Usually.
Where a handsome man of convenient availability was concerned, however, they might make an exception. Pity the distance between Helen and said available man was growing as vast as the miles they travelled.
Before she knew it, the gates of Leighton were before them, and the cold marble exterior of the house looked more haunting in the bleak expanse of clouds and rain than she’d ever dreamed possible. A few windows were lit, no doubt servants preparing for the day, but other than that, there was no sign of life.
All too apt for the current situation.
The coach pulled around the wide circle drive, and, to Helen’s surprise, servants descended from the house quickly, followed by her brother and Fanny, both dressed, albeit not formally.
Both looked exceptionally relieved.
The door to the coach opened and Jeremy stood there, nearly as relieved as her brother seemed to be.
Helen gave him a questioning look. “I didn’t think we were expected so soon. Or so early.”
Jeremy nodded once. “I sent one of the riders on ahead straightaway. They were alerted to the situation hours ago, and no doubt have been anxiously awaiting our arrival.” He held out a hand to help her down, and she stared at it for a heartbeat or three.
He hadn’t helped her down during any of the stops previously. She hadn’t touched his hand in ages.
She’d forgotten what it felt like.
She swallowed hard and placed her hand in his, the other hand clenching at her wrap and coat. Jeremy’s hand closed about hers, his fingers curving too familiarly against hers as he helped her down.
Helen’s legs shook beneath her, and she gasped as they nearly gave way, her other hand flying to Jeremy’s wrist instinctively. His other arm latched around her at once, bearing her up with ease.
“Steady,” he murmured, the gentle tone somehow strengthening her legs and stilling her slight tremors. “I’ve got you. Don’t faint.”
“I don’t faint,” Helen reminded him in a would-be firm tone, glaring at him briefly.
His smile, though fleeting, soothed her heart, and she hesitantly kicked his shin.
His eyes remained on hers, his throat worked in a swallow, and then, very faintly, he tapped his foot against hers.
Helen’s eyes filled with tears at once and a sob caught in her throat. “Jeremy…”
“Helen!”
Jeremy’s hold on her suddenly vanished and Charles came to her, holding her tightly. Helen could barely feel him, and her eyes hunted for Jeremy again, though he was now helping Millie down.
Charles suddenly thumped Helen on the back and pulled away, looking her carefully over. “Dearest, are you well? You’re not hurt, are you? Blimey, you look like you’ve been through hell.”
“I have,” she managed, her voice catching.
Charles rubbed her arms, smiling sadly. “We’ve been so worried. Fanny hardly slept for her anxiety. But you’re here now, and I’ve had a bath ordered for you, as well as breakfast.”
Helen nodded absently, watching Jeremy move to the back of the coach to help the others pull the luggage down.
Too many things. Why had she packed so many things? It was ridiculous how much she had thought necessary to bring, and now he was wasting time pulling it all off the coach. If she’d brought less, they might not have been such a tempting target for the highwaymen. Jeremy might have had an easier time as he’d been atop the coach protecting them. They might have…
“Oh, Helen!” Fanny gushed as she pulled Helen into a warm embrace. “Look at the state of you!” She shook her head, her loosely braided dark hair bouncing with the motion. “You’ll likely catch cold, so I’ll send for the doctor this afternoon once you’ve rested. Come.”
Helen resisted being tugged away, straining for one more look from Jeremy, one more smile, one more… anything.
“Our gratitude, Mr. Perry, knows no bounds,” Charles said as he moved to Jeremy, hand extended.
Jeremy straightened and took his hand, shaking firmly. “Unnecessary, Mr. Dalton. I’m only glad we were able to see your sister here safely after all she’s been through. If you’ll send word to Lord Marlowe of her safe return, I’d be most grateful.”
“To be sure,” Charles replied, nodding. “But will you not return directly?”
Jeremy shook his head, studiously avoiding Helen’s gaze. “I’ve other assignments to see to before returning to London.” He smiled a bit. “Hopefully involving less exertion than the one I’ve just completed.”
Helen balked at the words. Assignment. Exertion. Completed.
None of those words were flattering, and none gave her comfort.
Charles shook his hand once more. “Thank you all the same, Perry. Truly.”
Jeremy nodded, and let his hand drop. Then, and only then, did he look at Helen.
She stared at him, hoping, waiting…
He bowed perfectly, then straightened. “Miss Dalton.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but no words were there.
Fanny encircled her shoulders with an arm, and turned her towards the house, and this time Helen let her.
But she glanced over her shoulder to see Jeremy watching her still, and then he moved to the free horse being held in place by one of the riders, mounted easily, and rode out of the gates of Leighton.
Without looking back.
Chapter Ten
The innkeeper had given them an hour. Just one. Not because he disapproved, but because it was all the privacy he could ensure.
Jeremy didn’t mind.
One hour was plenty for a man properly trained.
Yet he had sat here for a good twenty minutes, arms folded sitting in a chair, staring off at nothing.
He hadn’t slept in almost three days, and he was beginning to feel the effects of it. His mind wasn’t as sharp as it usually was in times like these, his body ached without exertion, and everything seemed to come a little slower than it ought to. But he was used to working under extreme circumstances, and this was extreme.
It occurred to him that he could have taken respite in York after leaving Leighton yesterday, but at the time, he could only think of getting away and getting on with things.
Now he was here, getting on with things, except…
Well, nothing was happening.
The contacts and assets all sat in the taproom, waiting for his orders and instructions, and they’d set the room up perfectly. They were undoubtedly ready to return to their lives and regular assignments, and he was ready to let them. He had plenty of other things to be seeing to, including some sort of rest and recovery. He could hardly proceed to Cheshire as sleep deprived and foggy as he currently was, given what his investigation must entail.
But he would freely admit to being a bit of a coward where sleep was concerned at present.
He feared what dreams would descend if he drifted off.
And yet, he craved them.
Dreams might hold memories of Helen, glimpses of her as she had been days ago before the attack, imagined scenes of the journey as it might have been, should the attack never have happened, or visions of the future. Or they could turn darker, nightmares of a more intense attack, a bloodier battle between them, and Helen being a victim strewn across the road while he was helpless to save her. Beyond any of that, they could be as desolate as his reality was, a sound and dreary shade of grey in absolutely everything, with Helen being weary and worn, near to tears but never crying, her pale eyes paler with disappointment and pain…
Jeremy had heard of the nature of opium, and how laudanum could give one dreamless sleep. Suddenly, it seemed a bliss beyond compare to experience such a thing.
He could drink himself into an oblivion, he supposed, but that had other ramifications that he didn’t feel inclined to endure, especially given he needed to travel again shortly. And travel decently far.
But he’d never been given a deadline, so who would know if he’d decided to take a brief holiday to forget what h
e’d just left behind?
“Look, are you going to get on wi’ it, or no?”
Jeremy lifted his gaze just enough to make eye contact with the bound man in the chair across from him.
He was a stocky fellow, with a thick Northern accent, which was almost amusing, considering he was purported to be a French sympathizer. He could even be a lowland Scot, perhaps, and the thought of the grizzled chap in a kilt was enough to almost dispel Jeremy’s gloom.
Almost.
Jeremy reached into his boot and pulled out a switchblade, then bent over to pick up a large shard of wood from one of the logs near the fireplace. Slowly, deliberately, he began whittling the narrow end into a point, looking up at his captive every now and then.
The man watched Jeremy’s knife as it easily and neatly pared the wood.
“Pouvons-nous commencer?” Jeremy asked him, keeping his tone mild and friendly.
His prisoner’s eyes widened, and his throat worked on a swallow.
“De quoi avez-vous peur?” Jeremy inquired, tilting his head as if in concern.
“I d-don’t speak French,” came the clearly terrified response. “Not a lick of it.”
Jeremy grinned and heaved a massive sigh. “Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it? I was just making that up to impress you.” He propped his feet up on a nearby chair and continued whittling the wood, though he had absolutely no skill in it. “What’s your name, sir? This will all go much quicker if we’re familiar with each other.”
“Gilbert,” he returned with a grunt, still eyeing the knife warily. “An’ I already know who you are.”
The whittling stopped and Jeremy looked at Gilbert with interest. “Do you? How disconcerting.”
Gilbert finally met Jeremy’s eyes. “Rook.”
Jeremy blinked twice. “Bishop.”
Gilbert frowned, his thick brows nearly forming into one massive expanse of hair. “What’s that?”
“Are we not listing chess pieces?” Jeremy replied, giving him a surprised look. “I was preparing to get more specific with my pawns.”
His impertinence did not sit well with Gilbert, who heaved a groaning sigh. “You’re the Rook.”
“The who?” Jeremy shook his head, pretending to be concerned. “Mr. Gilbert, you are quite incoherent. I’m nobody. Perry’s the name. And I don’t know what you think you know, but I can assure you,” he paused and gave another quick stroke of his knife across the wood, “it isn’t all that much.”
“That’s what you think,” Gilbert said with a snort.
Jeremy stopped, and let one side of his mouth curve up into a smug, superior smile. “Excellent,” he said, slowly dropping his feet from the chair and turning his body more towards Gilbert, who suddenly looked wary again. “It would be quite a shame if I were to waste my time interrogating someone who had no useful information whatsoever. I was very much hoping you would know more than I expect, because now…” He shrugged, rising smoothly and nudging his chair back with a boot.
Gilbert watched him, eyes going wider still. “N-now?” he repeated weakly.
Again, Jeremy slid his knife down the wood, keeping his eyes on Gilbert, and dropping the newly shaved scraps into Gilbert’s lap.
“Now,” Jeremy told him, no longer playing at affability, “we can get somewhere.”
Gilbert seemed to shrink in his seat, and Jeremy nearly smiled at the sight.
Intimidation was rather enjoyable at times.
Slowly, he began to circle Gilbert’s chair, whittling away at the wood in long strokes, the sharp blade easily peeling the wood away.
“Tell me about the attack the other day. What was it you wanted? Jewels? Money? The horses?”
Gilbert said nothing, and Jeremy chuckled at the silence.
“Ah, I know, too easy.” He stopped right in front of Gilbert and shaved strip after strip of wood into his lap. “Try this, then. Why, Mr. Gilbert, did you all choose Miss Dalton’s carriage? I know better than to presume it was random.”
“Miss who?” Gilbert asked, coughing against the sudden sawdust enveloping him.
Jeremy tapped his knife against the wood a few times, smiling again. “So, you didn’t know who was within. Yet it was not random. So, you must have wanted me, then.”
Gilbert swallowed, which Jeremy took to be an affirmative response.
“I’m flattered, Gilbert,” he told him. “And yet you put a young lady and her companion in a dreadful sort of danger, and, as a gentleman, I find that most offensive.” He slid his knife into the same hand as the wood, and slammed a right hook into Gilbert’s face, the chair rocking back with the force.
He grabbed the back of it and forced it right, leaning in close. “I don’t care if you wanted me or not, Gilbert,” Jeremy hissed. “Attacking a coach of innocent women to get me is fouler than foul, and your precious French friends are not worth such crimes. Now, tell me why you wanted me.”
“Orders,” Gilbert coughed weakly, turning to spit blood onto the floor.
“From whom?” Jeremy asked, leaning closer still, the points of the knife and the wood now nearly touching Gilbert’s shoulder.
“Superiors.”
Jeremy let the tips press into Gilbert’s shoulder just a little. “And they are…?”
Gilbert yelped but was frozen in place. “I dunno, Rook! I dunno! I jus’ work for the shipping company, an’ was hired wi’ the rest to come inland for a while!”
“Which shipping company, I wonder?” Jeremy mused, twisting the knife and wood a little, tearing a hole in the shirt Gilbert wore.
“Cardieu’s!” Gilbert winced with an audible keening sound, his left foot tapping anxiously against the floor. “Out of Bristol, Portsmouth, and Liverpool!”
Jeremy smirked and pulled back, raising a brow. “Not London, Gilbert?”
Gilbert shook his head, sighing with relief. “No, sir, Rook. Not since 1821.”
Jeremy’s ears began to burn, and his stomach tingled with instinctive anticipation.
1821. The year of Trace’s death. At the docks. On a boat.
He cleared his throat. “Odd for a man to uproot his shipping business from the most profitable ports in England, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mr. Cardieu’s interests in London failed, sir,” Gilbert said, almost anxious to inform him now. “It’s a small enow’ operation to begin wif, and there’s so much competition in London. ‘E and Mr. Frank Cardieu moved offices up to Liverpool, sir, an’ kept the Portsmouth and Bristol offices open, jus’ in case.”
“And do they prosper in Liverpool, then?” Jeremy asked, returning to whittling the wood.
“Dunno, sir. I’m a Liverpool dock worker myself, and it seems busy enough.” Gilbert tried to shrug, but bound as he was, it wasn’t easy. “Lots of new hires comin’ and goin’, just as ‘e please.”
Jeremy nodded slowly. “And what business would a respectable merchant such as Mr. Cardieu want with me, Gilbert?”
Gilbert’s eyes widened. “Oh, ‘e didn’t ask for you, sir. Tha’ was Mr. Mainsley, the foreman. Says we should ride out to York and wait for ‘is contact, and then attack the coaches as directed.”
“How many?”
“Three or four.”
“And what have you taken, Gilbert?” Jeremy asked, beginning to pace around the chair again. “From these three or four coaches.”
Gilbert paled at the return of Jeremy’s dark tone. “J-jus’ some papers, Rook. Papers and drawings from a pretty blonde, she was quite the looker…” He trailed off at Jeremy’s murderous look and swallowed harshly. “Jus’ papers and maps is all they asked us for. Except for you. We were s’posed to take papers an’ you.”
“Hmm,” Jeremy mused, stroking his knife along the wood with more agitation, the tip now very sharp indeed. “Well, that’s not happening, and I don’t know your Mr. Mainsley, nor the Cardieus. So why, do you think, would he ask for me?”
“I dunno, Rook!” Gilbert whined. “And I dunno what that French meant ‘e told us to
say, it was jus’ supposed to be our rally cry, you know?”
“Yes, well, unfortunately you picked the wrong rally cry.” He tipped Gilbert’s chair back sharply, and the man cried out again. “It’s the cry of traitors, Gilbert. Traitors, murderers, thieves… French-loving reprobates who want to bring down the Crown and see France in control of the kingdom. Are you part of that effort, Gilbert? Are you a traitor to your King?”
Gilbert frantically shook his head, a sheen of perspiration dampening his skin. “N-no, Rook. No, sir. I ain’t no traitor.”
Jeremy hummed and rocked the chair back and forth slowly, his knife nearing Gilbert’s ear. “Unfortunately, Gilbert, you are. Attacking my coach, let alone all the others, only makes you a thief. But that rally cry you were so ignorant of, and taking such poor orders from Mainsley, makes you a traitor. And there’s nothing I hate more than traitors.” He leaned down to his prisoner’s shoulder and whispered, “Do you know what we do to traitors?”
“I ain’t no traitor, Rook! I m-mean, Mr. Perry, sir,” Gilbert moaned, his hands flailing in their bound state. “Honest to God, I ain’t no traitor.”
Jeremy tapped his knife to Gilbert’s neck lightly. “Then you will have to be most accommodating, Mr. Gilbert, and answer all of my questions with complete honesty so that when I turn you over to the proper officials, I might have some evidence of your good character and loyalty. You agree?”
Gilbert nodded in jerky, panicked motions. “Yessir, yessir, I agree.”
“Very good.” He let the chair thump back to the floor on all four legs and moved around to the front of it. “But one thing first.”
“What’s tha- ARGHHH!” Gilbert broke off with a harsh shout as Jeremy shoved the sharp end of the stick into the barely-healed wound on his thigh, just as he’d done with the bayonet two days earlier.
Jeremy grabbed Gilbert’s mangy hair and yanked his head close. “This is for your attack on the coach with that pretty blonde you called a looker, who happens to be like a sister to me. Had she suffered actual harm, Gilbert, this would be occurring in a place far more sensitive to you.”
By Hook or By Rook (London League, Book 4) Page 12
