The Devilish Montague Read Online Free PDF Page B

battlefield, Blake ignored Nick’s idea of repartee. In boredom, he aimed the loaded pistol at the half-featherless creature, which was barely discernible against the backdrop of yew. “ ‘Scurvy, old, filthy, scurry lord.’” He fired a test shot in the general direction of the bird and hedge. A flurry and scuttle shook the evergreen branches, as if some animal’s sleep had been disturbed, and the parrot squawked incomprehensible curses.
    “Not the bird, Montague!” Ogilvie shouted, seeming in more fear of the parrot’s life than his own. “His Grace will disown me! Someone move Percy behind the hedge.”
    One of Bernie’s companions obligingly pulled up the perch and moved the scurvy lord out of sight, if not out of hearing. Obscenities and squawks screeched against the silent dawn, raising songbirds into protest.
    “The ladies are leaving this morning,” Nick called from his position beneath the oak, making no effort to verify the safety or accuracy of the next pistol Blake hefted. “Shooting Ogilvie won’t do you any good now. Apologize and have done.”
    “‘I must be cruel only to be kind.’” Blake again sighted along the length of a barrel, in the direction of the hedge where the bird now resided.
    The shrubbery rustled as if retreating from his aim.
    “Shakespeare?” Bernie’s second asked.
    “One never can be quite certain,” Nick concluded. “Montague’s brainpan is stuffed with an encyclopedia.”
    Eager to escape the chilly September rain, one of the onlookers finally herded the duelists into position, back to back, and gave the signal for them to begin pacing off their distance. As Blake took long strides across the wet grass, a demonical shriek from the hedge— Ackkkk, kidnapper, murderer, help, hellllppppp! —dispersed the tension of the final count.
    Undeterred by the parrot’s warning, Blake swiveled steadily at the count of ten and aimed his pistol. But Bernie was no longer in position.
    Instead, coattails flapping, the duke’s stout nephew was racing for the shrubbery. “She’s stealing Percy!” he roared.
    Sure enough, a dark, cloaked shadow—with a silly plume bouncing on its head—could be seen darting up the hill, into a grove of trees, the bird perch with it.
    In disgust, Blake fired at Bernie’s hat, sending the inappropriate chapeau bouncing across the saturated grass with a hole through its middle. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and a glimmer of predawn light appeared on the horizon. His opponent’s balding pate glistened as he fought yew branches in hopes of reaching his pet.
    The bird screamed again from the field beyond the hedge.
    Pointing, looking for all the world like a shorter version of the Prince of Wales, Bernie shouted, “A thousand pounds to anyone who catches her. Devil take the damned witch!”
    “I say, did he promise a thousand pounds for that paltry poultry?” Blake asked, reloading the smoking pistol.
    “He did, old boy, he did.” Nick unfurled himself from the oak’s trunk. “But everyone knows Ladybyrd took him. He’ll never see the creature again.”
    Blake snorted. “For a thousand pounds, I’ll follow her to the Outer Hebrides.” Chasing Jocelyn Byrd-Carrington anywhere was just exactly what he needed. At this point, he would do so for nothing. He could still smell the damn woman’s exotic scent. Shooting her might be good for the soul and relieve the world of a foolish, bird-stealing widget.
    “For all your education, you have ale for brains, Professor,” said Nick. “With that game leg, you can barely walk. You’re supposed to be recuperating. Haring after a crackbrain will only get you killed all the sooner.”
    “She’s carrying a squawking damned parrot. How far can she get?” Donning his coat, Blake tucked the loaded pistol into his trouser band and trudged toward the hedge.
    He had despised his enforced idleness. The last fumes of liquor evaporated with the exhilaration of action priming his