Gent raised a brow. “How much time did I spend with Margaret before I knew what I had been feeling was love?”
That was a fair point, and Jeremy considered it. Two days at most was all that Gent and Margaret had had, but Jeremy was convinced it had only been one before Gent had known.
Could the case be the same here?
He hadn’t dared to hope before, but now…
Rogue snorted once. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging him to join your family.”
Jeremy tossed a sardonic glance at him, feeling more himself than he had in days. “I’m perfectly lovable.”
Gent shrugged. “Thankfully, I’m not the one who has to decide that.”
“No, but really…” Rogue trailed off with a grimace.
“I’m very fond of Helen, Rogue,” Gent scolded.
Rogue shuddered. “I’m not that fond of anybody.”
Jeremy stared at Gent, smiling a little. “You… want me… to be with her?”
Gent nodded slowly. “If she wants you, and you want her, I want you both to be together.” His dark eyes suddenly turned hard, and his jaw tightened. “But so help me, if you do anything to harm her or put her directly into danger in any way…”
“Yes, I know,” Jeremy sighed, waving a hand, “you’ll do away with me in an as yet undetermined manner, and no one will ever find the pieces of my body.”
“Something like that,” Gent replied with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Ooh, can I help?” Rogue inquired, brightening markedly.
Gent frowned at him. “You don’t even care about Helen.”
Rogue returned his look with an utterly superior one of his own. “Where Rook’s destruction is concerned, I bloody adore Helen.”
Jeremy barked a laugh and waved the pair of them out. “Away, both of you. No one is being romantic in any way today! I’ve got loads of reports, and so do you, and your stupidity is contagious.”
They returned his jabs with well-placed barbs of their own, and he shook his head, finding the pair of them more ridiculous than he’d ever really dreamed.
But in the silence of his office, he played their words over and over in his mind. Never mind that Gent might approve of Jeremy as suitor for Helen, that was another matter entirely.
Could he make Helen happy when he was disappearing for weeks at a time and unable to tell her where he was going or why? She was a curious, intelligent, sensitive woman, and though she was strong and independent, she might object to being so often kept in the shadow of his secrets.
Images of Miss Edgewood in her mourning sprang into mind, and the warmth he had begun to feel dissolved all too quickly.
How could he do that to Helen?
How could he give her something that he couldn’t promise would last? How could he leave her side, knowing it could be the last time he saw her? Every time he left, it could be the last. Agony at every parting. Fear at every moment. Aching for home constantly.
And there was no telling what Helen would feel.
If she felt for him even a portion of what he felt for her, it would be torment.
His first instinct had been correct. It had to be. He had to leave her, let her hate him, if she must, and then she could forget him and move on with her life. She could find someone else, someone who wouldn’t put her in danger in any way. Someone who would only ever give her a life of joy.
Not him.
It was too risky to be with him.
Too painful.
Jeremy closed his eyes and groaned. He’d been so used to living his life without concern for anybody else, without having to think of consequences, without reservation, and now…
Now…
“You look like you are on the brink of a roaring headache.”
Jeremy looked up to see Weaver in his doorway, and he nearly swore under his breath. “How do you always turn up here at inconvenient times?” he demanded of his mentor. “Do you have a key? A secret passage? Some sort of clairvoyance?”
Weaver grinned crookedly and pushed into the room, shutting the door behind him. “I’m a spy, Rook. I have all of those things, but I don’t need them.”
“You’re a ruddy diplomat who is supposed to be all politeness and affability,” Jeremy pointed out.
The taller man shrugged one shoulder and pulled out the chair Rogue had only recently vacated, turning it to the side and dropping himself in it. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”
Jeremy shook his head and dropped his pen again, not that he’d managed to use it. “To answer your question, yes, I am about to have a mighty fine headache. I’ve had one for days.”
Weaver hummed once. “Helen?”
“How did you know about that?” Jeremy scowled at Weaver, wondering if he had any secrets at all anymore.
“Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it?” Weaver replied, completely unruffled. “It was only a matter of time.”
Jeremy dropped his head to the desk, moaning dramatically.
“And you thought you were so careful,” Weaver teased. “But really, she’s a lovely woman, why the headache?”
“I’m a spy,” Jeremy informed him, not raising his head, keeping his voice muffled.
“So I’ve heard.”
Now Jeremy raised his head, glaring at Weaver. “So, it’s too dangerous.”
Weaver gave him a surprised look. “Is it? Goodness, I should tell my wife. And Gent’s wife. And Rogue’s. And Cap’s, Tailor’s, Tumbler…” He hissed at that. “Ooh, Tumbler will be most upset.”
Jeremy ground his teeth at that. “Your point, Weaver?”
“My point, Rook,” he told him, looking very superior, if not scolding, “is that nothing about our lives or our work precludes us from family life, if that is what we want. We put protections in place, and it suffices, though there are rare disasters. But there are rare disasters with anyone in the world, working in covert operations or not. Do the military men avoid marriage and family because they could die in battle? Do the politicians remain bachelors because such a visible employment puts them at risk for assassination attempts? What about barristers? They make enemies faster than anyone. Or a dozen other professions. Yes, there will be secrets, but they are not shameful secrets. They are dangerous ones.”
Weaver paused, swallowing once. “And while my wife may not know what danger I am heading into, she does know there is danger. She knows full well what I am doing every time I walk out the back door of our home rather than the front. Ours is a noble profession that receives no accolades, and our wives cannot boast of it amongst their friends, but if you think for one moment that my wife, or Beth, or Margaret, or Amelia ever complain about why we are doing what we do, then you underestimate the strength and character of the female sex, let alone those particular women.” Then Weaver smiled just a little. “And some of them rather enjoy being married to surprisingly dangerous men. Mine in particular.”
“Oh, lord,” Jeremy muttered, smiling in spite of himself. “So, you’re telling me to get over it and get on with it?”
Weaver nodded briskly. “More or less, yes. And I think Helen could be the making of you, Rook.”
That surprised him, and he slowly leaned back against his chair, watching his mentor for a long moment.
She could be the making of him.
Well, of course she could. She was brilliant, challenging, vivacious, bold, tender, and…
And he loved every lovely inch of her, inside and out.
Being away from her made him ache and doubt everything he’d ever thought.
It tempted him to ride off to York and sweep her away to Gretna Green before he could think too long on it.
As well as a host of other things that left him breathless and tossed about, but there was a task at hand, and he was not nearly as impulsive as anybody thought he was.
Still, it was something to consider.
Jeremy cleared his throat and straightened. “So, what have we uncovered from Trace’s files?”
Weaver s
mirked but took the diversion anyway. “A great deal, as it happens, which will not surprise you, as you found the hoard.”
Jeremy nodded. He had figured as much, though he had not been involved in sorting it out, which irked him a great deal. “I want in on it.”
Weaver laughed once. “Of course, you do. And you will be, once we have decided on a course.”
“What do you mean, decided on a course?” Jeremy asked, drumming his fingers on the desk. “It should be fairly obvious, shouldn’t it?”
“Not at all, actually,” Weaver told him, his face a carefully guarded mask that Jeremy was all too familiar with. “We’ve had to bring in some different personnel to make heads or tails of over half of it, not to mention comparing it to what you, Rogue, and the others have sorted out since then. Despite being an ideal operative, Trace was surprisingly cryptic.”
“He trusted no one,” Jeremy grunted, looking out of the window. “Not his household, not his colleagues, not a soul. He knew the risks all too well and kept himself well guarded. Only he could understand the information, which ensured that it would never be compromised, if found, and he took great care that it could not be found easily.”
“Which begs the question…” Weaver mused, a smile in his voice. “How did you find it?”
Jeremy smiled to himself. “Trace was a man in love, and I found myself able to understand that predicament quite well. It required thinking with the heart and the head, not just one or the other, and knowing Trace’s wit, intellect, and proclivity for protection and secrecy, I ventured beyond the realm of the obvious, and found everything right in plain sight. Where everyone looking was sure to miss it.”
The room was silent but for the soft ticking of the mantle clock on the sideboard.
“And you wonder why I brought you in on this,” Weaver finally said with a soft laugh.
Jeremy glanced over at him, surprised by the proud smile Weaver wore. “What, because I have a new perspective?”
Weaver shook his head, still smiling. “No. Because you’re very much like Trace, so you understand him. Even Rogue couldn’t do that.”
“That’s because Rogue didn’t have a heart until last year,” Jeremy reminded him.
“You didn’t see him when Trace died,” Weaver said, the smile fading. “I thought we’d lose him after that. His grief and anger were unparalleled, and they blind him in this.”
Jeremy hadn’t considered that, and he was grateful at this moment that he hadn’t witnessed that. “Whereas I have eyes wide open,” he murmured.
Weaver dipped his chin, the solemnity abating somewhat. “In this, at least.”
“Where am I blind?” he demanded with some indignation.
“I’d start a list, beginning with Helen Dalton, but I’d really rather be home at some point this evening,” Weaver told him as he rose, heading for the door.
“You came all the way over here just to have this chat?” Jeremy laughed, rising as well.
The older man turned to face him. “Not quite. I came to tell you ‘well done’, and to see if you were free tomorrow evening.”
Jeremy frowned. “Free for what? A social call?”
Weaver shook his head slowly. “We are bringing you in, Rook. To possibly reopen Trace’s original investigation, to find out why they knew you were on the road to York, and to determine once and for all if Trace may yet be alive. With what you’ve uncovered, and what we already know, it’s time.”
Strength and stability left Jeremy’s legs, and he pressed his hands into the desk to steady himself. “Why me?” Jeremy half-whispered. “Why not the others?”
“Honestly?” Weaver asked. “Because I can’t bear to face any of them if we’re wrong.” He smiled faintly. “Tomorrow evening, Rook. It’s going to be a rough road, and your only excuse for getting out of any of this will be if you’re man enough to go after Miss Dalton.”
Jeremy gaped after him as he swept from the room, chuckling softly to himself.
Man enough to…? He couldn’t go after Helen…
Could he?
Chapter Fourteen
He could and he would and, dammit, if this report didn’t wrap itself up this evening, he would curse Trace’s memory until the end of time.
Another bleeding week in London, and he was at his wit’s end.
Despite Weaver telling him that he would be excused if he went after Helen, Jeremy hadn’t had time to consider doing anything of the sort, apart from when he was trying to sleep at night, which clearly kept him from sleep at night, which made Trace’s cryptic reports to himself even more incoherent, which made Jeremy furious, which made everything worse.
But no more.
Tomorrow morning, he was riding off for York, and everything could wait.
Trace could wait, smugglers could wait, and the possibility of Jeremy’s identity being compromised could bloody well wait.
Not that he wasn’t concerned about all of those things, because he absolutely was.
But Helen couldn’t wait.
And he was very much afraid that she wouldn’t.
Still, there was too much to do to completely abandon things, and until he finished this, and finished it well, he could not, in good conscience, ride off to beg for the hand of his lady love.
And unfortunately, the investigation into Trace’s affairs and delving into his case files was more comprehensive than anything Jeremy had ever been part of. He was barely keeping his head above the water with his responsibilities in the League on top of the rest of it, and keeping this all a secret from them was eating away at him slowly. This was their fallen comrade and friend, their cry for vengeance, and he couldn’t let them know.
Couldn’t give them relief.
Couldn’t do anything to jeopardize the investigation, and with emotions running high due to yet more instances of compromised travels of contacts or operatives, he couldn’t risk it.
He was alone in this, and it was a very hollow sort of feeling.
There ought to have been more answers with the number of people working through it, but everyone was being as careful and cautious as Jeremy was. There was almost no communication between anyone else unless they could be assured of security, and no one was taking any chances.
Jeremy trusted his comrades in the League, and their superiors, but anyone else was suspect. No conversations took place in open areas, even in code, and all of them were being tailed by trusted contacts for safety.
Even Gent’s band of children were being diverted off of their usual tasks for much safer ones.
Everything was tense and uncomfortable these days, and a nagging sense of suspicion pervaded amongst the office, and within Jeremy’s mind.
As far as any of them could tell, their public personas and real identities were still intact. There had been the scare with Rogue earlier in the year, and certainly with Cap, but measures had been taken with both of them to ensure it was less likely to occur again, and nothing had led them to believe the rest of them were similarly at risk. But if they could not get a handle on this, they would have to shut down the League and reassign them to one of the other offices.
Jeremy couldn’t let that happen.
He’d loved his days with the Foreign Office, certainly, but this was something different. This particular group, who answered only to the Shopkeepers themselves, was above and beyond anything he’d ever been a part of. Now he was tasked with ferreting out where the discrepancy had been in Trace’s work that had exposed his investigation and left him in danger. Everything seemed to trace back to it, and yet there was no sign that he had been aware of the problem. Trace had been just as ignorant of the danger as they were now, and it had led to his death.
With all that Jeremy had to be getting on with, and with all that he had focused on Trace in the last few months, that thought terrified him.
And despite what Weaver had said about bringing him in on the investigation, he still knew only what he was permitted to know, not the whole of the picture,
and it was maddening.
He’d been the one to find Trace’s cache of intelligence and reports; why should he not be leading the investigation and putting more pieces together? Even his brother had a more integral part in this investigation than Jeremy did, and while John, in his work as Sphinx, was an utter genius with puzzles and codes and analysis, he wasn’t tied to this in any way. And he almost never went out into the field, which meant the implications of much of the details he was sifting through would not relate to him.
Which, now that Jeremy considered it, was probably why Sphinx and the other intellects had been brought in.
And still, in the midst of all this madness, Jeremy found himself dwelling on Helen more than he ought to have done.
Lord, but he missed her.
It was strange, but those few days together had meant more to him than the full year of shameless flirtation they’d engaged in. Such a short amount of time where they had truly been themselves, but the condensed period had had an irrevocable effect on him. His future was no longer his, but theirs. Aspirations he’d had for years were now but a faint memory, and all he truly wanted in his life was her. A lifetime with her was his dream beyond dreams.
He was mad for her, mad for wanting her, and mad for staying away from her, but all of that would change tomorrow when he could, at last, set off for her.
It had taken days to settle on that course, which seemed ridiculous, as the way was quite clear before him, but he would admit that his concerns had been significant ones, and as such had required all due consideration. His colleagues had been no help at all in that quarter, as every instance they saw him was accompanied by an exclamation of disbelief that he was still there.
He was taking great care to avoid being seen for that particular reason.
Not that they were wrong, but because he knew he would have done the same.
And had done.
But had he truly understood what they must have endured, feeling what they did for their wives before they were claimed as such, and making sense of it all, he might have teased a little less and minded his own blasted business.
That made him snort softly to himself now. He ought to have known himself better than to suggest that he would choose to take less enjoyment out of plaguing his colleagues over matters of the heart just because he now could sympathize more. If anything, had he experienced it at the time, he might have done more to plague them.
By Hook or By Rook (London League, Book 4) Page 17
