And if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, which he rarely was, but seemed keen to be lately, he would admit that he was afraid.
Afraid it was already too late.
Afraid he had missed his chance.
Afraid that what he’d done was unforgivable.
Afraid…
Well, afraid she didn’t want him in return, when it came down to it.
Jeremy Pratt was used to facing all sorts of fear and acting despite it, but this seemed to be an exception.
Some brave and daring man he was!
He slid the mostly finished report aside and shoved the entire collection of papers into the secret drawer of his desk, locking it soundly. There was no sense in attempting to make sense of any of this when Helen, and the pain of being without her, was dominant in his mind.
Helen reigned supreme for him in all things.
He put his face in his hands and sighed heavily. Tomorrow needed to be now, or he would go mad.
“I’d ask what you are doing in London, but I’ve already heard.”
Jeremy dropped his hands in surprise as Cap’s voice rang in his ears, and he stared at his superior and colleague in confusion. “I didn’t know you were here, either.”
Cap smiled a little, and the relatively new sight still took some getting used to after years of knowing him. “Just arrived.” He pushed into the room, looking pristine in eveningwear, which was not usual for the offices, despite Cap’s station in life.
Jeremy eyed him pointedly. “On your way to a party, or just escaped one?”
“On my way,” Cap replied easily, not sitting. “And so are you.”
“No, I am not,” Jeremy told him, gesturing to the mountains of paperwork, not that he’d been working on any of those. “As you can see, Rook is staying in.”
Cap’s lips quirked. “Rook has an assignment tonight, because Mr. Pratt is needed at Lady Blackmoor’s ball.”
Jeremy shook his head. “No, I think you’ll find Mr. Pratt isn’t in London at present. He’s heading for York, as it happens.”
“Not until tomorrow.”
Jeremy stared at Cap in horror, though he really should have known better. “How did you know that?”
The question seemed to amuse Cap. “You informed Weaver you would be unavailable tomorrow, and he told me. And I know perfectly well why, and I approve of the trip.”
“Oh, good,” Jeremy muttered with a scowl. “My secrets have the approval of everybody I work with now.”
Cap tilted his head. “Really? I didn’t know One and Two had any insight on the matter.”
The mention of their code names for the poor clerks who worked with them made Jeremy snort. “They’re about the only ones who don’t know, and I’d be very surprised indeed if they haven’t heard, as well.” He looked up at Cap again. “Did you bring Beth to London? Or is this just business?”
Cap smiled at his wife’s name. “No, I brought her. She’s feeling quite well, so we’ve come to London for a few days. You’ll have to fawn her appropriately when we get there, she’s looking forward to Mr. Pratt bemoaning her married state.”
Jeremy almost smiled but shook his head. “And I would do her justice, believe me, but I am in no mood for a ball.”
“You seem to be under the impression that you have a say in this.”
There was no arguing with Cap when he took on that tone, and Jeremy thought to try for one more argument. “I’m not ready for a ball, Cap. Not as Mr. Pratt, and not as myself.”
Now Cap smiled in earnest, which was downright alarming. “I surmised as much. So, I’ve brought reinforcements.” He whistled once, and a pair of crisp footsteps could be heard from the front of the offices.
“I do so hate being whistled at. It gives quite the wrong impression,” came a voice that Jeremy knew too well, and he groaned at hearing it.
Tilda appeared in the doorway, rather grandly attired, her arms full of equally exquisite garments, and her dark hair and eyes twinkled merrily. She was one of their favorite contacts and assets, a costumer extraordinaire in the theaters of London, and one of the more terrifying women Jeremy had the acquaintance of.
“Hello, darling,” Tilda cooed, crooking a finger at him. “I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you for ages. It’s like Christmas and my fourth wedding all at once.”
Cap coughed a laugh and stepped out of the way as Jeremy trudged over to her.
There was no arguing with Tilda, and a ball could prove a useful distraction. Or it would make him miss Helen even more, which would only spur him on faster to reach her in the morning and make his argument more ardent.
So, perhaps being trussed up by a costumer before his superior would be worth it.
And Tilda did tend to have excellent taste in garments.
He let her have her way with his clothing, then agreed to bring her to the ball on his arm under the guise of being his cousin Alice, which ought to provide him with necessary entertainment, and Cap quite tired of the pair of them before they ever rolled up to the Blackmoor’s residence in the rather subdued Montgomery crested coach.
But Lady Blackmoor was very polite and warm, greeted them affably, and smirked at Jeremy in a way he wasn’t sure he cared for.
He’d never interacted with her much, but he knew from others that she was a very mischievous, lively woman when she had a mind to be, and he thought he recollected Gent rushing off with her husband to save her at some time or another.
Odd that she should find his presence tonight amusing.
Lord Blackmoor didn’t look pleased about anything, unless he was looking at his wife, but that was to be expected.
‘Cousin Alice’ wandered away from Jeremy almost at once, which defeated the purpose of having her come with him, and Jeremy shook his head as he swiped a cup of punch from a nearby table.
“For heaven’s sake, Monty,” he grunted to Cap, careful not to spill punch on his gold-striped waistcoat, “why did I let you bring me to this sad assembly?”
Cap inclined his head politely, expression sober, eyes oddly filled with mirth. “Because Lord Marlowe insisted I do so, and I found his reasoning to be exceptionally good.” He bowed and moved across the room to his beautiful, charming, rather delighted-looking wife, leaving Jeremy to fend for himself.
“Traitor,” he muttered, sipping his punch.
Then Cap’s words sank in.
Lord Marlowe insisted that Mr. Pratt attend? Why in the world would Gent do any such thing, and why in the world would Cap listen to anything Gent suggested where Society was concerned? It was the most absurd thing Jeremy had ever heard.
He looked around the room, doing his best not to frown, as Mr. Pratt never frowned in public, scanning every face and figure for a sign of Gent or Margaret. They were going to be questioned as to motives and intent and…
His heart caught in his chest as another sight met his eyes, brilliant and beautiful, swathed in a breathtaking blue, and staring at him with marked intensity.
Helen was here.
The moment Jeremy’s eyes met hers, Helen wanted to smile.
Not just a soft, sultry, inviting smile, but an all-out beaming grin that hid absolutely nothing about her feelings at this particular moment.
Two full days she had waited in London for this, all the while listening to Rafe telling her to be patient, though he was the one who had written her in York and given her reason to race to London as fast as she could.
“Get to London,” his letter had told her. “There’s a lovesick man who thinks he can’t have you moping about, and it is really quite sad.”
She’d departed two days later, though she’d been planning to stay another day or so beyond that. Her parents had accompanied her, with an additional escort of three riders, who looked suspiciously similar to the ones that had ridden up with her and Jeremy, one of whom had been ever-present when she needed to leave the grounds at Leighton.
It made no difference. They had arrived without incident, and she
had been dying of the anticipation of seeing Jeremy again.
And now she had… and she couldn’t move.
She stared at him, and he stared at her, and the only thing she was aware of was the blood pounding in her ears at a very steady cadence, strangely not at all racing.
He was dressed as elaborately as Mr. Pratt ever had been, but she could see past that now. Those eyes staring at her with a raw need belonged entirely to Jeremy.
Her Jeremy.
Suddenly, it was all worth it. Driving Margaret and her mother mad with her indecision over gowns hours ago, thumping along in a coach with her parents for London despite having just made the journey, even her misery at Leighton over being without him was all worth it.
Just to see him again, and to see him like this.
There were no more questions, no more doubts. When he looked at her like that, she knew everything she needed to.
And Helen Dalton was quite done with waiting one moment longer.
“Go,” Margaret whispered from behind her. “Don’t just stand there, go!”
Helen heard Rafe shush her, say something about ten seconds, and the pair of them snickered to themselves, but Helen paid them no mind.
She wasn’t waiting at this moment.
She was watching.
She watched Jeremy take in every inch of her. She watched his throat work. She watched his hands fidget as his sides.
But when his chest moved on a deep, unsteady exhale, she moved.
Slowly, pointedly, she made her way around the room, skirting the edge of the dancing, never taking her eyes off of his. She heard scant whispering as she approached him, and she hoped the gossips enjoyed this.
She knew she would.
Jeremy’s eyes darkened to a deeper green than she’d expected, and he exhaled roughly when she reached him. “Lord, Helen…” he breathed.
She let herself smirk at that. “Quite so, Mr. Pratt.” She tossed her expertly set hair and quirked a brow at him. “I noticed that you didn’t have a dance reserved with me this evening, is that something you would like to remedy?”
Jeremy’s slow, heated smile made her toes curl in her beaded slippers. “Yes. I want all of your dances. Until the end of time.”
Be still her fluttering heart…
“Are you sure?” she asked, somehow managing a flirtatious tone. “I can be quite a handful.”
He nodded once, his smile turning tender. “I’m always sure, Helen. I want whatever trouble you cause, and all of the messes you create.” He swallowed and took a step forward, reaching for her hand. “I love you, and I’ll always be sure of that, too.” He drew her hand up and kissed the inside of her wrist, though the skin was covered by her long, white gloves.
The fabric made no difference. The heat from his lips raced up her arm and into her chest, catching her breath almost painfully.
“Lord, Jeremy…” she whispered shakily, smiling more naturally for him.
He returned it. “Just Jeremy will suffice.”
Helen burst into fits of laughter and reached for his coat with her free hand to steady her. “Oh, I love you.”
He settled a hand on her elbow, pressing the hand he held against his heart, and leaning almost improperly close. “If that is so, then I need you to find your father so I can ask for your hand.”
Helen scoffed without shame and kicked his shins gently. “Ask me, you dolt. Papa won’t care one way or another, so long as I am happy.”
Jeremy chuckled and pointedly tapped his foot against her skirts. “Will you be my wife, Helen Dalton?” he asked softly, brushing his nose against hers. “Would that make you happy?”
She sighed in delight and moved her hand to cup his face. “Yes, Jeremy. And yes… it very much would.”
“You sure?” he pressed, stroking the fingers he still held. “I have… a great many secrets.”
She nodded, drumming her fingers along his cheek. “I know.”
He leaned back a little, mildly surprised. “You do?”
“Well,” she laughed easily, “I don’t know your secrets, but I do know you have them.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?” He seemed almost uncertain, though she could sense his budding excitement.
Helen smiled at him, her heart ready to burst into flame or song or both. “No. You can have your secrets, so long as I can have you. The real you.” Her lower lip began to tremble, and she bit it softly. “Because I am sure of you still, Jeremy Pratt. And I always will be.”
Jeremy held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed with some pain. “Lord, but I want to kiss you right now.”
“Dance with me,” Helen urged, pulling him towards the others. “Surely a man with your talents can sweep us away unnoticed at a convenient time.”
He grinned mischievously, squeezing her hand. “He most certainly can, and I most certainly will.”
They moved into the dance easily, shocking no one, and gracefully taking part, just as any other couple might have done, though they did seem to garner more looks and attention than they usually did.
Helen could not have cared less about that. Her feet could not dance any more than her heart already was, nor could the music lift her any higher than her soul already flew.
Jeremy’s eyes never left her, even when the dance parted them, and Helen felt her cheeks begin to slowly heat under his intensity. And she was going to marry this man? She’d be nothing but embers the rest of her days.
And lord, what a time that would be.
“How are you here?” Jeremy finally asked. “By what magic are you here this evening? I was coming to you in the morning, all the way to York, but here you are.”
“It was Marlowe, not magic,” she replied with a laugh. “He told me there was a lovesick chap bemoaning the loss of me, and that I ought to see to it. Any idea where I might find him?”
Jeremy laughed back, shaking his head. “I have a few ideas, but we may have to save those for another time.” He wrenched his gaze from her to glare at Rafe, who only raised a glass, looking so bored it was amazing he was not asleep on his feet.
“Marlowe is a very interfering man,” Helen informed Jeremy primly.
“You have no idea,” came the muttered retort.
She grinned at hearing it. “That, and I found the man you hired to mind me while I was in York, and he all but slept outside my room.” She raised a brow, delighted to have found out his plan.
If her discovery surprised Jeremy, he did not show it. And in fact, he looked quite pleased with himself. “I would have told him to do so, if I thought it necessary.”
Helen let herself sigh, smiling gently at the man she adored above all others. “Jeremy, there is only one man I ever want to sleep outside of my room, and it’s the same man I want to sleep inside of my room, and that man is you.”
The dance came to an end, and Jeremy bowed over Helen’s hand, his eyes still on hers. “Far be it from me to refuse my lady love.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Now, shall we see about sneaking away so I might kiss you for a good long while before being properly presented to your parents as your new intended?”
“New intended?” Helen repeated as he pulled her away. “Whatever happened to my old intended if you are the new?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Jeremy retorted as his pace quickened. “But I highly doubt he kicked your shins the way I do.”
“Nobody kicks my shins the way you do,” she informed him, dipping her voice for his benefit.
An empty corridor obtained, Jeremy turned around and pressed her into the wall, his perfect lips curving all too perfectly. “Too right, Miss Dalton,” he murmured as his hand moved to her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “And nobody will.”
“Tell me one secret, Jeremy,” Helen breathed as her skin tingled. “Just one.”
He stroked her cheek again. “I’ll tell you as many as I can, love. But for now, just one.” He exhaled shortly. “I’m a spy. For the Crown.”
She s
tared at him for a long moment, the various pieces falling into place as Jeremy Pratt finally became a whole and complete picture in her mind. Suddenly, everything about him made perfect sense.
And she loved him even more.
“Oh,” she half moaned, half gasped. “I heartily approve, Jeremy.”
Jeremy smiled at that. “You do, do you?”
She nodded against the wall. “Yes.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners and he leaned closer. “You like that secret?”
“I like that secret,” she agreed, nodding once more. “Very much.”
“Then here’s another,” he whispered, bringing his lips to her ear. “I adore you beyond measure, Helen Dalton. And I’ve missed you.”
She shivered at the contact, and more at the words, and sighed as she sank fully against the wall. “That’s no secret, darling,” she whispered back. “I already know.”
Jeremy kissed her then, his lips hungry and tender and easily unraveling her strand by strand.
And nothing else was said, or needed to be, for quite some time.
But once or twice, Helen did tap his shins.
And he always tapped back.
Epilogue
"It was a lovely wedding, Rook. Truly, we all enjoyed it immensely.”
“Speak for yourself. I hate weddings.”
“That’s not what you said when you were weeping.”
“I’m not sure weddings are meant to be enjoyed by the men,” Jeremy mused as he leaned against the bookcase, swirling his glass of brandy, unable to keep from smiling.
“Now that, I agree with,” Rogue said with a nod as he sipped at his own brandy. “I won’t say I minded my own wedding, but it is rather a lot of fuss, isn’t it?”
Gent laughed shortly. “Fuss, was it? To make vows before God and in the eyes of the law about taking a woman as your own flesh for the rest of your days and she doing the same for you? Yes, that should be a much simpler affair.”
By Hook or By Rook (London League, Book 4) Page 18
