It was dangerous for Jeremy to be thinking of his associates and their wives, because it led him to thoughts of possibilities, matrimony, and the future, and that did not sit well with him.
He couldn’t have a wife.
His life hinged on the ability to be flexible with his mortality and his morality, and having ties binding him to another person, or a place, or a group, would hinder that.
John didn’t count, he had his own secret life as Sphinx, the great codebreaker, linguist, and pretentious scholar, which the Shopkeepers found invaluable.
Jeremy got into scraps; John played with letters.
Neither of them could talk about it.
Their parents would have been both proud and perplexed, were they alive to see them both working for the Crown.
At any rate, neither of them bore the complications of significant others, and it was better for them to be free of it.
It was.
He jerked with a grunt as a sharp kick landed on his shins, hitting him in just the right way to be acutely painful.
He bit down on his lip, his breath coming in quick bursts through his nose.
“I am so sorry!” Helen gasped, and his eyes went to her involuntarily.
Her eyes were wide, and she appeared truly horrified, her cheeks coloring. One delicate lace glove covered her mouth, and she was barely breathing.
Jeremy stared at her for a long moment, the swaying of the carriage the only movement he allowed himself to make.
“I was trying to shift to find more comfort,” she explained in a rush, adjusting herself even now. “For… obvious reasons…”
He could hardly blame her, as her somewhat rotund companion was taking up a deal of space on their side. The woman was kindly featured, though at the moment she was far more asleep than Jeremy had pretended, her mouth gaping open wide and exhaling snores.
“And I lost my footing,” Helen went on, now wringing her fingers together. “My boot just shot out and whacked you directly on the shins. I am ever so sorry, sir. That must be painful.”
“I’ve had worse,” Jeremy grunted, shifting his voice to a deep growl, keeping his accent thick and common.
Helen smiled kindly, and he blinked at its warmth. “I don’t doubt it, if you’re an associate of Marlowe. Lord knows what that man is up to at any given time.”
He wasn’t entirely certain how to answer that. It was a truer statement than she knew, but he could hardly let that on. But he was acting the part of a hired hand, so there was a chance that it could have been accurate, if that had been his position.
So, he did what any good employee would do when put in this position.
He nodded. Just once.
Not that it was a yes or no question, but it seemed appropriate.
Helen’s lips curved. “We weren’t properly introduced earlier. Or if we were, I don’t recollect it.”
They hadn’t been, which had been a point Jeremy hadn’t found necessary to correct.
“I’m Helen Dalton,” she went on, still smiling in that peculiar fashion. “Cousin to Lady Marlowe.”
Jeremy tilted his head at her, keeping his expression as disgruntled as his character. “Perry,” he told her.
Helen hummed once. “Is that your first name or last name?”
“Last.”
“And your first name?” she pressed, those eyes of hers warming with the teasing light he adored.
“John.”
Her lips quirked wide for a moment, then faded back into hiding. “You don’t speak much, do you Mr. Perry?”
Jeremy shook his head, still staring at her pointedly.
She seemed to be considering him with equal interest. “Are you upset with me for disrupting your sleep, Mr. Perry? Or is this how you always are?”
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Not upset.”
“Oh, good.” Helen folded her hands in her lap, lowering her chin just a little. “You stare very frankly, Mr. Perry. I hope you are aware of that.”
Had he been staring?
Dammit.
“Sorry,” he muttered, shifting his gaze away.
“No, no, feel free. Stare all you want. We’ll be in this coach for quite some time, you might as well stare now.” She laughed a little and he heard her skirts rustle. “No one else stares at me, so I’m quite enjoying myself.”
No one stared at her? That was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever said in his presence, and he had to bite his tongue to avoid telling her so. If she only knew how people stared no matter what she did or where she went, the envious glances cast in her direction, or the furtive looks he’d seen many a gentleman send her way.
It was maddening to be the sort of man to notice absolutely everything, and remember it, when he had a personal interest.
“Come now, Mr. Perry,” Helen said, her voice teasing again. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Let us be friends.”
Friends.
If she only knew.
Reluctantly, he returned his attention to her and tried to look less surly, though his prosthetic nose wouldn’t allow for much by way of real expression. And his wig itched constantly, so he was destined to be cantankerous as a result of being unable to scratch.
Helen’s smile was wry now, her eyes practically dancing. “I will let you sleep if you wish to sleep, Mr. Perry. But if you’ve had your rest, perhaps you will keep me company a while.”
Keep her company? That was a terrible idea.
“I’ve never been much of a conversationalist,” he heard himself say, pleased that his speech stayed in character, even if his response was involuntary.
Helen chuckled. “Gracious, Mr. Perry. That was a great many words from you, I’m rather impressed.”
Jeremy grunted once. “Don’t be.”
She grinned without reservation. “I like you, Perry. Sharp-tongued and irritable. My favorite sort.”
Great. There went that plan.
Jeremy sat back with a sigh and fixed his gaze on a much safer spot.
The roof.
If Mr. Perry were truly a hired hand for Rafe, Helen would eat her parasol.
No one stared at her like that.
No one.
But if Rafe had brought him on, she had nothing to fear.
Which meant she just had to figure out who he really was, or what his story was, and get the real explanation for his accompanying her. She’d taken many trips across England without an official escort, and no one had even blinked at it. Yet now that she was headed off to York, a trip she had taken plenty of times, she had to have someone with her.
Preposterous.
Still, Mr. Perry wasn’t a bad sort. He seemed fit enough, though a bit larger than she had anticipated, and his dark hair and surly looks were off-putting. He’d kept his cap low over his eyes, and only now was it pushed back. She took a moment to really look at him.
High forehead. Tanned complexion. Thick brows. Bright green eyes. Remarkably unshaven for a polite escort.
There were lines at the corners of his eyes and permanently etched into his brow, but he seemed too young for them. She wasn’t sure why, but she was certain he was.
And she was just as certain there was something familiar about him.
She’d never seen this man, as he was, but she strongly suspected that the man before her was a fabrication.
The nose alone told her that.
Oh, it was fair enough for a character in passing, or a short interaction, but if one stared at it too long, it took on a life of its own. It was all wrong for his face and natural features, and unless God were truly unkind with his makeup, it was false.
Why would her escort be in disguise?
She had so many questions, and no idea how to go about answering them.
So, she was reduced to keeping Mr. Perry talking until something revealed itself to her; either his identity or a plan.
Fortunately for her, she had never wanted for conversation.
“What ab
out dancing, Mr. Perry?” she asked politely, though she doubted very much that he had actually seen the inside of a ballroom. “Do you dance?”
He seemed to laugh at that, though it was a mixture of a bark and a growl. “Only if I’ve had too much to drink.”
Helen tsked softly. “Do you over-imbibe, Mr. Perry? For shame…”
He clearly heard her teasing tone, and his surprisingly pleasant lips curved crookedly. “Only when I have reason to.”
His voice hadn’t been so rough just then, and there was a familiar tinge to it that rang in her ears a little.
It was going to drive her mad trying to figure this out, but she had several days and more than enough opportunity, if they sat like this for the whole of them.
“I wish I could drink when I had reason to,” Helen mused, pretending at moody indulgence for a moment. “I’m fairly certain I’d be a raving drunkard twice a week.”
Now he chuckled and folded his arms across his chest. “Then you are more troubled than you appear.”
She smirked at that. “A young lady cannot appear troubled at any given time, Mr. Perry. We must be perfectly pleasant and perfectly poised at all times.”
“You seem pleasant and poised enough, Miss Dalton.”
Helen forgot all about her investigation as she stared at Mr. Perry, whose green eyes stared at her just as frankly as before. He hadn’t said it with any sort of flirtation or flattery, and barely any warmth, but there was something…
“Was that a compliment, Mr. Perry?” she asked, smiling in earnest. “Did you just compliment me?”
He shook his head, pursing his lips in denial. “ ‘Course not.”
“Truly? Because it sounded as though you were.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Liar.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
“As you please.”
“Compliment me again.”
“Doesn’t work if you’re asking.”
“Ask me if I care.”
“Do you?”
“No.” Helen bit back a smile, wondering if he knew that in bantering with her so rapidly, he was losing his accent, which had been rather good. She hadn’t known that had been part of the act, too, but it made perfect sense.
Already, Mr. Perry seemed more at ease, and if she kept at it for a bit longer, he might even smile in earnest.
Then she should have him.
Helen Dalton might not be skilled at a great many things, despite being accomplished, but about one thing she could boast; she never forgot a man’s smile when it was cast in her direction.
It happened so infrequently that remembering the span of them wasn’t difficult.
But it sounded impressive.
“You’re unusual, aren’t you, Miss Dalton?” Mr. Perry asked, his words sounding more like flattery than the actual compliment had.
Helen nodded primly. “Too right, Mr. Perry. I’m the very definition, you’ll find.”
He shook his head, almost smiling.
Almost.
“By the end of this trip, Mr. Perry,” she went on, excitement rising within her, “you’ll see that for yourself.”
“I’m sure I will, Miss Dalton.”
She was almost there. Almost. Her legs shifted anxiously beneath her skirts and she turned a little more fully towards him. “I mean it, Mr. Perry. I’m utterly bewildering, according to some circles.”
“Is that so?” he asked with all the patience in the world.
“It is,” she quipped. “I never forget gossip.”
“Why do I believe that?”
There was absolutely no accent now, and her heart skipped three beats as the rich timbre of his natural voice settled on her.
She knew that voice, if only she could place it.
“Because it’s true,” she told him, forcing her breathing to calm. “I’m unusual, bewildering, complicated, feisty…”
“Twitchy, too, I think.”
His quip drew giggles from her, and she considered him with a greater appreciation. “How’s that?”
He shrugged one broad shoulder. “You kicked me.”
“I apologized.”
“Even so.” He rubbed his shin and shook his head. “Twitchy, Miss Dalton. Perhaps not so poised, then.”
Helen pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth, fighting a wide grin. His eyes were so alive, so bright, and his giving in and teasing her in return made everything so much better.
For a gruff and irritable man, he was surprisingly vivacious in this regard.
A worthy opponent for her banter.
Someone who clearly loved the volley as she did.
Someone…
“Poised enough, Mr. Perry,” she murmured, running her tongue along the back of her teeth in absent thought.
He inclined his head. “If you say so, Miss Dalton.”
And then he smiled.
Her breath caught in her chest and she nearly hiccupped at the sensation.
Those eyes. That smile. This banter.
She knew him and knew him well.
“I do say so,” she said slowly, straightening up and drumming her fingers in her lap even as her stomach clenched. “…Mr. Pratt.”
Chapter Four
Panic set in at once.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Dalton,” Jeremy almost stammered. “My name is Perry.”
Helen rolled her eyes and scoffed loudly. “And I’m Helen of Troy.”
“You could be,” he offered, looking her over. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Her look silenced that attempt at flattery.
“Miss Dalton,” he said, trying for a placating voice, his mind scrambling. “If I resemble a man you know, it is purely coincidence.”
Helen barked a hard laugh. “Coincidence. Mr. Pratt, you’re a terrible actor, and your accent has changed no less than three times in the last ten minutes. That alone would raise my suspicions, but you’ve also gone out of character. The Mr. Perry I accidentally woke was surly and cross, and you are bantering with me as we always do. Please give my intelligence a little credit.”
He’d give her intelligence all the credit in the world, except for the jab about his being a terrible actor. He was a very skilled actor, and he knew it well.
He just couldn’t seem to remember that when he was around her.
Jeremy scowled at her. “You underestimate your ability to plague a man.”
“Enough to forget himself in the midst of his act?” Helen hummed in disbelief. “What a shrew I must be.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Miss Dalton,” he told her, pointing a finger at her. “You’re not a shrew.”
“I know that,” she spat, crossing her arms tightly. “I may be a hoyden, but shrew would be an extreme.”
That, at least, was true, though at the moment he thought that line was a bit blurred.
Helen watched him for a long moment, her expression suspicious. “Why the act, Mr. Pratt?”
He opened his mouth, ready to deny it again.
“Don’t,” she told him quickly, her delicate brow furrowing darkly. “I know who you are, and you know I won’t let it go.”
Jeremy glowered at her, his emotions wreaking havoc within him. How could he have failed so quickly in this pretense? How could she have seen it so clearly? With all of his years of expertise, he couldn’t manage to fool one woman into thinking him nothing but a hired hand?
He’d have to turn in his resignation the moment he finished this task. He was utterly useless.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he growled, looking out the window at the passing countryside.
“What?” Helen cried in indignation. “I beg to differ!”
“Beg away.”
She screeched softly and kicked out her boot, hitting him in the shins again.
“Ouch!” He glared at her sharply. “Don’t be a petulant child.”
“I’ll be whatever I wa
nt,” she insisted, her eyes flashing. “Especially if you’re going to be obstinate and obtuse.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes with a groan. “Don’t be clever for the sake of a good turn of phrase. I don’t care what you think.”
Her eyes widened, and her jaw grew tense.
He shifted his legs away, giving her a warning look. “Don’t kick me again. I’ll kick you back.”
“You wouldn’t dare…” she breathed.
Jeremy lifted a brow. “Try me.”
“Rafe would kill you.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “He wouldn’t know.”
Helen coughed a surprised laugh. “You think I wouldn’t tell him?”
“On the contrary,” Jeremy drawled, leaning back more fully against the seat, “I am certain you would. And I am just as certain I would have that letter intercepted, and Marlowe would never know what you suffered at my hand. Or foot, as it were.”
She sat in silence for a long moment, watching him in shock. “You’re not the sort to abuse a woman, Pratt.”
He made a sputtering noise. “I never said I would kick you into a pulp, Miss Dalton. One kick in retaliation. You’d be well and whole, barely a bruise to corroborate your story, and one that could easily be explained by a poorly placed table.”
Her long lashes blinked once, twice, and then her brow furrowed more. “So, if I kick you, you kick me?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“That’s the most ungentlemanly thing you’ve ever said.”
Jeremy let his mouth curve up in a smile. “No, it isn’t. It’s only the one you’ve heard. I’m not nearly as much of a gentleman as you’ve been led to believe.”
Helen sniffed once. “You’re the one who led me there.”
“I know. And a merry leading it was, too.”
He was being sharp and scathing and he knew it, but how else was he supposed to maintain any sort of composure here? If he wanted to get Helen safely to York without incident, particularly involving his own sanity, he needed to erect as many barriers as he could.
Keeping her spiteful would ensure a stony silence at some point, and he could get back to processing his investigation on the long road ahead of them.
By Hook or By Rook (London League, Book 4) Page 4
