The Devilish Montague (24 page)

She wished she knew what precisely had set Blake off—Richard, the intruder, his family, or her shrieking like a banshee.

She would be fine on her own. That’s all she’d ever wanted anyway. Throwing back her shoulders, she marched into the hall—after the downstairs door slammed in the wake of her departing groom.

The house was hers—unless the bloody fool got himself killed. He might die of septic poisoning if he did not treat that wound.

If she didn’t think about what she’d just done or what might be next, she could simply enjoy the wonder of having a whole entire house of her own—with no sister nagging at her to marry stuffy farmers and no brother-in-law threatening the kittens with a hatchet or Richard with Bedlam.

She took a deep breath of her own fresh air and nearly let despair swamp her again. She’d so hoped Blake actually enjoyed her company. . . .

He didn’t even like the company of his own family. She should have invited them to stay instead of her husband.

She didn’t need his friendship, she told herself. She could find her own friends.

She swept into the conservatory and admired the large palm that Lady Belden had sent as a wedding gift. Someone had cleaned up the glass and blood and covered the broken panes with boards. Richard had apparently felt safe in letting Percy loose. The Grey had taken a perch among the palm fronds. She whistled at him, and the parrot hopped sideways.

“Ack! Bugger off, looby.”

“Oh, and I love you, too, Percy,” she countered, holding out a walnut kernel from the covered bowl Richard kept nearby.

Percy whistled like a teakettle in reply.

“He does that to make me come running,” Richard said, entering the conservatory behind her. “He must have seen a cook hurrying for a teakettle.”

“In the morning I shall start making inquiries about our other birds,” she promised.

“A man in the village said he could find them.” Richard gathered up his tools and settled on the floor to repair one of the wooden benches. “Did I make Blake go away?”

Jocelyn wished she could comfort her brother with hugs, but she would only be comforting herself.

“No, his family drove him away. For some reason, he resents their interference, and he gets irritated and goes off on his own. I suppose I must send someone out to the carriage house to see that he has a bed and linens.”

“He does not mind if I stay here?”

Jocelyn huffed and settled on one of the newly repaired benches. “This is
our
house. He agreed. That is why
he
left.”

Richard nodded as if he understood. Or was actually listening. “Bitty piddled in the kitchen again. Cook has threatened to make soup of her.”

Of course, listening and responding were not necessarily the same thing in Richard’s world. “I’m glad you’re here, Richie. You make me happy.”

“Birds make you happy,” he pointed out. “And kittens. And parties. And Blake.”

“Then I must be a very happy person,” she said sadly.

Deciding she needed to reassure the cook that the puppy was only marking territory after being terrified, she hurried to the kitchen. It was always easier to be doing than thinking. The world was a daunting place when one thought too hard.

The next morning, with a feeling much like despair, Jocelyn watched her soldier husband ride away. She should have told him that he was wasting his time seeking her nonexistent funds, but she thought it might be better if he worked out some of his rage in a long ride before he confronted her.

Knowing she was a horrible disappointment to him, she had spent the remainder of her wedding day sending over to the carriage house a fresh mattress and linens—and bandages—and hoping Blake would at least join her for supper. He hadn’t. She’d sent food over to him instead. He’d not appeared for breakfast, either, and now he rode away without word or explanation.

She knew he would have a few words for her, not pleasant ones, when he returned.

Using a hoe from the shed, Jocelyn chopped at the weeds in the neglected rose garden. She’d only wanted the house, not a husband, she told herself. Except now that she had her home, it was rather lonely with only Richard’s conversations to enliven her day.

Worse yet, she’d spent the entire night longing for the lovemaking Blake had only begun to teach her. Could he really turn off his lustful thoughts and desires as if she did not exist? Or did he mean to use her money to find a more satisfactory mistress? If so, he really would be furious when he learned the bank was empty until next year. She shivered in her shoes.

Jocelyn had almost accidentally snapped off the last lingering autumn rose when a familiar “Yoo-hoo” beckoned from the garden gate.

Eager for any company at all, she drew off her gardening gloves and turned to greet Lady Montague. “Good morning,” she called, hiding her unbecoming megrims. “I thought you would be off to Shropshire.”

“Not without seeing how you are faring.” Looking a little relieved to be welcomed, the baroness enveloped Jocelyn in a cloud of perfume and tugged her to a garden bench. “Marriage is a very large step, and you have no mother here to give you advice. I wish I did not have to leave so soon.”

Jocelyn patted her mother-in-law’s plump hand. “Your family needs you. You have granddaughters who must miss you. And I confess, I’m quite accustomed to getting along on my own. But it is very kind of you to think of me.”

Lady Montague nodded absently, a worry wrinkle settling over her nose. “I saw Blake in town this morning. It seems rather early for newlyweds to be parted. I hope you two did not have a falling out.”

Jocelyn forced a smile. “Of course not. You mustn’t fret so. He has business in the city, and I wouldn’t think of interfering.” She’d only contemplated hitting him over the head, trussing him like a thief, and storing him in the cellar for a year.

Lady Montague’s frown deepened. “I suppose you were brought up to believe that, dear, but really, despite their many strengths, men cannot be expected to look after themselves.”

Jocelyn coughed to cover a laugh. When she recovered, she patted her chest. “Pardon me. A small tickle. But truly, Blake has been taking care of himself for many years. I do not expect him to fall into a decline any time soon.”

“Yes, he is quite a force of nature sometimes.” The baroness leaned over and plucked the last rose and began shredding its petals. “I have often wondered how my husband and I could have bred so stubborn a creature, but there it is. I believe sheer obstinacy keeps him alive.”

“Excuse me?” Jocelyn masked her surprise at that odd declaration. “The man fights duels, races Thoroughbreds, and goes off to foreign wars.” And attacks thieves in his stockinged feet, but she thought better of mentioning that. “I rather think it’s the grace of God that keeps him alive.”

“That, too, which is why we thought he’d make an excellent vicar. The good Lord has saved his life so many times, it must be for a purpose.”

To annoy me,
would be Jocelyn’s guess, but she supposed it was a selfish thought. Not that Blake was any less selfish, fretting his mother with his careless attitude. “I’m sure we all have a purpose. It just isn’t necessarily what others expect of us.”

“I’ve accepted that,” Lady Montague said with a heavy sigh. “But that does not mean he must go off to deliberately get himself killed. Anyone with a modicum of good sense could see he might solve his silly puzzles right here, without going to war.”

“A modicum of good sense might prevent wars in the first place,” Jocelyn said. “But I have not seen men exercise such qualities when a good fight will do. You do not think it honorable to defend our country?”

“I lost two brothers to war!” Lady Montague cried in anguish. “Both wore the silver streak in their hair. I am relying on you to keep Blake home, persuade him to the vicarage, where we can watch over him. His clever mind is sufficient force without need of guns.”

Jocelyn most heartily agreed with the latter, if not the part about a vicarage, but she did not dare mention that the point was moot. She had no funds left with which to buy his colors. She was simply waiting for the ax to fall when Blake found out.

 

After speaking with the banker handling Jocelyn’s funds, Blake stormed in the direction of his city rooms. He was still too stunned to be coherent.

She had
deceived
him. His lovely, wide-eyed
Carrington
bride had led him to believe she could buy his colors when, in fact, she was practically penniless. How could he have ever believed all that blond innocence hid a character any better than her scapegrace brother’s?

He wanted to howl and punch something. Which could also have something to do with the fact that he’d been left unsatisfied on his wedding night. He’d spent a lonely, aching night on a damned cot while his
wife
luxuriated in their bed. Now, of course, her betrayal had turned all hint of lust into bloody-minded anger.

What could she have done with a
thousand pounds
? She’d only been in London half a year, with naught on which to spend her coin but frills and furbelows. Had she somehow poured the money into the house when she’d said his parents were paying for the repairs? Why the devil would she lie to him about that? And what else might she have lied about?

He despised deceit above all else, so why had he married the sister of lying, conniving Carrington? Lust and silver-blond tresses had infected his brain.

He supposed now that he was legally in charge of her funds, he could control Jocelyn’s expenditures once her semiannual income arrived, but that wouldn’t be until January.

He only had until Christmas to fill the position Wellesley was holding for him. An ensign was the cheapest post he could obtain. How would he find four hundred fifty pounds in three months?

He had the most beddable wife in the world, and he couldn’t in all conscience bed her, not if he meant to leave. He was as penniless as he had been before he married. He was no closer to solving the code now than he’d been before. And he was now responsible for a house, a demented brother-in-law, and an obscene parrot. What in hell kind of twisted trap had he fallen into?

The first damned thing on his agenda was to let his rooms go. Carrington House was hardly the center of London, but it was spacious enough to hold his books. He could save his own modest income, although even with the increase his father had granted upon his marriage, his available funds wouldn’t pay for an ensign’s position.

When Blake reached his rooms, Quent was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

“What the devil are you doing back in town?” his towering lordship demanded. “You’ll owe me a pair of bays at this rate.”

“I didn’t make that wager. You did.” Blake unlocked his door and entered rooms bereft of a screaming parrot and already smelling empty in comparison to Jocelyn’s beeswax-polished nest.

“Carrington and Ogilvie had dinner together last night,” Quent informed him, heaving his hat at a document-strewn table. “You’d better tell your bride to give back that bird before the vultures start circling.”

“I’ve already been attacked by one of Ogilvie’s minions.” Although now that his lust-hazed mind had cleared, he wondered if Bernie was capable of speaking French well enough for the thief to understand his orders. He needed to ponder that. Why would a thief be in the conservatory except to steal back the bird?

Blake searched an empty cabinet and found nothing worth serving his guest.

Which made him wonder if Jocelyn had enough funds for food and if her other brother, the demented elder one, would leave her be. Or if they must fight off intruders on a regular basis.

“It’s hard to believe the duke would have that much interest in an obscene bird,” Quentin mused, pacing in front of Blake’s overflowing desk. “Perhaps His Grace is just punishing his nephew for being a twit.”

“Or perhaps there is more to the bird than we know.” The moment he said that, Blake wanted to pound his head against the wall for having ignored the obvious. “Percy once belonged to the Carringtons
.
There is no knowing what’s in its beady little brain.”

Quentin looked up with interest. “Something a duke would want?”

“Or something His Grace wouldn’t want known,” Blake concluded grimly. “And that Carrington might know. Ogilvie is in deep if he’s playing both sides of the board.”

“Unwittingly,” Quentin suggested. “You’d best warn His Grace.”

Blake snorted. “Even should a duke allow me in his exalted presence, he’s likely to laugh in my face if I give him no more than supposition. I’d best get to the bottom of the puzzle first.”

Which meant confronting his bewildering wife. Without bedding her. Now there was a challenge he might not be prepared to face.

From the garret over the carriage house where she’d gone to ascertain that Blake had everything he needed, Jocelyn watched out the window as an oxcart rolled up the overgrown drive. She had not ordered anything delivered. All her trunks were already here, emptied and stored away. So what was in those towering stacks of crates?