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

I n his three decades of life, Jon Mason had seen his fair share of surprising sights.

God knew he could fill time at the pub over a pint or two recalling his marriage-averse sister’s escapades as she’d led the heiress hunters who had been the bane of her existence on a not-so-merry chase.

Until Macie had exchanged vows with the one man on the planet she did not wish to outrun, her unconventional, suitor-repellent ensembles had raised many an eyebrow—including his own.

But even she had never thought to make her way through London in a rain-soaked wedding gown, its silk hem caked with dust and dirt and whatever other muck was on the street.

In the days since he’d returned to the city from an uneventful trip to Cardiff, he’d heard talk that Arabelle Frost had made her way to London.

After dodging merger-minded tycoons and down-on-their-luck dukes alike, the New York ice princess had finally embarked on the pilgrimage American heiresses were evidently obliged to make before they settled down to domestic bliss with some questionably lucky—and, of course, nobly titled—Englishman.

But what in blazes was she doing here, rain dripping from the tattered cloak that covered her hair, in a pub which bore no resemblance to the elegant restaurants she fancied?

She’d bolted through the door like a madwoman.

In the first moments after she’d crashed into him, he had questioned his own eyes.

Surely this was not the never-a-hair-out-of-place social butterfly he’d first encountered in Manhattan.

The prim beauty he’d known would not have risked so much as a crease in her pristine—and expensive—taffeta and velvet dresses, much less drag silk through the grime of the London streets.

He’d gazed down at her then, searching her face, not caring if he seemed uncouth.

One look in her sapphire eyes was all it took.

One look, and he knew the truth.

This woman in a soggy wedding gown and ragged cape was indeed the dollar princess he’d come to know as Belle.

Now that he knew who’d plowed into his chest with a resounding thud, the questions were even more confounding. By God’s teeth, why had she rushed into the Rogue’s Lair, of all places, with the devil at her heels?

And why, beneath the cool veneer she affected like a shield, was there fear she could not entirely disguise in those unforgettable blue eyes?

“Do you intend to tell me why you’re here?” he asked, unconcerned if he came off as overly blunt. She already knew patience was not his strong suit.

She gave a quick nod, and he saw her throat constrict. “Eventually.” Her gaze slid back to the window. “Now, I need a place to hide.”

“What in blazes do you mean?”

Her attention darted to the tavern’s stout front door. “Precisely what I said. I must find somewhere to go... somewhere I won’t be seen... and quickly.”

Through the thick window glass, he heard the sounds of horses shuffling with restless energy. Yet, he saw no carriage. Bloody peculiar.

A tall, stone-faced man in a caped coat came into view. Walking with brisk steps toward the tavern, he turned his head to say something to a burly man in a plain coat and a driver’s cap who struggled to keep pace.

As she glanced toward the window, the color drained from her face. Clearly, she had recognized the men.

“I’ll be in a true fix,” she whispered. “I must go. Now.”

“Come with me.” He caught Belle’s hand in his and ushered her through the alcove, past the painted door which led to the tavern floor.

The pub was filled with their regular patrons.

Some of the blokes were singing along with the piano player, while most of the others were engaged in boisterous conversation.

Still, it wouldn’t do for curious men to get a good look at the conspicuously dressed new arrival.

Angling his body to shield her from question-filled eyes, he quickly led her to the back of the tavern and up the stairs to his private office on the second floor.

Despite her cumbersome dress, she made quick work of the steps. For the life of him, he could not figure out how women managed to maneuver the layers of skirts and petticoats without taking a tumble. But she moved at a feverish pace, unhindered by the abundant fabric swishing about her ankles.

As they reached the landing, the loud creak of the tavern door below had the effect of an alarm. She stiffened and turned to the noise. The notes of a deep, decidedly cultured male voice drifted to their ears.

Belle froze.

Her eyes widened, and she went unnaturally still.

As an instinctive, rather confounding desire to protect her reared its head, he gently tucked an arm around her.

Motioning to the room at the end of the corridor, he led her to his private office and escorted her inside.

Since he’d become an investor in the tavern, he’d kept this particular space as a quiet sanctuary, a retreat from the chaos of his everyday life.

Now, the small chamber would serve as a hiding place for a woman he’d never thought to see again after the morning when he’d boarded a steamer and sailed out of New York harbor.

Life was indeed bloody strange.

He closed the door behind him and turned to Belle. Her complexion had pinkened a bit, an improvement on her ghostly pallor. But the tense set of her features betrayed her fear.

“Who are those men?” he asked.

“One of them is the driver of the coach. His name is Roderick.”

“And the other?”

She laced her fingers nervously, her gaze dropping to the loose knot of digits. Her lips thinned to a slash. “Lord Gideon Kentsworth.”

The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Not that it mattered. He didn’t give a damn about his title. Judging from the effect the smug-faced stoat had on Belle, the bastard had no place here. He wouldn’t hesitate to toss him out on his pretentious arse.

“It’s clear the man is not here to sample our ale.” Jon searched her face. “What does he want?”

“Well, you see... he is the groom.” She brushed a damp curl behind her ear and appeared to gulp a nervous breath. “And he’s come after me.”

*

Groom. Seldom had a word tasted as bitter on Belle’s tongue as that single syllable. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to meet Jon’s questioning gaze.

His brown eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if he debated whether his own ears had deceived him. “The groom?”

“He intended to become a groom,” she said. “But he has not yet succeeded... not this time.”

“Not yet .” Jon rubbed the back of his neck as if he’d developed a sudden ache. “And not this time .”

“It’s a rather complicated story. There’s no time to explain. Not now.”

His dark brows drew together. “But you are still... Miss Frost?”

“Most definitely,” she said, allowing herself a little smile. “I would not wed the cur if he were the last man in London. On the planet, for that matter.”

Jon nodded his understanding. “But he thinks to change your view on the subject?”

Gideon’s chilling words before she’d fled the townhouse echoed in her thoughts. Belle dropped her gaze to her mud-caked shoes. Could she trust Jon with the whole truth?

Pulling in a low breath, she struggled to calm her thoughts. At this point, she had little reason to have faith in the man. When Jon had rushed her out of sight to his private office, he’d likely reacted out of instinct. Even rogues possessed a degree of gallantry, didn’t they?

But he had no pressing need to know the ugly truth behind Gideon’s pursuit. The less Jon Mason knew, the better.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said without emotion.

Her attention drifted to the dirt on her once-white skirt.

The dress had been beautiful, a symbol of her hope for a contented future.

Now, hours after she’d stood before the dressmaker who’d sewn the final flourishes of lace on the gown, she could scarcely abide the sight of it.

Foolishly, she’d believed Gideon’s performance.

She’d thought he’d seen more than her father’s fortune when he looked into her eyes.

How very mistaken she’d been. Thank heaven she’d discovered the truth. Before it was too late.

Jon’s brows knit together, the expression he made when he wasn’t entirely pleased about something or other. Of course, he knew she wasn’t telling him everything. Jon Mason was many things. But a fool was not one of them.

“I’ll see what he’s up to.” Jon’s voice was gruff as he went to the door. “Turn the latch. Do not unlock it for anyone except me.”

A fresh rush of fear washed over her. She swallowed hard against it. “Do be careful.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” he said, confident as ever. “I know his kind.”

A knot in Belle’s stomach tightened. “I don’t think you do.”

His gaze met hers and held for a long moment. “I do... better than you know.”

Moments after the door closed behind him, Belle locked the door and went to the window.

Concealing herself behind the thick curtain, she peered down to the street below, watching the ordinary comings and goings from the pub and its surrounding enterprises.

The torrential rain had stopped, allowing a clear view from her vantage point.

Suddenly, she spotted the carriage rumbling along the street. Gideon had gone on his way.

She was safe.

At least, for the moment.

Still, she peered into the night, watching for some sign of the coach’s return. Gideon would not give up so easily. Of that, she had no doubt. Did he intend to search every hotel? Every inn? Any place where she might take refuge?

Gideon knew full well the predicament she faced.

When she’d fled her aunt’s home, she’d left nearly everything behind.

Clothing. Spending money. Even her cherished, exceedingly worn volume of Pride and Prejudice .

All stored within her locked steamer trunk, now well out of her reach in the plush appointed chamber in which she’d stayed as a guest.