Gone was her hope for anything at all where he was concerned.
And once the Season had ended, there was nothing else for her to do except go to Charles’ home and wait for her parents and younger sisters to arrive.
Then, all of the unsuitable Dalton sisters could be reunited in their mutually unattached states and commiserate on that fact.
Joy of joys.
Helen shook her head and sat up slowly, frowning at her own pathetic indulgences. Imagine hinging all of her interests and attentions on one person, and a man at that. She’d never been that ridiculous in her life, even in her very first Season. She ought to have known better, and certainly had better things to do with her time and energies.
She needed to leave London for some weeks, if not the entire autumn and winter, so that she might properly collect and comport herself in preparation for next Season.
It was entirely possible that she would end that Season as she was ending this one; that is, without a husband or any ties that could lead to one. But she would undoubtedly be in better spirits and enjoy the activity of the Season more completely for not being filled with girlish sensibilities and romantic nonsense.
Rosalind Arden could have a whirlwind marriage and exotic love story to a dashing sea captain who was obsessed with her, that was all well and good. Margaret Easton, now Lady Marlowe, could be engaged in a passionate and thrilling marriage to a peer who was surprisingly dull to everybody not paying attention, that was also agreeable.
Helen Dalton would be the most sensible of the lot and turn over a new leaf. She would let go of her sharp tongue and coy nature, transforming herself into the perfect English miss. Her gowns were already the height of fashion, her figure was as pristine as it had been at seventeen, and her fair hair and complexion had been praised repeatedly as flawless, so all that could remain was her person.
Surely a transformation there would not be too difficult to manage.
She nodded to herself and pushed up from the bed, returning her attention to the trunks scattered about the room.
“I will master you,” she muttered at the one she had been fighting with previously.
For the next several minutes, she waged war against it, and when she had finally proven herself the victor, she left the room, needing to be diverted in some way.
“Helen?”
She turned at the bottom of the stairs to see Rafe, Margaret’s mysterious husband, coming towards her, a gentle smile on his face.
As was usually the case, Helen returned his smile without meaning to.
Rafe just had that effect on people.
Well, on the people who didn’t think he was the most boring person in all of England. He played a part, too, and somehow managed to convince absolutely everyone that he was nothing, nobody, and quite forgettable. Once someone got to know Rafe, he was anything but forgettable.
Considering Helen first met Rafe during an attempted robbery at her aunt and uncle’s home, wherein he had thrashed the intruder to the point of unconsciousness and then kissed her cousin in a way that would have required excessive fanning had she thought about it long enough, neither she nor he bothered with pretending that he was anything other than what he was.
Whatever that was.
“Rafe, did you hear?” Helen laughed and shook her head. “Rosalind is going to marry Will Riverton.”
Rafe’s eyes widened, and he grinned broadly. “About damn time, I’d say.”
Helen took in her cousin by marriage with far more interest. “Do you know everything, Rafe?”
He shrugged easily, still smiling. “Just about.”
She loved when he was shamelessly confident. That was when she caught glimpses of the man Margaret must have known, and Helen almost understood their surprising marriage.
Almost.
Rafe was the handsomest man Helen had ever seen, there was no question there, but somehow that all faded when he was surrounded by anyone else in the splendor of a ballroom, where it should have set him apart. He became as simple and unremarkable as a decorative pillar, to the point that only a few guests in several hundred would even recognize the name Lord Marlowe. Only when he was here at home, stripped of the stiff London atmosphere, did he become this. And Helen was rather grateful to call him family.
“Do you have a moment, Helen?” Rafe asked, pulling Helen from her reverie of him.
She nodded quickly. “Of course.” She followed as he gestured towards the study and sat herself without invitation in one of the straight back chairs.
Rafe surprised her by not moving behind the desk but sitting beside her instead. “Are you sure you want to leave tomorrow?” he queried, still wearing the gentle smile from before. “Margaret and I wouldn’t mind at all if you passed the winter with us.”
Helen shook her head. “No, Rafe, though it is very kind of you. I need to separate from London for a time, and York seems as good a place as any to endure a separation.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes taking on a sharp light she did not understand. “Very well then. I’ve arranged a coach for you.”
She hadn’t expected that, and her smile evaporated as she looked at him in shock. “Rafe, you didn’t need to do that. I could have travelled post, and I was planning on it. Millie and I would have been fine travelling by ourselves.”
“Well, far be it from me to underestimate Millie’s abilities as a travelling companion,” Rafe said with a hint of a droll smile, “but no relation of my beloved wife is going to travel post, no matter who she has with her.”
“Aww, Rafe,” Helen teased, desperate to hide the real emotion she felt at his words.
The look he gave her told her he wasn’t fooled by her attempt, but he just continued on.
“I’ve also arranged for a man to accompany you.”
Helen rolled her eyes and huffed. “Oh, yes, we poor helpless females must have a man to protect us.”
He smiled a little. “In a word, yes. Humor an overprotective cousin, will you?”
She frowned at him, though her irritation was minimal at best.
Rafe fluttered his lashes pleadingly. “I’ve never had a sister, and since marrying Margaret, you’re the closest either of us have.”
Helen blinked at him, an odd lump in her throat. “Lord, Rafe…” she eventually managed.
He grinned at her quip. “Is that a yes?”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well, I will allow your masculine escort to accompany us. Please tell me he is handsome, at least.”
“Oh, he is,” Rafe said with a knowing smirk. “Very handsome. I have it on the good authority of at least twenty-seven females.”
Helen nodded sagely. “And his mother isn’t one of them?”
“I don’t even know his mother.”
“What a relief.”
They shared a smile, and Helen’s faded first.
“What’s wrong, Helen?” Rafe asked gently.
She shook her head slowly, swallowing. “I feel as though everything is passing me by, Rafe. Nothing in my life has gone the way I planned or expected. Everyone else has what I want, and I can’t manage to attain it for myself.”
“It being…?”
“Happiness,” she half-whispered. “Security. Love.” She laughed softly and raised a brow at him. “Matrimony.”
He made a soft sound of amusement. “Was that an equation there? Happiness plus security multiplied by love equals matrimony? Because I can tell you, that’s not how it works at all.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She gave him a sad smile.
Rafe covered her hand and squeezed. “If there is anything I have learned about life, Helen, it’s that nothing, and I do mean nothing, goes as planned. You’ll have your grand moment, your sweeping romance, your epic adventure, or whatever it is you are meant to have. Don’t look at everyone else and find yourself lacking.” He patted her hand once. “It’s called a grand finale for a reason, you know.”
Helen restrained a giggle. “Are you trying to t
ell me fate is saving the best for last?”
He shrugged and released her hand. “Could be.” He rose and grinned down at her.
She peered up at him with narrowed eyes. “Do you know something I don’t?”
Again came the shrug. “Probably.”
“You are maddening, you know that, Rafe?” she huffed as she rose, giving him a quick hug and a kiss on his cheek.
“Trust me, I am well aware,” he assured her, patting her shoulder.
“He is. I tell him that every single day.”
They both turned to see Margaret in the doorway, her dark hair fixed at the nape of her neck, her violet eyes trained on them both with amusement and adoration. Fixed on her hip was a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl who smiled at them both, her four teeth beaming proudly.
“My girls!” Rafe crowed, reaching his hands out for his daughter, who flailed for him with a gleeful squeal. He leaned down and kissed Margaret with the sort of kiss that one generally did not share in the view of others.
Helen peered up at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh.
Her cousin laughed and peered around Rafe at her. “Sorry, Helen!”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Helen said, waving a dismissive hand. “I enjoy being awkwardly trapped by an amorous couple.”
“In that case,” Rafe said, turning back to his wife.
“No!” Margaret cried with a laugh, pushing off of him. “Helen and I have so much to do before she leaves tomorrow.” She held out a hand for Helen, who came to her quickly, and then pulled her out of the room.
“Lord, Margaret,” Helen breathed, staring at her cousin with wide eyes. “With a husband like that, how are you supposed to catch your breath at any given time?”
“I don’t,” Margaret quipped, linking arms with her. “I focus on making him just as breathless.” Her full lips spread into a devious grin. “It’s a shocking amount of fun.”
Helen groaned and looked up at the ceiling again. “Tell me Rosalind is still here and I can pretend I have you both to myself for a while.”
“She is, and you can,” Margaret assured her. “How would you like a gossip session over tea and cakes?”
“Perfect.”
Chapter Three
Two hours down, an eternity to go.
If it kept up like this, Jeremy ought to be just fine.
He was in full disguise, unrecognizable even by Margaret, who had seemed confused by his presence, no doubt expecting to see the man she knew as Rook accompanying her cousin on this venture. He found that oddly flattering, and he was encouraged by her befuddlement.
Helen hadn’t even looked at him twice, which satisfied him, and the sheer amount of luggage she had for her jaunt to York was staggering, which amused him to no end. He hadn’t ever considered her to be a woman of excesses, but the proof was before him. If he were in a frame of mind to tease her at all, that would be a main point of attack. He suspected she would have an excellent rebuttal already prepared.
Gent had exchanged a firm nod with him, his eyes conveying the gratitude he could not vocalize, but they had discussed the trip at length in the days leading up to their departure, and Gent could have ridden the course in his sleep, so often had he asked Jeremy to go over it.
He was truly the most overprotective man Jeremy had ever met. And he was a covert operative? It was astonishing he had lived this long, let alone that he managed to function in the field after his marriage.
Jeremy’s plan for this first day was simple.
Sleep the entire way.
Helen would never engage a sleeping stranger in conversation, so he would only have to worry when they stopped to change horses. Despite travelling in Lord Marlowe’s coach, they would exchange the team of horses at least once a day, if not twice. No need for haste, Gent had said, so they might as well not push the horses to their limits.
Jeremy, however, saw a need for extreme haste, so as to save himself from this uncomfortable situation, despite this being the most comfortable coach he’d ever ridden in.
His hindquarters weren’t the issue here.
And, of course, Jeremy would never dream of actually sleeping while escorting someone as important to his colleague as Helen, nor with a road as unsuspectingly treacherous as the one they were embarking upon. But he was a very skilled actor, as was required by one in his profession, and beyond that, he had been pretending to sleep for years before he had ever been approached by the Foreign Office.
Only his brother John was better than him at faux sleeping, and that was only because John was a very sleepy person and it was often difficult to ascertain if he were, in fact, awake at any given time.
Pretending to be asleep certainly had its advantages. He could rest while listening without shame. He could mull over various points in his investigation and indulge in careful, thorough consideration of each in a way he’d never have time for otherwise. He could use his other senses and instincts, notice details his eyes might pass over, and prepare responses for imagined scenarios.
Meditation wasn’t something he tended to engage in on a regular basis; he rarely stopped moving long enough to properly consider any thought in depth. But if he could accomplish as much as he suspected he would on this trip purely in the confines of his mind, he would seriously consider scheduling a pause in his hectic days.
He’d probably ignore it, as he did with much of his schedule, but it would be in there.
The trouble with being restricted to the boundaries of his mind was that his mind had a tendency to wander, and instead of focusing on the sparse details he knew of Trace’s last investigation, as he should have done, his wandering mind fixated on the very woman he was trying to avoid.
Helen had been an utter vision this morning, the morning sunlight glinting off her barely-concealed golden hair, her green bonnet only adding to the richness of the picture. She’d left the ribbons undone, and for some reason, those loose ribbons dancing in the breeze had caught his attention. Her travelling coat mostly hid her figure and the gown beneath, but the cut of the coat had certainly been flattering enough to draw his gaze. The color in her cheeks had been high, her crystal blue eyes clear and bright, and her teasing voice had lilted in the most attractive manner he had ever heard.
Even now, he had wished it had been for him.
This was why he had to be asleep as long as possible. There was no telling what he would do if she engaged him in any sort of banter. His character ought to have been reticent and brusque, a gruff man without any talents in conversation. Just some hired hand her cousin had employed to accompany her and her companion to York.
Jeremy was a very skilled operative, as several associates, colleagues, and superiors could attest. But this woman had the power to make him forget himself and everything he needed to be.
Time and time again from the moment he’d met her, he’d forgotten to be Mr. Pratt, a charming fop and ridiculous accoutrement to any and all events and had been more Jeremy than he’d been in years. They’d danced on occasion, flirted shamelessly, bantered amongst the conversation surrounding them, and she invigorated him to a level that stunned him.
If he were any other man, he’d have courted her in the fastest courtship ever known in the proper world, married her, and be well on his way to wedded bliss by now.
But he wasn’t any other man. He was a spy. A covert operative in service to the Crown. A man with experience in the Foreign Office’s most secretive quarters, who put himself in more dangerous circumstances than even his London League cohorts were aware, who was lucky to be alive today, or any day, even if it were to be spent pretending to sleep in a coach.
Helen Dalton was more dangerous to him than any foe he had ever faced, because she alone had the power to completely dismantle him.
That truth terrified him.
His one comfort was that he had been able to distance himself before they had ever shared anything personal or significant with each other. Their relationship was strictly superficial and flirtatious, no
thing of substance, and could easily be written off as a passing fling.
It wasn’t, and Jeremy knew it well, but he could only hope and pray that Helen was less clever and wise than he thought her, on the off chance that she might see it as such.
Perhaps Rogue had the right idea of things with his recalcitrant ways and reclusive nature. He had almost no attachments in the world but for the League and the Shopkeepers, and his life was undoubtedly less complicated for it.
Or it had been, at any rate, before Amelia had found him.
That was an odd stroke of luck. She’d fallen in love with Rogue, not with his public persona, so he’d been able to be entirely himself the whole time.
Fortunate man.
Poor woman.
Jeremy liked Amelia a great deal, but one had to wonder about her tastes and preferences if she had fallen in love with Rogue as he was. Under her influence, Rogue was better behaved than Jeremy had ever known him to be, though not so changed as to be unrecognizable. He, at least, wasn’t as smarmy and lovesick as Gent had been, fairly nauseating them all with his bliss.
And then there was Cap… If anyone should have been an example to Jeremy, it was Cap. He’d lost his great love some years before, and married a near-stranger for the sake of his children. A beautiful, lively, captivating girl that Jeremy would easily have snatched up himself had he not been distracted by another woman who had commandeered his senses.
It didn’t take long for Cap to be completely head over heels for his bride, as any sentient man would have done, and Jeremy was pleased to see his superior happy once more.
Weaver had his enchanting wife, and the two of them had fairly taken over Europe with their own charms over the years. If they ever went to war again, Jeremy was convinced that placing Lady Emily Rothchild before the opposing forces would settle everything in the space of a single hour. Naturally, Weaver would have to be beside her, and if he were charming, he could help. If he were his usual impudent self, even at his age, he might complicate matters. His wife could rein him in, though. She usually did.
By Hook or By Rook (London League, Book 4) Page 3
