Personally, Jocelyn believed Mr. Montague’s determination to court death was more of a problem than any curse—he had stopped a runaway horse with his bare hands and run in front of a full keg of ale to save a
puppy
. He was obviously incapable of thinking of his own safety.
She had heard about her intended’s heroics after forcing Mr. Atherton to explain why Blake was sending her a wiggling baby mutt. The poor thing had followed Mr. Montague home after the accident. The creature was all hair and eyes and waggling tail, more terrier than Pomeranian, she thought, and beyond adorable. If Mr. Montague kept sending her gifts like the puppy and kitten, she just might become attached to the impossible man.
She really shouldn’t be collecting pets, but how could she refuse such admirable presents? Releasing the muslin once Lady Montague decided it would make suitable curtains, Jocelyn crouched down to tickle the dog she’d named Bitty. During visits over these past weeks, Bitty had christened every floor in Carrington House, marking his territory. Lady Belden had wisely insisted that the puppy stay outside. A maid and a footman had already been hired to tidy up Carrington House after the workmen left. Perhaps she could leave the dog with them. It was a good thing Jocelyn would be moving here before winter set in.
As a married woman
. This was Wednesday. The wedding was on Monday.
“Men dislike confinement,” she said in answer to Lady Montague’s complaints about her son. She really could not argue with the lady who was so generously providing the funds to repair her home.
“I may have insisted that Blake stay at Lord Quentin’s until the wedding, but it can hardly be considered confinement,” the lady objected. “He has a very large house littered with servants to deliver meals and guard against falling ale kegs. Keeping to his meager rooms would be
confinement.
”
Lady Montague was a plump, busy hen who pecked away at her large family until they fell in line or fled. Jocelyn had the urge to hug her, if only because she was so patently oblivious of her effect on her offspring.
She had hoped she and Mr. Montague would have had more time to work things out between them, but she couldn’t express her fears in her notes. She needed to see him in person.
Before she and the baroness left Carrington House later that day, Jocelyn took one more look at the newly repaired conservatory to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing. If she had her way, the glass house would soon be filled with lush plants and exotic birds, and Richard would be settled in and happy again. And so would she—
For a fleeting moment, she had a horrifying notion that perhaps someone meant to keep her from returning to Carrington House by murdering Blake, but that was patently ridiculous. She was just overset with worry.
“This is ridiculous!” Blake protested, discovering Atherton blocking the door of his bedchamber in Quentin’s town house, preventing his escape. “You cannot keep me here one instant longer! The sprain is nothing.” He stomped his foot to prove his point and hid a wince of pain.
“It is not the sprain that worries us.” Nick shoved his way inside and closed the door after him. “You’re not likely to live until your wedding day at your current rate.”
His friends’ fear that Blake was incapable of defending himself was more an aggravation than the so-called
accidents
. Quentin had told everyone about Ogilvie’s argument with Carrington over the damnable parrot, and the duke’s threats to torture him if he lost it.
Blake had not been able to convince his friends that no bird was worth murder. That the incidents had stopped once he was out of public sight had not escaped their notice, however. Still, he detested being cosseted, even by his friends.
“Ogilvie has not only been hunting all over town for you, he’s been seen in the company of Carrion while doing so,” Atherton warned.
Nick had taken to calling Carrington by that revolting term years ago, after Harold had stolen Acton Penrose’s money. Penrose had been a particular friend of Nick’s from school, another younger son who had to make his own way. Blake trusted Nick wouldn’t let the appellation slip in Miss Carrington’s presence. It was very well for family to call the viscount names, but Blake would rather not explain to his bride why outsiders insulted the head of her family.
“You really don’t want to be forced into a duel before you bed your bride, do you?” Nick continued, dropping into a wing chair and draping his boots over the arm.
“With Ogilvie?” Blake asked in incredulity. “I’d shoot off his fingers before he could aim the pistol. His petty revenge is no reason to keep me from my bride.”
“We thought perhaps you were a bit too distracted by the lovely Miss Carrington to believe the accidents might not be accidental,” Nick admitted.
“I’m suspicious, not superstitious. I’m not planning on dying before thirty. But if I have to listen to this damned bird any longer, I may have to kill it. I need to get out of here for a few hours.”
The maligned parrot glanced up from his perch and muttered,
“Damned parrot,”
before pecking at his feed tray. He looked a little less mangy than he had before his rescue, and with nothing better to do with his time, Blake had taught him not to emit some of his more salty phrases. The creature responded well to bribes of food.
“The physician said you must not put weight on your foot for a full fortnight,” Atherton argued. “It won’t hurt you to listen to good advice for a change. Your bride will appreciate not having to carry you down the aisle.”
His
bride
had weaseled her way so far into his family’s affections that they would probably take her in without him. At least he didn’t have to worry about another man competing with him for her attention. From the reports he’d received while he was moldering away, she was apparently lavishing the bloody house with her adoration.
So much for seduction, or entertainment of any sort. He’d naught to do but study the French cipher and carve a block of wood into a set of code wheels. In doing so, he realized inking letters into the edge could jumble them in any manner, so his set of wheels wouldn’t replicate the French one. Still, it was an intriguing process. Each of the thirty-six wheels were given numbers. One would need to know the order the wheels were inserted on the spindle before decoding the message. Impossible.
He wouldn’t go so far as to admit that he missed Jocelyn’s attentions. He didn’t like women smothering him, after all. But he did miss her soft scents and the potential of soft curves and lusty kisses. He might almost endure her hovering in return for those kisses.
“I have never been so inactive since I broke my leg when I was nine,” Blake complained, pacing the room to prove he was no invalid. “I had thought to take Miss Carrington on a picnic.”
“Why, to give her one more chance to cry off?” Nick asked cynically, leaning back to grab the code spindle from the desk behind him.
To taste her kisses
. And more. Blake had spent weeks lusting for a woman who held his future in her hands. He was rapidly losing his mind. “I am healthy. I can kick Ogilvie’s brains out his ears. I don’t need a keeper.”
“You’ll have one soon enough,” Nick said cheerfully, spinning the lettered wheels and studying the jumbled alphabet they created. “She is growing a little anxious, though, so I suppose you might venture out of town to some pastoral idyll with her.”
“She’ll want me to see the damned house,” Blake said, eyeing the parrot and suddenly brightening at the prospect of visiting Chelsea. “I believe I was told there are servants now?”
“And a repaired conservatory,” Nick agreed with amusement, following Blake’s thoughts as Percy burst into one of his noisy refrains. “The other night your mother entertained my sisters with stories of the restoration. There are beds and fresh linens awaiting your wedding night.”
Blake flung a pillow at him, then sat down at his desk to pen a note to his betrothed. Nick was right. Given that he’d become so
accident
-prone lately, the house might never be hers. He must give Miss Carrington one last chance to cry off. And if she did, she could take the mangy parrot with her.
If she didn’t wish to cry off, then an intended bride was fair game for seduction.
15
Returning to Lady Belden’s home after nest feathering in Chelsea, Jocelyn flipped through the invitations that had arrived in her absence and unfolded a rare note from her intended. She glanced at the sparse words and swore he was worse than Richard. At least Richard’s handwriting was more legible.
Picnic tomorrow? Noon. Best, Montague.
Despite his lack of affectionate phrases, he hadn’t forgotten her! She’d never been on a picnic. It seemed a trifle silly to be this thrilled over a childish pastime, but she was delighted that he understood and courted her, even though it must seem foolishness to an intellectual gentleman. Besides, she was eager to see that he truly was all right, and that he did not regret their impending nuptials.
She’d spent these last weeks in a stew of guilt, worrying that she’d made a very bad decision, that she’d simply imagined the wonder of his kiss, that she’d talked herself into believing he was an honorable man. And if he really was all that she believed him to be, how could she possibly make up for her deception about her money?
She lifted the kitten he’d given her and rubbed it against her cheek, no more certain of what she should tell him than before.
At a sharp rap on the bedchamber door, her maid opened it.
“There is a lad to see you, miss,” Lady Belden’s footman intoned with an odd emphasis on
lad.
“A lad?” Jocelyn asked in puzzlement. “Does he have a card?”
“No, miss, just said as to tell you he’s here.”
No one but Richard could be so rude. She could imagine her brother saying, “Tell Josie I’m here,” then settling into the chair nearest any available book. A thrill of excitement and disbelief shot through her.
But it wasn’t possible. How could Richard be here, so far from Norfolk?
With a crashing sense of disaster—and rebellious delight—Jocelyn followed the footman . . . to Lady Belden’s study, of course. Richard might only be seventeen, but in his head he was sole owner of the world. Normally, Richard avoided people, but Belden House had no library to hide in. Anything resembling a book was in the study—which was always occupied.
Jocelyn knew what to expect before she entered. She’d lived with her brother in any number of different households, so she was well aware of the various reactions people had to his odd behavior. At least Lady Bell wasn’t of the hysterical sort.
Jocelyn drew a deep breath, summoned the smile of welcome her brother deserved, and breezed into the study as if the situation were completely natural.
When Richard actually rose from his chair at her entrance, set aside the book on finance he’d been perusing, and awkwardly accepted her hug of greeting, tears filled her eyes.
“Richard, however did you get here?”
“Gerry didn’t like Norfolk,” he said simply. “Neither do I. So we came here.”
Gerry was the servant she’d hired to keep an eye on Richard while she was in London. She had hoped the man might survive the chaos of her sister’s household until she’d found a home. Foolish of her. Well, at least he’d delivered her brother safely.
“I think you’ve grown even skinnier.” She patted Richard’s rumpled waistcoat and brushed his mop of light brown hair from his brow. Once upon a time she could have leaned her cheek against the top of his head to disguise her sniffles, but he’d shot straight up this past year until he was taller than she was. She didn’t feel quite comfortable crying on his shoulder.
“Have I?” He looked down at himself to verify what he would never notice on his own, just as he did not notice her tears.
At seventeen, Richard was tall, gangly, physically clumsy, and, somewhat similar to their mother, detached from the real world in a manner no physician had been able to explain. He did not travel well. His vest and rumpled neckcloth were food-stained, and his boots and breeches appeared as if he’d wallowed in a stable yard.
While he was momentarily distracted checking the size of his waistcoat, Jocelyn turned to her hostess and her man of business. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I invited my brother for the wedding,” she prevaricated, attempting to cover her brother’s peculiarity as best as she could, “and I had no word of his arrival until this moment. Lady Belden, may I introduce you to my brother, Richard Carrington. Richard, this is my friend and hostess, the Marchioness of Belden, and her assistant, Mr. Maynard.”
She pinched her brother’s wrist to remind him of what was expected. With only a slight delay while he worked out her signal, he bowed and parroted, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” as he’d learned to do.
Richard could perform all the social niceties. It simply never occurred to him to do so on his own. He’d been sitting here in the company of his hostess and her employee for at least ten minutes, and Jocelyn knew he had not said a word to either of them.
Since strangers didn’t normally barge into her study and pick up a book on finance without greeting or introduction, Lady Bell rightfully looked at both of them with curiosity. “It is good to finally meet you, Mr. Carrington,” she said cautiously. “And how is your aviary?”
“Gone now,” Richard replied with a scowl that could easily lead to a frantic tantrum if he had time to consider his loss.
“If you don’t mind, my lady,” Jocelyn said, “I’ll take Richard to the back parlor, where we may talk.” Grabbing her brother’s arm, she steered him to a quiet room, where the reactions of strangers wouldn’t disturb him.
What would she do with him until the wedding? She hadn’t expected to introduce Richard into her new home until she knew her husband’s intentions. If Mr. Montague decided to keep his rooms, she would have sent for Richard immediately. If he decided to stay in Chelsea—she needed to be more cautious.