Page 15 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

T hank goodness ye’re here... I don’t know what I’d do without ye.

Questioning the veracity of his own ears and eyes, Jon stared down at the gray-curled woman who at that moment leaned upon him for support.

When he’d come upon Mrs. Gilroy in the hallway—tangled in a twist of her own skirts as the dog looked on with a vaguely guilty look—she’d been the same cantankerous woman he’d known since he was a lad.

How had she moved so quickly from cranky grumblings to saccharine displays of gratitude?

She was up to something. The only question was what.

“We should get you to the sitting room,” he urged. “You should be comfortable on the sofa.”

Her expression lost some of its sweetness. “I’m fine right here. Just help me to a seat.” Her brow furrowed. “I should be near the kitchen in case Miss Frost requires assistance.”

“I hardly expect that will be necessary,” he said, realizing his own doubts even as the words left his mouth.

“Ye think not?” Mrs. Gilroy’s wry tone sounded more like the woman he knew.

“At this moment, I don’t know what I think,” he admitted as he assisted Mrs. Gilroy to a chair.

“Mr. Bennett looked concerned,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“My plan for Miss Frost’s security has hit a snag. Mrs. Johnstone has not yet returned from her European tour.” His gaze settled on Mrs. Gilroy. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“I’d heard rumblings when I was out and about.” Her expression became suddenly coy. “Ye’d be surprised how much one can learn at the market.”

“Did you happen to hear rumblings as to how long she will be out of the country?”

“They say she’s gallivanting about France, studying cooking of all things.”

“A true Renaissance woman.”

Mrs. Gilroy shrugged, her mouth thinning. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Mr. Jameson at the hotel is willing to dedicate a member of his security staff to watch over Miss Frost during her stay. But there is another complication. An Italian soprano is making her debut at the opera house, and the who’s who will be in London to attend her performances.

Not a single blasted room is available. Evidently, the situation is the same throughout the city. ”

“Such a pity, that.” Mrs. Gilroy sounded less than sincere.

“Jameson will notify me if a suitable room does become available. With any luck, the delay will be short-lived.”

The housekeeper let out a quiet yelp as she rose to her feet, then plopped back upon the seat. “I’ve truly done it now, haven’t I?”

“Mrs. Gilroy, you need to rest.”

“But how? I’ve no idea how I’m to maintain the household.”

“I will arrange for a maid until you’re healed.”

“Ah, that’s a kind thought.” Slanting Carrie a glance, Mrs. Gilroy sighed. “And what of the wee lass? I cannot keep up with the child. Not now.” Flashing a slight scowl, she threw Heathy a glare. “Not to mention him. He’ll be the death of me, I tell ye.”

Jon kneaded the increasingly tense muscles in the back of his neck. “I shall contact the agency.” Hopefully, he exuded more confidence than he felt.

“The agency that recommended Miss Pritchard?” Another well-timed sigh escaped her. “Do ye truly trust their judgment?”

The woman had a point. The agency’s director had spoken highly of the dour nanny who’d walked away without so much as a day’s notice. Their assessment had left much to be desired.

“So, Mrs. Gilroy, what would you suggest?”

“It is not my place to tell ye what to do,” she said, making a show of her uncharacteristic hesitation. “But I’d suggest ye clear yer schedule for a few days... just until ye find a governess to assist with the child and the household.”

“Clear my schedule?” If the woman had suggested he should find a bottle that housed a genie—a genie with an affinity for cleaning, cooking, children, and pets, no less—he might’ve been less surprised.

Once again attempting to rise, she contorted her features and added a dramatic wince. “I understand.”

“You know I won’t stand by idly while you’re in pain,” he said as she sank back to her seat. “I’ll say it again—you need to rest.”

“But how?” Her gaze trailed to the door leading to the kitchen. “Unless there’s someone ye feel ye can trust... someone with a kind heart to watch over Carrie.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “Someone who can tolerate the ball of fur with teeth.”

He tried to frown, if only to make the point that he didn’t appreciate the old woman’s scheming ways. But in his gut, he knew she was right.

“Someone with a kind heart, eh?”

She gave a slow nod. “What would be the harm in it?”

This time, his frown was genuine. “Where should I begin?”

“At least for a few days, until we can find someone else.” Mrs. Gilroy slanted Carrie a glance. “Ye’ve seen Miss Frost with the wee lass. They took to each other from the start.”

Mrs. Gilroy was right about that much, at least. Carrie had immediately warmed up to Belle.

And Belle—well, she had a weak spot for little ones and wee creatures with four legs.

But she’d demonstrated her compassion through her charities and such.

What did she know about taking care of anything or anyone, including herself?

By thunder, in Manhattan she’d had a lady’s maid whose duties seemed to revolve around pinning Belle’s hair into the latest styles and ensuring her taffeta gowns bore no wrinkles.

“You do realize she’s never had to lift a finger in her life?” He pointed out what should’ve been obvious to his housekeeper. Belle was an heiress. Not a workman’s daughter.

“She’ll learn what needs to be done. She’s got spirit, that one.”

“Spirit?” That was one way of putting it.

“Miss Frost will be kind to the girl,” Mrs. Gilroy went on. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“She is fond of little ones. But she’s never actually had to take care of one,” he countered.

“The lass has a good heart. That much, I can tell ye.”

Blast it, Mrs. Gilroy nearly had him convinced. But Carrie needed structure. She needed consistency. And for that, she needed a governess who would be there for more than a short time—more than the days he anticipated Belle might be in residence.

“Of course, ye could watch over the child until I’m back on both of my feet,” Mrs. Gilroy went on. “She’d enjoy some time with ye, I’m sure.”

“You know that won’t be feasible. Not at the moment.” The tension in the back of his neck returned with a vengeance. “I am in the midst of a major negotiation.”

“In that case, I’ll simply have to make the best of it, won’t I?” Mrs. Gilroy tapped her cane to the floor as if to punctuate her thought, then added another perfectly timed wince.

Bloody hell, the guilt . The cagy old woman certainly knew how to drive her point home, didn’t she? Perhaps he should bring her aboard in his most heated contract talks.

“I will figure out a solution,” he said, keeping his tone even as he kneaded the ache in his neck.

“The solution is in the kitchen as we speak.” A gleam lit Mrs. Gilroy’s eyes. “Perhaps there’s good reason why that pretty lass ran smack into ye last night. In all of London, she ran into ye.”

“You’re implying this is fate?”

“Fate. Luck. Call it what ye will,” she said with a sage nod. “I’ve lived long enough to know very little happens by pure chance.”

“This is madness.” He slowly shook his head. “You know that, don’t you?”

Glancing up, he met Belle’s gaze as she returned from the kitchen, a silver tray bearing the breakfast Mrs. Gilroy had prepared in her hands. Her eyes narrowed, if only slightly. Had she overheard their conversation?

“That may well be, but I’m right. And ye know it.” Mrs. Gilroy said, her voice low, yet pointed. “Unless ye have a better idea.”

*

The solution is in the kitchen as we speak.

Mrs. Gilroy’s words played in Belle’s thoughts as she sat down to the breakfast the woman had prepared before her unfortunate tangle with Heathy.

Evidently, her suspicion that the housekeeper’s transformation from crabby to molasses-sweet was rooted in an ulterior motive had not been so far-fetched after all.

Even if the woman’s plan was entirely well-meaning, the very idea that the housekeeper was speaking about her behind her back chafed a bit.

Unless ye have a better idea . She’d convinced herself Mrs. Gilroy wasn’t a conniver like Aunt Vera. Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Again.

Her own better idea hovered on the tip of her tongue. My, wouldn’t Mrs. Gilroy be shocked if the housekeeper could read her mind? Madness, indeed .

Diverting her thoughts from the twinges of hurt, she focused on Carrie as they made it through the meal.

The child had retrieved one of the pillows that had survived Mrs. Gilroy’s encounter with Heathy and now sat comfortably on her cushioned chair.

At the moment, the girl was delighting in the taste of a scone with a bit of jam.

Truth be told, she seemed to be the only one who was truly enjoying the delicious meal.

The atmosphere seemed tense, as if much had been left unspoken in their half-hearted efforts at conversation.

She waited for Carrie to finish her meal before she broached the subject nagging in her thoughts. It wouldn’t do to upset the girl. As for Jon and Mrs. Gilroy, that was another story entirely.

“I couldn’t help but overhear a portion of your earlier discussion,” she said, biting back a smile as he nearly choked on his tea. “As I play a part in a scheme that’s evidently quite mad, I would be in your debt if one of you would tell me precisely what it is that you’re proposing.”

Mrs. Gilroy laced her fingers together and lowered her gaze. For his part, Jon narrowed his eyes, seeming to study her.

“I suspected as much,” he said. “It’s a rare occasion when you utter fewer words during the course of an hour than I have fingers on my hands.”

“Is that so?” she replied. “Perhaps I shall continue to hold my peace until I’m gone from this place.”