Jeremy gave him a look. He’d been with the League for three years, and that was plenty of time to cause enough trouble.
More than Gent knew.
“So why not come up with a legitimate reason to have Miss Dalton stay?” Jeremy asked, offering one last attempt to get away from this insane venture.
Gent snorted once. “Have you ever tried to persuade Miss Dalton to do anything?” He laughed; no doubt certain Jeremy had never done anything of the kind.
For a man who knew so much about so many at any given time and had resources to uncover remarkable amounts of information, he was surprisingly ignorant.
Jeremy had, in fact, tried to persuade Miss Dalton a time or two. He knew just how impossible it was.
Which was why this idea was so terrible.
“So,” Gent went on, smiling still, “I have chosen you. And you will be followed by some of my contacts, should trouble arise, and the driver will be one of Skips’s men.”
Jeremy shook his head slowly. “You are the most overprotective man I have ever met.”
“Why do you think I’ve been saving all of London the last few years?” Gent laughed again. “I can’t help myself.”
“You should see a physician for that.”
“But this is my wife’s cousin. Her favorite cousin.” Gent’s look turned rather frank; his meaning clear. “And you know how I feel about my wife.”
Jeremy shrugged a shoulder. “But not her cousin.”
It was as if Gent sighed without actually sighing. “I’m very fond of her.”
“So, send a recruit.”
“I’m asking you.”
Jeremy gave him a sardonic look. “Asking? Not ordering?”
“No.”
Jeremy stared at his colleague and friend, his conscience gnawing at him.
That was it, then.
“Damn you,” he muttered after a long moment.
Gent grinned and reached out a hand. “Thank you, Rook. I’ll see to all the arrangements. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
Jeremy shook his hand hard. “Says the man who thinks I’m about to be attacked by the entire French Faction because his wife’s cousin is so enviable a prospect.”
“They’d have a time of it if they tried anything with Helen,” Gent retorted, his eyes dancing mischievously. “You’ll see.”
“You owe me!” Jeremy called as Gent left the room.
“I know!”
Jeremy let his bantering mood fall away quickly, and he covered his face with a muffled curse. This was not going to go well at all, and he wasn’t sure he had done the right thing by accepting. There was too much at stake, too much to do, and he was too vulnerable to Helen Dalton to have this be anything less than a disaster.
He pulled a piece of foolscap out of his desk and scribbled a quick note. As quickly as he could, he moved to the back door of the building and whistled once. A lanky young man approached, his expression permanently scowling.
“Weaver,” he told him, handing the note to him. “Urgently.”
The dour look he received amused him. As if these notes were ever anything less. The lad was off without another word, and Jeremy returned to his desk, attempting to get something done amidst the distraction now warring within him.
It wasn’t long before the back door was opened, and Jeremy looked up to see a tall man with dark hair, dressed in surprisingly simple clothing, enter his office and shut the door behind him.
“Rook,” his guest greeted with a nod.
Jeremy returned the nod. “Weaver.”
Weaver sat in the chair across the desk, surveying Jeremy with gravity. “So. A complication.”
Jeremy nodded again. “Gent wants me to take Miss Dalton to York.”
“Poor you.”
The dry response made Jeremy’s mouth curve. “Yes, most unfortunate for me.” He sobered, his brow furrowing. “Weaver, there’s too much to do here for me to leave, and I’m only getting more and more burdened. I can’t ask the others to help, nor let them in on this,” he gestured vaguely toward the papers on his desk. “There’s nothing I can do to lessen the burden.”
“You’re the only one who can do this, Rook,” Weaver nodded at the papers, his rich voice containing no hint of amusement. “You know that, or I wouldn’t have asked it.”
Jeremy released a rough sigh. “Why aren’t we telling the others?”
Weaver straightened a little. “Because if they knew we suspected something here, they wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else. There is a brotherhood in the League, Rook, as you are becoming aware. They’ve never forgiven themselves. And they have been over everything too often.”
“They can’t see the forest for the trees,” Jeremy murmured.
“Exactly,” Weaver told him, folding his arms over his chest. “You have what you need, and the progress you have made already is…”
“Not enough,” Jeremy interrupted, jerking his head side to side. “Not enough, Weaver. Not with this, not what we’re up against. And now to have to traipse off to York with…” He shook his head again. “What do I do?”
Weaver watched him for a long moment, his mouth twitching at the edges.
Jeremy knew his mentor well enough to know that this was his tell for amusement. He didn’t see anything in the situation to possibly to be amused about, but he wouldn’t bother pointing that out.
“Go to York,” Weaver told him at last. “Getting out of London might be the best thing for you.”
Jeremy nodded, disappointed that Weaver hadn’t ordered him to remain, but he’d rather suspected it would go this way.
“When you’ve delivered your precious cargo,” Weaver continued, smiling in earnest now, “feel free to stop over in Cheshire.”
“Because they are so conveniently located near each other,” Jeremy muttered drily.
Weaver hummed an almost laugh. “You’ll find the ride rejuvenating, I am sure, after being confined in a carriage with Helen Dalton for so long.”
That was probably true.
“Anything in particular I need to see to in Cheshire?” Jeremy inquired, sighing in resignation.
Weaver nodded slowly, his smile turning rather knowing. “The holdings. Parkerton Lodge has been gone over dozens of times, but not by you. The grounds, the neighboring estates, the village… Anything you can think of. I’m giving you free reign, Rook. Look at it from a new angle and find something.”
Jeremy swallowed at the severity and significance of his task. “And if I don’t?”
“Then we truly may never know what Trace was into, or if there is any chance that he is alive.”
Chapter Two
She had entirely too many possessions, and there was no way she could take them all with her to York.
How had she managed to bring this much to her cousin’s home in the first place?
Helen groaned as she waged battle against her trunk again. She would get this thing to close securely. She would.
It wasn’t her fault that her parents had given up on the Season before she had. Or that she’d had no suitors for the third Season in a row. Or that her three brothers had all managed to reproduce with their wives within the last year, giving her parents additional grandchildren to dote upon.
Their leaving early had nothing to do with her at all. It was purely for the grandchildren.
At least, that was what Helen told herself almost daily in the weeks following her family’s departure. Her parents had packed up both of her younger sisters, neither of whom had suitors to speak of, and neither of whom cared.
If it hadn’t been for Rafe and Margaret offering her a place in their home, she would have gone mad touring the country from estate to estate with her parents. Staying with the Marlowes allowed her increased status for Society as well as the opportunity to play with and spoil her adorable namesake and goddaughter little Helena Thornton.
She’d had her reasons for remaining in London for the entire Season despite having no suit
ors and being tired of balls, the theater, and parties.
Well, one reason.
Her departure now was a bitter reminder of the stupid reason it had been.
“Lord, Helen, you have a lot of luggage.”
Helen cracked a wry grin at the mocking quip, knowing the phrasing had been specifically designed to echo her usual words. She turned to see her great friend Rosalind Arden in the doorway of her bedroom. “I have a great many gowns, Rosalind. How else could I expect to retain my enviable position in Society?”
Rosalind grinned, her dark eyes sparkling with their usual mischief, nearly the same rich shade as her luxurious hair. She was dressed rather simply today, but the dusty purple color suited her perfectly, as did everything Rosalind ever wore.
It was a trial of rather monumental proportions being friends with someone so stunning.
“Position,” Rosalind repeated, her full lips curving. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Helen laughed and waved Rosalind into the room, sitting on the bed while Rosalind headed for the chair by her toilette.
Yet she did not sit.
Rosalind’s fingers traced along the dark wood of the chair, following the engraved patterns absently, while her eyes took on a faraway look.
Helen watched and waited, curious by the change. Rosalind wasn’t a fanciful woman, prone to daydreams or imagination, nor did she hesitate when her mind was made up on something. Despite having a set jaw and a clear expression, Rosalind was in every respect reluctant and uncomfortable.
“Rosalind,” Helen eventually prodded, setting her hands behind her on the mattress and leaning back on them. “Tell me whatever it is you don’t wish to, as I suspect that is why you’ve come here.”
Rosalind’s dark eyes flicked over to her, and she smiled just a little. “I’m getting married, Helen.”
That was the absolute last thing that Helen had ever expected Rosalind Arden to tell her. Not that Rosalind would never marry, but that it should be announced without any prior courtship.
“To whom?” Helen asked, swallowing the burning in her throat.
Rosalind’s smile turned wry. “Will Riverton.”
“Captain Riverton proposed?” Helen gasped, grinning broadly now. The captain had been pursuing Rosalind on and off for a few years, and Rosalind had never encouraged him in any way. They fought and bantered like unruly siblings, or a couple already wed, and spent such a time in each other’s company doing so that Helen had suspected their mutual affection and attraction for quite some time. But Rosalind had been so staunchly adamant that there was nothing between them, despite her attention being on Will far more often than not, and so Helen had let the matter fall to the wayside.
Will Riverton was the catch of the century, and his eye had been on Rosalind Arden from the start.
And now she had him.
“He did,” Rosalind admitted with a blush, her smile a most perfect accessory.
“Has he proposed before?’ Helen asked without shame.
Rosalind only shrugged. “He might have.”
“But you consented this time?”
Her friend nodded. “I did.”
Helen laughed breathlessly. “Why? What happened?”
“He’s leaving,” Rosalind told her with a sigh. “He waited too long to resign his commission, and now he’s being sent to the Indies. He can’t say how long, he doesn’t know.”
Helen moaned sadly. “Oh, Roz…”
Rosalind shook her head, holding up a hand. “So, he came to me last night and asked me to marry him. Now. Before he leaves.” She smiled tenderly. “He wants me to go with him. He told me he doesn’t think he could bear to be gone for so long without me.”
The sweetness of the thought made Helen’s heart ache, pangs of romantic appreciation and jealousy bouncing around in the pit of her stomach.
“It wasn’t until that moment,” Rosalind went on, her smile trembling, as her eyes grew moist, “when I had the prospect of him being gone, that I realized how much he meant to me. I had to say yes, Helen. The word was on my lips before I drew a single breath.”
Helen stared at her friend, feeling more tossed about than she ever had, and completely beyond words.
Rosalind straightened slightly. “You disapprove?”
“Of course not,” Helen retorted with a snort. “I knew he was for you the first time you waltzed together, and that was years ago. I just didn’t expect you to change your mind so suddenly.”
“I don’t understand it myself, but…” Rosalind broke off for a watery laugh. “Helen, I love him. More than I ever expected I’d love anyone. He is the better part of me, and I can’t imagine my life without him.”
Helen sniffed loudly, finding herself near to tears. “Don’t make me cry, Rosalind, I look dreadful when I do.”
Rosalind giggled and wiped at the corner of her eyes. “I’m sorry! You should have seen me throughout all of this. Even Will cried a little.”
“I’ll bet he did,” Helen chortled. “The poor man’s been in love with you for ages, he’d all but given up hope! When will you wed?”
“Friday,” Rosalind replied, turning serious once more. “Lord Riverton procured a special license for us. We are to be married, have a luncheon with our families, and then we are off early Saturday.”
“A special license?” Helen repeated suggestively. “Well, well, Rosalind Arden, soon to be Riverton, aren’t you a scandalous bride?”
“A dreadfully anxious one, at least,” she retorted, grinning without shame.
Helen flopped back on her bed with a groan. “I won’t even be here on Friday! How can you get married without me?”
Rosalind whimpered a little. “I know. That’s why I had to come tell you straight away. It’s not even a real wedding, if that is any consolation at all. Lady Riverton is so distressed by it, as she cannot properly celebrate our union as she did for Sheffield and Sophie. We’ve promised she can do whatever she likes when we return. You have to be there; you have to help her.”
“Too right!” Helen pushed herself up to her elbows and skewered Rosalind with a look. “I’ll see to it that Lady Riverton goes above and beyond any celebration to date for the pair of you, particularly as I have had a very great interest in your secret romance for some time now.”
“You have not!” Rosalind protested. “How could you know? I didn’t even know.”
Helen sputtered in derision. “That’s because you are blind and stubborn, Rosalind Arden. Ask my cousin, I’ve been predicting this for ages.”
“I will!” Rosalind assured her, turning from the room. “I’m going now.”
Only when the room was vacant again but for her did Helen allow herself to fully sigh, sliding back to lay on her bed, staring up at the embroidered canopy.
That was it, then. Margaret was married and a mother, with another child on the way. Rosalind was to be married by the end of the week and spend an undetermined length of time abroad with her dashing husband.
Helen would go to York to visit Charles, the least irritating of her brothers, and strive to not be bored to death or plagued with questions from unfeeling family members who thought that she, as the “pretty one” in the family, ought to have done better.
She had other friends, to be sure, but none that were so close as Margaret and Rosalind. Next Season, she would have to find other near-spinsters to associate with, as she could hardly call herself anything else these days, and the number of those qualifying women that she could tolerate was small indeed. She would have to lower her expectations and standards if she wanted to accomplish anything a young woman of means was supposed to.
But she hadn’t the heart for it.
She had done everything right. She’d had the proper education and training, as her governesses would all attest to. She’d had a fair few, and if her brothers hadn’t scared most of them away with their antics, there might have been some consistency in her instruction. She’d made the best of it, however, and each n
ew governess had said as much when they’d met her. She was very accomplished, everybody knew that, and she was tolerably attractive, whatever that meant. She flirted with skill and without airs, she was neither particularly encouraging nor overly discouraging, and she always danced when asked unless she had an infallible reason not to.
Yet here she was. Lying on a bed in her cousin’s home, waiting to depart for her brother’s faraway estate because she had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.
Rosalind was marrying Captain Riverton after years of spiteful bickering instead of proper courtship and flirtation.
Helen had been studiously and pointedly flirting with one man from across and within dozens of ballrooms, music rooms, and theater boxes for an entire year or more and receiving some of the most skilled flirtation in return, and she had absolutely nothing to show for it.
Damn Mr. Pratt and all his fine strutting about.
The man was perfectly ideal in every respect, with his fine fortune and finer clothes, his proper manners and not as proper commentary on everyone and everything, and his sharp wit that never failed to delight her. His eyes were the perfect blend of green and brown, though most everybody in the world would call them simply green.
She knew better. She had seen the hints of brown, the mixture that swirled about with the same intensity that his persona emanated.
Mr. Pratt played a curious game with the whole of London, and she was helplessly fascinated by it. He was absolutely a fop, but without any of the fussiness that usually accompanied that. On the contrary, he was active, vibrant, and exciting. Captivating in his actions and bewildering in his nature, and she had never seen a hint of boredom in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing at any given moment, calculating and precise.
Which begged the question. Why?
And who was he under all the pretense?
Helen was fairly sure she knew, having observed him all this time, flirted with him, danced with him, imagined all sorts of in-depth conversations with him… But Mr. Pratt, for all his virtues, had one great and glaring flaw.
He was never consistent.
He hadn’t spoken to her in six weeks at least, and what conversation he had engaged in shortly before that shocking length of time had been in the foppish, silly tone he saved for grand public displays. Gone was the spark of light in his eyes she always had seen when they were together. Gone was the mystery of his playing a part for the world.
By Hook or By Rook (London League, Book 4) Page 2
