffled squawk before Mr. Montague disappeared inside the stable.

  Could she really be thinking of marrying Blake Montague?

  7

  Could he really be thinking of marrying Jocelyn Carrington? No, he wasn’t thinking at all. Not with his brain, leastways. Lower parts, very definitely engaged. She had only to turn those pansy blue eyes on him and all thought fled south. Words like bewitching and beguiling floated insanely in his empty head.

  “Ride ’er ’ard, ride ’er wet, rider, rider, rider!” Percy squawked as Blake guided his gelding along the rural splendor of a lane bordering the Thames.

  The damned obscene bird wasn’t helping direct his thoughts down intelligent paths.

  He had no intention of taking the creature back to London if he could possibly unload it elsewhere. He disliked taking advantage of friends, but Fitzhugh Wyckerly, now Earl of Danecroft, had an estate nearby that was large enough to hide a herd of horses. Harboring a mangy parrot shouldn’t be a hardship for him. Blake had planned to visit anyway, although now he couldn’t dally as long as he’d intended.

  Miss Carrington would be waiting in London for his return—unless he managed to talk himself out of his decision to marry.

  He enjoyed his independence. He didn’t like the notion of having to dance attendance on anyone. But once the courtship period was over, he would be free to go his own way. Married couples did not live in each other’s pockets. He’d keep his rooms in London. She’d have the pestilent house in the backwater of Chelsea.

  Marriage meant he would not only have the wherewithal to buy his colors, but he might finally have peace from his parents’ nagging.

  The dome of the sprawling Danecroft mansion came into view as his horse cantered down the treelined lane and Blake contemplated Miss Carrington’s moonlit hair, violet eyes, and taunting pink lips. She was gentle, softspoken, feminine—and a scheming bit of baggage. He detested deceit, but he had to admit, the lady certainly wasn’t a whey-faced miss who sat back and waited for the world to come to her.

  Percy squawking obscenities from his saddle was a firm mark against her.

  He winced at the house ahead spilling children as he rode up—and he marked another firm demerit on the negative side of his marriage ledger. He didn’t have any interest in children. Wives, of necessity, meant children—although most of these urchins were the countess’s siblings and not Fitz’s progeny.

  Eyeing the gaggle of innocents, he enterta
ined second thoughts about leaving the obscene bird with them—until a cat dashed into the drive. Avoiding damage to a family pet, Blake leaned back and pulled up on the reins. His usually steady mount whinnied, reared, and tossed him off. His backside met the hard road with an impact that stole his breath.

  Well, blast, Blake thought morosely as he stared up at the sky and waited for pain to tell him what part of him had been maimed this time.

  Audience to his incompetence, children and nursemaids flew down the drive, screaming and crying. Well, double blast. Now he would have to stand up and pretend all was well. He glanced toward the gelding to be certain it would not stampede the little ones, but the irrational creature was calmly nipping grass. Blake grabbed a rein and hauled himself into an upright position while a shaken Percy caterwauled louder than the approaching army.

  A stout nanny ran after the little hooligans, but she did not capture them before Percy burst into a seaman’s chantey. Fortunately, the most intelligible verse seemed to be hey-ho, and a nonny-nonny no. Delighted, the children grabbed Blake’s hands and tugged him up and toward the house, happily singing Percy’s chorus and attempting to investigate the covered cage hanging from his saddle.

  Limping badly, Blake could barely keep up with the short legs of the youngest toddler, but he seemed to have survived the accident without any broken ribs.

  Blake let the oldest boy and Fitz’s daughter fight over carrying the cage, while the oldest girl held the hand of a chubby toddler singing off-key as they returned up the long set of outside stairs to the portico. That left one solemn four-year-old proudly marching up alone, until Blake was forced to grab the boy’s hand when the little one teetered and nearly fell backward.

  At the sight of a tear of humiliation spilling down a grubby cheek, Blake sighed, threw the boy up to his shoulder, and, wincing, paraded up the stairs to meet the Countess of Danecroft waiting at the top, rocking the new heir to the earldom in her arms and staring at him as if he’d grown an extra appendage.