Helen smiled weakly at that. “True, but I still doubt it.”
“Yorkshire is a beautiful county.”
She nodded, looking out the window, feeling forlorn. “It is. I thought Charles a bit strange for procuring a house there, but it seems he was wiser than I thought. I love to wander the grounds, so rich and green and rolling…”
“But it is almost autumn.”
“All the better. The trees will be turning colors, and Yorkshire will be all the more brilliant for it.” She sighed at the prospect. “There’s a rather majestic tree at the back corner of the grounds, and its branches are thick and full. I can sit under that tree for hours and never feel the sun fully. I can lay beneath its leaves and catch glimpses of the sun as it moves overhead, each ray turning the leaves more brilliant in their shades… So many daydreams and imaginings can take place there.”
“And what do you dream of, Helen?” Jeremy asked, his voice lower than it had been. “What do you imagine?”
You.
The thought caught her off-guard, and her cheeks heated at it. Though it was true, she could hardly say it aloud. The last time she had been at Leighton, she hadn’t known Jeremy, but she had imagined romance, certainly, and a dashing man to sweep her away.
At the moment, the man who fit that persona was sitting across from her in the coach. Whether he remained there was still as much a mystery as he himself was.
Helen smiled at him, though she felt the smile shake. “That’s private, Jeremy. If you needed to know, you would.”
She knew at once that he saw her hesitation and distress, but he played it off by dramatically scoffing and rolling his eyes. “That’s so unfair,” he retorted. “You can’t use my words against me.”
“I just did.” She raised a brow. “Maddening, isn’t it?”
He grumbled under his breath and looked away.
“So, you can drive a coach,” she observed, straightening up and forcing her melancholy aside, “you were in the Army, you can mimic accents, you can speak French, you can disguise yourself as either a fop or a working class man, and you can dance like an instructor. Anything else you feel like sharing?”
Jeremy’s lips pursed in thought, the motion of the carriage swaying him a little. “I’ve been known to fight for sport. I happen to have an excellent singing voice, if I do say so myself. And I can spot a liar in less than thirty seconds.”
Helen stared at him for a long moment, smiling in spite of herself. “Lord, Jeremy… what can’t you do?”
His mouth curved, those perfect lips driving her mad. “Starch shirts. Tie my own cravat. Eat peas with a knife.”
She giggled helplessly. “Nobody cares about those things.”
Now Jeremy’s smile deepened, and with it the swirling feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Then I can do everything, Miss Dalton,” he told her, his voice dipping lower still. “Absolutely everything.”
Lord, Helen…
She swallowed at the sensations swirling about her. “You are rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Jeremy, no doubt having no idea of the effect he was having on her, smirked. “I have to be. No one else is.”
There was a hint of raw honesty in his voice, and she nearly swooned at it.
No one else was?
That was simply not true.
“I am,” she admitted softly.
Jeremy’s eyes widened, and his smile faded slowly. There was no sound but the carriage wheels and the horses’ hooves, and the pounding pulse in Helen’s ears.
“Well,” Jeremy finally said, swallowing once, “I’m afraid I don’t have words to respond with.”
Somehow, Helen was able to smile at that. “That’s a first.”
He returned her smile. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Chapter Six
The night at the inn was spent rather quietly, but Helen really hadn’t expected anything less. It ought to have been quiet.
What she hadn’t expected was her disappointment that it had been quiet.
Not that she had anticipated anything loud or frivolous, but after the exciting day she’d had bantering and bickering with Jeremy, she had rather expected something…
Anything really.
Visions of sitting in the taproom at a worn table before a roaring fire laughing hysterically kept coming to mind, though she was well aware that Jeremy was not one of her female friends inclined to stay up late and chatter endlessly until they were so giddy as to be insensible.
But he was charming and amiable, and mischievous.
Yet he had behaved with all the manners of a perfect gentleman, and even the stodgiest of Society patrons would have agreed.
It was oddly disappointing.
They’d had a hearty dinner at the hands of their hosts, who hadn’t been much for conversation, and Jeremy had regaled her with stories from his youth in Manchester.
No one would have believed that Mr. Pratt had been that rambunctious as a lad.
But it seemed to fit rather perfectly with Jeremy.
He’d surprised her after dinner by seeing her to her room and bowing politely at the door before striding off down the hall. Helen had stared after him, stunned and bewildered.
Not that anything untoward should have happened.
But surely something should have!
It had taken her hours to fall asleep, so often she tossed and turned over their conversations that day, and before she’d known him as Jeremy, trying in vain to find the glimpses of Jeremy in the foppish Mr. Pratt. She imagined dozens of conversations they would have the next day, quips she would make, snappy retorts she could give, always saying the perfect thing to make him smile in the most charming way.
Surely this was the most ridiculous she had ever behaved in her entire life.
This morning at breakfast, he’d not even been in the taproom, which had disgruntled her, but Mr. Mullins and Millie had been perfectly acceptable companions for the meal. Mullins had surprised her by informing her that the coach was already prepared, and they were ready to depart at her convenience. She’d expected Jeremy to have still been abed, given the relatively early hour, but as they had walked out to the coach, he was there as prepared as any servant to attend his mistress in loading the coach.
Millie accompanied them inside the coach and had almost immediately fallen asleep.
To Helen’s dismay, so had Jeremy.
So here she sat, the swaying of the coach lulling everyone but her into slumber. She had never been one for coach sleeping. And given that she had expected another full day of conversation and wit, she had neglected to bring a book in the coach with her. Not that she was a great reader by any stretch, but it would have been some sort of amusement.
All she had now was the passing scenery, and as it was a rather gloomy day, it did not lend itself to much by way of admiration.
What a surprise that her expectations had gotten her into trouble and left her disappointed. It was the perfect theme for her life, though she doubted anyone could be aware of that. She’d always covered her wounds with cynicism and comedy, finding that most people were perfectly willing to be distracted out of their fleeting concern, and most of those people were not intelligent enough to know when they ought to be concerned anyway.
There was no reason for her to have expected anything at all. Jeremy Pratt was an actor in so many ways, and there was nothing to say that the man she had bantered with yesterday would be the man she rode with today. The man she had flirted with in London was not here, and it was entirely possible that yet another version would present himself to her before too long.
Provided, of course, that whomever he was ever woke up.
Until then, she would just lay her head against the wall and stare forlornly out of the window, cursing herself for dressing in one of her more fetching gowns when it would all be for naught. It was even one of her favorites; white muslin with green and yellow embroidered flowers and a green ribbon in her hair, and instead of the dark travelling
coat of yesterday, she’d pulled out a lighter, more flattering yellow pelisse.
It was the most impractical sort of travel ensemble conceivable, but practicality stood no chance against a woman who wished to make an impression.
Idiot female sensibilities.
“You’re an idiot, Helen Dalton,” she muttered to herself, allowing a plaintive sigh to escape.
“Well, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
Helen jerked to look over at Jeremy, who was not so very asleep now, though he still leaned heavily against the wall, his green eyes watching her.
She swallowed once. “Not really. Fairly accurate, actually.”
His lips quirked just a little. “I doubt that.”
Helen shook her head with determination. “I’m afraid you don’t know me well enough to say that, Jeremy.”
He frowned suddenly, a deep furrow appearing between his brows, and straightened. “I’ve known a great many idiots in my life, and I have to say that you don’t even remotely resemble any of them.”
That made her smile, though she couldn’t manage much of one. “I’ve heard I don’t resemble much of anyone. Even my own siblings.”
“I thought you looked remarkably like your mother,” Jeremy commented in an almost offhand way. “Younger, of course. Less wrinkled, though your mother doesn’t have many of those to speak of, and your skin is tighter, particularly about the face.”
Helen clamped down on her lips to keep from giggling wildly.
Jeremy pretended not to notice. “Even so, your mother is still a lovely woman in appearance, which bodes well for you in the future, I think. I’m not particularly acquainted with her personally, for which I blame your surprising lack of proper manners…”
A burst of laughter escaped Helen’s lips, and she covered her mouth quickly.
“But everything I’ve heard of your mother seems perfectly proper, so resembling her would be rather fortunate for you.” Jeremy shrugged easily, still not commenting on Helen’s giggles. “Unless, of course, she happens to be an idiot, in which case you are quite doomed.”
Helen fell back against the seat of the coach, not even bothering to restrain her laughter now. The idea of her mother being an idiot was laughable, but it was his utterly perfect description of her that sent her into hysterics.
Jeremy considered her with marked interest. “Well, perhaps now you might be an idiot, you look quite done for, and we’ve still quite a way to go. I doubt Marlowe will be pleased to have you presented to your brother without any faculties, considering you must have left London with them.”
“Oh, stop,” Helen pleased, one hand clasped to her chest as if it could stop the tide of laughter. “Stop, I can’t…”
“Deuced uncomfortable things, faculties,” he commented without concern, shifting in his seat. “I try to do without mine, if I can. Tends to make the day pass with a bit more ease.”
Helen looked at him, grinning while she continued to laugh. “I rather like my faculties.”
His look turned almost intrigued. “Yes, so do I.”
“Jeremy!” she shrieked, shocked and delighted all at once.
He grinned, completely unapologetic. “What? You like them, why can’t I?”
Her cheeks heated, and she struggled for an answer, considering she was still full to the brim with giggles. “I hardly think we are talking about the same thing…”
His mouth gaped in shock. “Miss Dalton! Are you accusing me of impropriety?”
“I doubt it would be the first time,” Helen muttered, still smirking at him.
“It most certainly would!” Jeremy protested hotly. “I have never been improper with a woman in my entire life, not in word or thought or deed.”
Helen shook her head slowly. “I doubt that very much, but I apologize for offending your honor.”
His eyes narrowed, but his mouth curved again. “Apology accepted. And despite your doubts, I do have honor.” The smile faded slightly, and his eyes lowered, growing distant. “It might be all I have, come to think of it.”
That was surprising, surely there was much more he could claim to possess. He wasn’t the sort to be downtrodden about anything, and it seemed wrong to see him anything less than jovial.
Then again, she didn’t know him very well, either. How was she to know if he were always cheerful when he was out of the public eye? He might have been pretending just as much as she had, though her moments had, admittedly, been fairly sparse in number.
What if Jeremy was more prone to this than she could have pictured?
Would it tarnish her image of him?
She snorted at that. Image. What image? She didn’t have an image that could be trusted where he was concerned.
“And what is so amusing about that?” he demanded.
Helen looked back at him in surprise. “I wasn’t aware I had done that aloud.”
He sniffed and adjusted his greatcoat. “Well, you did, and I demand to know your reasons for it.”
There was no way she could tell him what she was thinking, as it was entirely centered on him and his person, and the truth of who he was. Admitting to thinking of him was a degree of embarrassment she was not willing to endure.
And yet…
“I was just wondering which version of you is real,” she asked, keeping her tone innocent and light.
Surely, she could ask that without him thinking anything untoward of her.
Or suspecting.
His eyes widened in surprise. “Pardon?”
Helen shrugged one shoulder, smiling with a hint of apology. “I’ve known at least two versions of you in the time we have known each other. Three, if you count Mr. Perry. And four, if…”
If she counted the distant man of recent days.
Which she did.
She cleared her throat and raised a teasing brow. “So. Which one is the real Jeremy Pratt?”
He was silent for a moment, staring at her as they both swayed with the motions of the carriage.
His silence worried her. It should not have been a complicated question, and yet he hesitated.
“This one,” he said in a surprisingly rough voice. He prodded himself in the shoulder with a finger. “This man here. This is Jeremy Pratt, born in Manchester, younger son, mischief maker and irreverent lout.”
Helen smirked at that. “Apparently honorable, capable of a great many things…”
Jeremy returned her smile, though his was gentler than she’d expected it to be. “Coachman, footman, soldier…”
“So many things, Jeremy,” Helen commented. “And all of them are you?”
He nodded, his smile turning wry. “Bewildering, right?”
“Very.” Her admission was blunt, but she couldn’t apologize for it.
Jeremy winced and leaned forward, keeping his gaze fixed on her. “I’m sorry, Helen. I…”
She shook her head quickly, desperate to stop the emotional tide rising within her at his words, the meaning behind them, and anything more than this light interaction.
“Nothing to apologize for, Jeremy, honestly.”
He looked as though he didn’t believe her, but he was apparently too much of a gentleman to say so.
Helen forced herself to smile with as much deviousness as she could. “How much Mr. Pratt is in you, Jeremy?”
Jeremy was not as easily distracted as the other people Helen fooled with her wit, but he still grinned with an echo of the airs she had seen around the ballrooms of London.
“Just enough, my dear. Just enough.”
There was something Helen was not telling him, if not several things.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, given that he was hardly an example of openness and sharing.
In his years of training, he had learned to read people carefully, and usually with a fair amount of accuracy. He might not know the details, but Jeremy was certain that Helen was hurting. And he was equally as certain that he was at least partially to blame.
That
scared him in a way he had not felt in years.
How had he hurt her? When? Where?
Why?
Why was a terrible question to ask at any given time, but it might have been worse than ever with her tender heart at stake. Why should his actions hurt her? Why should she care?
Just… why?
But gentlemen did not pry, and he was a gentleman.
Sort of.
At the moment, he wished he would be more of that hired hand than a man of birth, and then he could ask whatever questions he wanted. If he were truly in disguise, acting as an operative, he could be whomever he needed to be to get the information he needed. He’d been ruthless in certain circumstances, and in ways he could never share with anyone but his superiors. In most cases, he only needed to be impertinent and persistent.
Unfortunately, this was not one of those times.
Not with Helen. Everything was different with Helen.
Last evening at the inn, he’d kept up a steady stream of entertaining conversation, and then he’d seen her to her room, like he truly had been hired to look after her. But it was the only way that he could continue on with the rest of the evening the way he needed to.
She needed to be safely ensconced in her room while he met with Gent’s contacts.
He’d been down with them at least an hour, possibly more; he hadn’t really checked the clock. Half of them had followed the coach from a distance, fully out of sight, but close enough should the need arise, and the other half rode ahead of them, ensuring a clear path for them to tread. They took note of anything suspicious in the area and compared notes that evening.
Helen was more protected than the Prime Minister, it seemed.
Overprotective fool, that Gent.
And yet…
Gent hadn’t been the one to sleep on the floor outside of Helen’s door last night just to make sure she was safe.
That had been Jeremy.
And he’d not slept well. The fear that Helen would be a nighttime wanderer and discover him there weighed heavy on him. It seemed to jerk him from the brink of sleep whenever he got too close. Not that he usually slept well on assignment, but that was a different sort of anxiety. A wariness that thrilled him in a way.
By Hook or By Rook (London League, Book 4) Page 7
