Page 9 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

Mrs. Gilroy slanted him a glance Belle suspected was deliberately weary. “Miss Macie thought it best not to tote a finicky pet along on her expedition. So, the cat has made herself comfortable here.”

Jon glanced about the room. “Speaking of Cleo, where is she?”

Mrs. Gilroy’s thin shoulders lifted and fell. “Bedded down somewhere, I’m sure. She’s taken over the house, I tell ye. Thank goodness she has no fondness for tea parties. Or dirt.”

Jon hiked a brow. “Dirt?”

“Wet dirt, to be more precise.” Mrs. Gilroy turned back to Carrie. A touch of a grin played on her features. “Now, child, will ye tell us what ye served at yer little party?”

“Doggie and I had tea,” Carrie said, sounding rather proud of herself. “Pretend, of course. And we made pies.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “You made pies?”

“Make-believe pies,” Carrie went on, sounding quite delighted with her little party. “We didn’t eat them. But Heathy... he made a bit of a mess.”

“Tell them how ye made the pies, child,” Mrs. Gilroy urged.

Holding her cloth rabbit a bit tighter, Carrie nibbled her lower lip. “It was just a bit of mud. We were outside, in the garden. I poured a glass of water onto the ground and made tarts.”

Jon nodded, taking it in. “Well, a little mess is to be expected with a child, I suppose.”

“A little mess?” Mrs. Gilroy could not contain the amusement in her voice.

“But then Nanny came outside,” Carrie went on. “She was cross with me.”

“Nothing a bit of soap and water will not clean up, I presume,” Jon said to Mrs. Gilroy, sounding hopeful.

The housekeeper’s expression reminded Belle of the Cheshire Cat. “Ah, the soap and water worked quite well. On the wee lass, that is. But, ye see, Miss Pritchard’s bonnet was another story.”

“Her bonnet?” Jon rubbed his temples.

“I wanted Heathy to wear it to our tea,” the girl explained matter-of-factly.

Belle bit back a laugh. “Oh, my.”

“The woman had no reason to become upset,” Jon said, as if to convince himself. “It goes without saying that I would replace the blasted bonnet.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Mrs. Gilroy said, not even trying to conceal her cheek.

“Better?” Belle could not contain her curiosity.

“Or worse, depending on your view of the matter,” Mrs. Gilroy said.

“Promise you won’t be cross with me, Cousin Jon.” Clutching the stuffed creature even tighter, the girl regarded him with imploring eyes.

Cousin . A sense of relief washed over Belle as she chided herself for her momentary suspicion. Jon had left her in New York... he had hurt her. That much was true. But he had not lied to her.

“I will not be angry with you,” Jon said, his voice calm despite the tense set of his features. “You have my word.”

“Nanny fell.” Tears welled in the little girl’s eyes. “And then, she was so very cross with me.”

Belle could not stand by and watch the child’s distress. Crouching low, she caught Carrie’s small hands in hers. “It’s all right, dear,” she said, smoothing a wayward curl behind the girl’s ear. “You were only playing.”

The girl nodded and swiped away a tear. “Heathy didn’t mean to... to make her fall.”

“Good God,” Jon muttered under his breath.

“I had a cup for Heathy. And for me,” Carrie went on.

“Tea?” Jon plowed his fingers through his hair. “For the dog?”

“Not real tea.” Carrie shook her head. “Just pretend.”

“I should’ve known,” he agreed.

“Nanny wanted me to come in. But Heathy was still drinking his tea.”

Jon pressed his fingers to his temples. “He obviously didn’t want to rush.”

“She was looking for me.” Carrie thrust out her lower lip, looking as though she fought against tears. “I thought Heathy looked pretty. But Nanny fussed about her bonnet.”

“As ye can imagine, Miss Pritchard was not pleased to find the dog decked out in her finery. When she attempted to retrieve her bonnet—that ridiculous frilly thing with all the ruffles—the dog squirmed away,” Mrs. Gilroy added.

“She chased him.” Carrie’s lip jutted out a bit further. “Then I chased him, too.”

“Oh, dear,” Belle said under her breath.

“Ah, it was a terrible commotion,” Mrs. Gilroy explained. “Just as I made it to the terrace, Miss Pritchard slipped.”

“She fell on my mud pies.” Carrie sounded rather solemn.

“Good heavens,” Belle said as Jon rubbed his temples again.

“It was a scene like no other, I tell ye. The prim shrew landed right on her bustle.” Mrs. Gilroy recounted with a born storyteller’s flair. “And then, to add insult to injury, Heathy pounced on her, muddy paws and all, and gave her a hearty lick on the cheek.”

Carrie patted the pup on the head. “He was only trying to make her feel better.”

“That he was, child. That he was,” Mrs. Gilroy agreed kindly. “By the time Miss Pritchard made it to her feet, she was mad as a hornet. Nanny stormed inside and packed her bags. She won’t be back.”

Jon rubbed his temples as though they ached. “You’re sure of that?”

“Quite so,” Mrs. Gilroy said. “Trust me when I tell ye it is for the best.”

Jon met the woman’s tired gaze. “For the best, eh?”

Mrs. Gilroy gave a brisk nod. “There’s a bit more to this story, but I will explain at another time. Such talk is not good for the wee lass’s tender ears.”

“Point taken.” He scrubbed a hand over the edge of his jaw, over the dark bristles of new beard.

“Now, I’ll return to my initial request for your assistance, Mrs. Gilroy.

Our guest requires a suitable night dress and a day dress for the morning.

By any chance did Miss Pritchard leave behind some garments that might serve the purpose?

While I’m purchasing the woman a new bonnet, I will certainly pay to replace a dress or two. ”

Mrs. Gilroy’s keen gaze swept over Belle. She shook her head. “Yer eyes must be more weary than I’d thought. Nothing that scarecrow in skirts wore would fit Miss Frost.”

Prim shrew. Scarecrow in skirts. My, the housekeeper had harbored no fondness for the child’s governess. What had gone on between the women to cause such animosity?

Jon rubbed his jaw again. “You do have a point. Well, then, I’d imagine my sister has a dress or two in the closet. It wasn’t that long ago that Macie was visiting, and you know how she always leaves something or other behind.”

“I do believe I can find something suitable,” Mrs. Gilroy said. “But first, I’ll need to see the wee lass back into her bed.”

Jon shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll tuck her in.” He knelt down before the little girl. “Would you like that, Carolyn?”

“Very much.” She rubbed her still sleepy eyes and turned to Belle. “Will you come, too?”

“Miss Frost is our guest. Not your governess.” Jon clipped the words between his teeth before Belle could utter a reply. He scooped the child up in his arms. “Time for you to sleep.”

“I wanted to tell her about Miss Bun-Bun,” the girl said, reaching out to Belle.

“There’s no time for that now. It’s well past your bedtime.

And mine.” He held the child gently, yet there was a stern, no-nonsense air about Jon’s manner.

The little girl seemed to sense it, poking out her bottom lip ever so slightly.

The hint of unhappiness in the child’s eyes tore at Belle.

She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to touch the girl’s small hand.

“In the morning, you can tell me all about your rabbit,” she said, brushing her fingers over the stuffed animal’s little face. “She’s quite a pretty one.”

“Indeed,” Carrie said with a wan little smile. “Night-night.”

“Goodnight, Carrie.” Belle blew the little girl a kiss, delighted by the child’s small grin as she peered over Jon’s broad shoulder while he carried her from the room.

Belle stared after the child. Should she have defied Jon and gone along to tuck the girl into bed? There would’ve been no harm in it. Would there?

But then again, she didn’t expect to be here—in this house—for very long.

With any luck, she’d have new accommodations by the next sunset.

She’d no doubt Jon would arrange security for her at one of the exclusive hotels where he had connections.

As soon as she could obtain a suitable dress and a place to stay out of Gideon’s reach, she’d have no need to further distract Jon from his many responsibilities.

Leading Carrie to hope she might actually take the place of the nanny who’d bolted so unceremoniously from the little girl’s life would serve no purpose.

Indeed, it might truly be unkind to give the child false hope.

Belle’s heart ached at the very thought.

The child was bright and sweet-natured, but there was such sadness in those big brown eyes.

Who was this little imp? And why was she here—with Jon Mason, of all people?

The man lived for the next endeavor, the next business deal, the next store opening.

He had no wife. No experience with children.

And very little patience with anything that impeded his efficiency.

“She’s his cousin’s child,” Mrs. Gilroy offered, seeming to read her thoughts. “The wee lass is an orphan, ye see. This is her third home in little more than a year.”

“Her third home?” Belle met the woman’s careworn features. “Why is she here with Mr. Mason?”

“’Tis not my place to be carrying tales, but at the heart, it’s rather simple. The wee lass had nowhere else to go.”

The words plowed into Belle like a runaway train.

How horrid it must have been to be shuttled about from one place to the next.

She’d grown up surrounded by loving family and friends, never at a loss for someone who loved her.

For someone who cared for her. Until tonight, when she was on her own in the city.

She was an adult, an independent-minded woman, and yet, she’d felt so very alone.

If the sense of having no one to turn to had left her feeling frightened and nearly desperate, how hard must it be for a child to endure such emotion?

“Of course, that will change soon enough,” Mrs. Gilroy went on. “I don’t expect Carrie will be here for long. When Miss Macie and her husband return from their travels, they’ll take the child into their home. At least, this is the plan.”

“He does tend to have a plan, doesn’t he?” Belle mused aloud.

“That he does, miss.” A thin smile played on Mrs. Gilroy’s lips. “Always has. Even as a lad.”

If only I could say the same, I might not be in this pickle.

“Somehow, that does not surprise me in the least.”

“Come along, Miss Frost. I’ll find ye something comfortable for tonight.” She motioned to Belle to follow her to the stairs. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about my question. Tell me this, if only to put an old woman’s mind at ease—ye are still Miss Frost, are ye not?”

“Yes,” Belle said, bracing herself against a fresh wave of regret. And of relief.

“Ye’re quite sure of that?” The woman’s gaze settled again on Belle’s gown.

“Most definitely.” Belle met her eyes, seeing only caring within their gray depths. “You might say I came to my senses in the nick of time.”

“And that’s a good thing.” Mrs. Gilroy gave a knowing nod, seeming to comprehend what Belle had left unspoken. “Ye’re not the first lass to run from a man who was not meant to have her.”

The undercurrent of pain in the older woman’s voice touched Belle. What had she experienced to give her such understanding?

“Thank you.” Emotion welled in her throat, and the two simple words were all that Belle could muster in the moment.

“Well, enough of that,” Mrs. Gilroy said, her no-nonsense tone returning. “Let’s see to finding ye something a bit more comfortable.”

“Even Jon Mason could not have planned for this night,” Belle said with a lighter touch.

“Do not underestimate him, lass.” Mrs. Gilroy gave her head a weary shake. “He might not have had a plan when he left tonight for the tavern. But I’d wager my last penny he has one by the morning.”