The Devilish Montague (36 page)

She amazed herself by saying that. He amazed her even more by not arguing.

A grin tugged at the corners of his weary mouth. “I like it when you’re being perfectly clear.”

The heat of his kiss seared her straight to her toes, and Jocelyn vowed to be honest forevermore if this was the result.

 

“I thought we were wearing sackcloth and ashes,” Blake said in puzzlement, watching his bedazzling wife descend the stairs that evening to greet the guests they’d invited to dinner before the masquerade. He was wearing a monk’s cowled robe over his shirt and breeches. Given what he was about to do to his wife and her family, he probably ought to be wearing a hair shirt.

Jocelyn was wearing a Renaissance costume so spectacular he could scarcely tear his gaze from the plump mounds of her breasts, which he feared would pop from the corset. She wore her hair in a glorious mane of silver curls supported on a diamond tiara that resembled no sixteenth-century portrait he could recall. She glistened
.

That might be because Jocelyn was wearing a fortune’s worth of diamonds—in her hair, around her throat, dangling between her ripe breasts, on her wrists and fingers. He wagered she even wore them on her toes. This hadn’t been part of his plans.

“Ice queen!” Fitz, the Earl of Danecroft, crowed. “Ice blue velvet, glittering ice, snowy froths of lace. . . .”

“You are far too familiar with ladies’ costumes,” Abigail, the Countess of Danecroft, noted. She wore a Queen of Hearts attire to match her husband’s Knave.

“I chose yours, didn’t I?” Fitz inquired cheerfully, gazing with affection at his red-haired wife. “Does it not suit?”

“Belden’s diamonds,” Quentin asserted, when Jocelyn bobbed a haughty curtsy before them, acting out her ice queen role by not deigning to reply. “I knew the late marquess possessed buckets of them, but I had not realized the extent of the largesse. I sense a plot behind the choice.” He had not bothered with more than a black domino, the mask and cape of which currently adorned a chair so that he stood in his black evening attire.

“You had some doubt, milord?” Jocelyn inquired coolly. “Perhaps you thought ladies do not have the wits to plot?”

Nick Atherton, dressed as a dandy from a prior century in red heels, clocked stockings, and acres of lace and velvet, leaned against a doorjamb and admired Jocelyn’s costume. “A man would have to be mindless to miss the fact that the ladies run the world. I bow to your greater grandeur, my queen.” He made a leg and bowed so low his powdered wig threatened to fall off.

Feeling decidedly out of place in his homespun monk’s robe, Blake grabbed the back of his friend’s velvet coat and jerked him upright. “No peeking under skirts.”

Nick placed his hand over his heart and adopted a humble pose. “Would I do such a thing? Really, I only sought to see if there were diamonds on your lovely wife’s toes.”

Since that was precisely the question he’d pondered, Blake considered punching his best friend in the snout but let it go when Jocelyn snickered.

“I’m hoping she’s wearing a knife strapped to her ankle to fight off the hordes,” Blake grumbled. “Jocelyn, don’t you believe I have enough to worry about tonight without also having to beat off jewel thieves?”

Lady Belden swept down the staircase, garbed in a revealing black velvet gown, rubies, and a black cloak lined in garnet red. She wore her black hair stacked high and wrapped in more red jewels that framed her white powdered face and kohl-lined eyes. “We are not in the city. Jewel thieves are the least of your concerns,” she declared in a low, throaty voice.

Blake noticed Lord Quentin came to attention at the sensual purr, but the Scotsman refrained from joining the banter, merely bowing over the lady’s hand without comment.

“If you’re dressed like that simply to provoke lying gossips, then the rest of us should be wearing weapons to prevent warfare,” Blake said, convinced he should have found a musketeer’s costume so he might wear a sword.

“No violence,” Jocelyn warned. “We are all civilized, mature citizens with a healthy desire to satisfy our curiosity about Harold’s peculiar behavior. There is no call for violence.”

He had not told her of his suspicions about Harold’s wife and French codes. Jocelyn still thought they were trying to stop birdnappers and her brother’s lying gossip. If, after tonight, she took up swords and killed him, he could hardly blame her.

“Shall we have sherry and brandy in the parlor?” she suggested, leading the way.

“What peculiar behavior are we curious about?” Lady Danecroft inquired.

“Peculiar thieves,” Nick said with deceptive joviality, already having been apprised of Blake’s plot. Behind his blithe insouciance, Nick was on full alert tonight.

“Birds are peculiar,” Quentin replied, entering the parlor to discover Richard and Lady Carrington hanging Percy’s cage to a warning bell Richard had concocted to protect his pet. The dowager viscountess was looking distinguished in a velvet gown from her youth, with her hair elaborately coiffed. Richard had dressed in a proper jacket and trousers, but his neckcloth was already awry.

Jocelyn had not been happy when Blake had insisted on setting the birds up where they could be seen. He couldn’t explain his plot without making her even less happy. The ice queen hauteur was probably for his benefit. She still hadn’t learned to express her anger well, which was probably for the best.

“Awwwk, Percy want a canary,” the parrot called, preening the fluffy new gray feathers he’d grown since being rescued.

“Fermez la bouche,”
Blake told the creature, reaching for the brandy bottle.

“Africa knows,” the Grey replied happily, doing a little jig on his new perch and inspecting the guests gathering around him.

Africa knows.
The birds repeated anything they heard.
Africa knew
the code key. How often had Percy heard the phrase? Blake’s stomach soured at the treason hanging over their heads.

“You’re training the bird to be a courtier,” Nick decided. “Teach him flattery and we’ll take him to Prinny.”

“Nick doesn’t really mean that, Richard,” Blake reassured the boy, who looked alarmed. “Nick says a great deal of meaningless things, just like Percy.”

Jocelyn sighed and took his arm. A rich perfume more potent than her usual lavender enveloped him, rendering him momentarily speechless. Which was probably her purpose, since she took charge. Lady Bell was correct. Jocelyn was meant to lead society.

“You are all here because you are our friends and would not spread the ridiculous rumors my half brother is perpetrating about town,” Jocelyn blithely declared. “Blake has important information for the War Office, and we must make our guests aware that Harold’s vicious rumors are untrue so they will take Blake seriously. I don’t think that kind of plotting requires weapons, only common sense and your support.”

In the light of new knowledge, even Harold’s rumor-mongering pointed to evil intent—he, or his wife, was hoping to discredit anything Blake should discover. If Jocelyn’s party did not cement Blake’s reputation as a respectable citizen, the War Office might laugh off his spy theory as Castlereagh already had.

“Hear, hear!” Fitz cried, lifting his glass in a salute. “Well said. Am I allowed to fleece your guests in the game room, just a little?”

“Fleece them all you like,” Blake agreed, “as long as they come away thinking you’re a jolly good fellow and they ought to heed you when you tell them I’m not a desperate cad preying on my impecunious bride, as Carrington is spreading about.”

With the bird secured, Lady Carrington smiled vaguely at their guests and drifted away. Richard stayed to monitor his pet. They’d divided the parrots in hopes of confusing any thieves. Now that Blake had a facsimile of the original spindle and the key to the code, he didn’t need the ivory perch. Percy swung on it now, taunting villains, as planned.

“This isn’t just about Carrington’s rumors, is it?” Quentin murmured to Blake as the general conversation took a more lighthearted turn.

“Squelching rumors is what the ladies hope,” Blake replied, watching Jocelyn as she charmed his friends with laughter, gentle touches, and an adept word or question here and there.

“But you think Carrington will show. Why? Was he added to the invitation list?”

“Hardly. Richard would run for the hills if the viscount showed up. Jocelyn would take a fire iron to Harold’s head. But Carrington has a reason for maligning my name and for conspiring with Bernie. And I think I know what it is.”

“Do you intend to tell me or remain enigmatic?” Quent asked in disgruntlement.

“I have Jocelyn’s mother and brother to consider. You’ve seen them. They’re helpless as babes in the woods. Jocelyn has stood between them and the real world for years. She’s very good at it because she enjoys attention and diverts it from them. If Carrington is what I fear he is, his treachery could ruin them.”

“I’m not following,” Quentin admitted. “Carrington is a termite, I understand, but I don’t see how that can harm your wife or her family.”

From across the parlor, Jocelyn sent Blake a knowing glance. He lifted his glass in salute, as if he wasn’t being torn by powerful forces. Even the suspicion of treason would destroy Jocelyn’s social standing. He needed proof first. “Just keep an eye out for Carrington and Ogilvie. I expect them or their hired scoundrels to be lurking.”

“Fitz and Nick are watching for them also?”

Blake nodded. “I’m hoping we can catch the cads without an audience, but the chances aren’t good. Jocelyn’s invitations have all been accepted, and she’s expecting a crush. You should find yourself a wife like her. She’d erase the stench of trade and have half of society believing you’re heir to a kingdom.”

Quent snorted. “Apparently love infects the brains of even the smartest men. I hope she’s worth it, old chap.” After pounding Blake on the back, he wandered off to annoy Lady Bell.

Leaving Blake to ponder his words.
Lust
might be affecting his brains, but love? That would indeed be dangerous.

And might explain why he was oddly reluctant to catch a traitor and blot the name of Carrington.

Jocelyn sighed happily as the house filled with laughing, cheerful people—just as she’d once dreamed, and all thanks to Blake.

Because of the crowd, it wasn’t obviously noticeable that the surroundings were a little shabby. The company was too busy preening in their costumes, drinking Lady Bell’s fine wine, and exclaiming over one another to care if the sofa was outmoded or the draperies were muslin. She’d purchased some greenery on credit, and Lady Bell and Lord Quentin had contributed more, so the heated glasshouse looked both spacious and elegant.

The diamonds she wore were having an amazing effect. All her father’s old cronies patted her on the back and murmured about knowing her father had taken care of her and that the rumors clearly weren’t true. Their wives hummed with envy and assured Jocelyn they’d be sending invitations to dinners, the kind of invitations Blake needed to make his way in government. It was amazing how much society judged on appearance.

She was astoundingly fortunate to have found the one man who saw
her
, and not just what she wore. A man who could even see beyond what she said to what she meant. Someone probably ought to slap some sense into her, but she was giddy with happiness. Her brilliant husband thought she was clever and useful and not a burden!

She sought a glimpse of Blake across the conservatory and hoped he was succeeding in meeting the men he needed to impress.

Because so many of these people were old friends of her father’s, they accepted Richard’s peculiarities without the usual maliciousness. Well, most of them just ignored him, but Richard preferred to be ignored. She watched as he showed Lady Jersey how to feed Africa. The lady might regret giving up her canaries if birds became all the rage again.

Blake had found local musicians to play country dances—nothing sophisticated, but a pleasant diversion for those so inclined. She had hoped to join Blake in the dancing later. She’d spent this first hour memorizing costumes as their guests arrived. If their ploy worked and drew out the miscreants who were causing them such grief, she needed to differentiate between guests and intruders.

Jocelyn narrowed her eyes as an unfamiliar domino wove through the colorful costumes in the center of the conservatory. That domino hadn’t been among those she’d greeted.

“Lady Danecroft, may I impose upon you?” she murmured to the countess, who had stopped beside her at the buffet table.

With the ruff of her Queen of Hearts costume slightly askew, Abigail Wyckerly paused in her contemplation of the tarts. “Gladly. Fitz has deserted me for the gaming table, and I do not know half these people, so any task will amuse me.”

“I will be happy to introduce you to any and all, but right now, I need my husband or one of his friends to keep an eye on that man in the domino, the short one, not Lord Quentin. Whoever you find, tell him I’ll be in the parlor. I suspect that stealing Percy may be the intruder’s purpose in coming here.”

“You will tell me the story sometime?” Lady Danecroft asked, picking up on Jocelyn’s urgency.

“It could easily become the evening’s entertainment,” Jocelyn promised grimly. It would most certainly be diverting to punch Bernie in the beak if he meant to steal Percy back. She didn’t understand why Blake had insisted on placing Percy in plain sight.

The Queen of Hearts nodded and dived into the crowd.

Clenching her fingers into fists, Jocelyn wended her way toward the conservatory exit, stopping to chat when she was approached while keeping an eye on the figure in black.

Instead of aiming for the front parlor and Percy, the unidentified guest gravitated toward the greenery where Richard and Africa were entertaining a small group. Was she wrong? Was that not someone attempting to retrieve Percy for the duke?