Page 78 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
Belle stared down at the fingers she’d laced together in her lap. “I honestly do not know what they are capable of.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” Mrs. Johnstone went on. “But I am wondering what ye know about Gideon Kentsworth.” Her mouth tensed. “About the man’s past.”
“He told me he’d been married... some time ago, when he was quite young. But his wife took ill with a fever.” Belle met the older woman’s questioning gaze. “She did not survive.”
“Her name was Fanny, and like ye, she was an American. But she did not die of fever. Her family suspected she’d been poisoned, but they could not prove it.” Mrs. Johnstone seemed to hesitate, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t believe she was the only one.”
“Not the only one?” Belle said on a gasp.
“There’s reason to believe the man has many secrets,” Mrs. Johnstone said. “What I’ve been told may be little more than rumor. But my gut tells me to listen.”
“What have you heard?” Belle stared at her as if she’d seen a ghost. “You must tell me.”
“At this point in my inquiries, I have not yet verified much of what I’ve uncovered. But Belle, please, be very careful.” Mrs. Johnstone directly met her gaze. “Kentsworth is dangerous. I feel it in my bones.”
“Bloody hell. I’m taking you away from London.” Jon reached for Belle, clasping her hand in his. “Out of that cur’s reach.”
“An excellent idea,” Mrs. Johnstone agreed. Lines of strain framed her mouth. “In the meantime, I would strongly suggest posting a bodyguard at the premises when ye cannot be at the residence. Someone ye would trust with her life.”
*
Belle moved throughthe evening as if Mrs. Johnstone’s words had not chilled her to the core. She assisted Mrs. Gilroy in serving the meal she had prepared. She sat down to supper, managing a light conversation, if only for Carrie’s sake—after all, it wouldn’t do to upset the child with uncharacteristic reticence, now, would it? After the meal, she helped Mrs. Gilroy with the kitchen tasks. Her skill in the kitchen might’ve been limited, but was certainly capable of washing dishes in the manner Mrs. Gilroy preferred. And when it was time, she ushered Carrie off to bed, tucking her in and reading her nighttime stories until the child nodded off.
She’d been thankful for the pleasant tasks she’d focused on, as they provided an excellent reason to avoid any further discussion of Mrs. Johnstone’s revelations. During their time at the supper table, Jon had feigned a casual manner she knew was an act. His face bore lines of tension. Of responsibility. Herpresence here had only added to the weight on his shoulders. Perhaps she should never have come here.
But that moment in time could not be undone. And now, she knew Jon was waiting for the time when they might be alone.
And soon, they would be. Ellie and Mrs. Johnstone had departed before sundown. Mrs. Johnstone was intent on meeting with Logan MacLain. She trusted her nephew—and Jon’s business partner at the Rogue’s Lair—implicitly, and with his connections, he might well be counted on to arrange discreet security for the house. She’d offered Ellie a lift back to her flat in her phaeton, a carriage she called The Spider, and Ellie decided the open-air ride would be more refreshing than a stuffy hansom. That left only Mrs. Gilroy as a distraction from the discussion Jon meant to have. When the housekeeper went to her room, as she customarily did immediately after the kitchen chores were done, Belle had no reason to avoid the conversation she knew they needed to have.
“Shall we go into my study?” He sounded rather formal, nothing like the man who’d kissed her so passionately the night before.
“I suppose we do need to talk. There’s no more putting it off, is there?”
“I’d say not.” He led her to the richly paneled room, closing the door behind them as Belle settled onto a comfortable chair. He went to the sidebar. “Sherry?” he asked.
“I’d like that.”
He half-filled a crystal glass and poured whisky into a tumbler for himself, then joined her on the settee.
“Well, the last week has not gone according to plan for either of us, has it?” The slightest trace of a curve to his lips took the edge off his words.
“Now that, Jon, is quite the understatement.”
“Belle, I know you’re worried, but I need you to trust me.”
“Trust?” She pondered the word. “I suppose it’s ironic—given all that’s gone between us—but I do trust you. As I told you, of all the men in London I might’ve run into, I am thankful it was you. But I don’t know that this is right.”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“It isn’t right that I’m here.” She allowed the words to tumble out of her. “I’d feared I was bringing trouble, perhaps even danger, to your doorstep. And now, it seems my concerns were well justified.”
“Whatever this situation brings to my door, I will meet it head-on. And I will handle it.”
“But this isn’t your problem to solve.” She took a sip of her drink, savoring its taste and aroma. “I’ve made quite a mess of things, haven’t I?”
“And if I disagree?” Jon’s expression was unreadable as he took a drink. Setting the glass to the side, he met her eyes. “Whatever happens, I will see you through it.”
“I can’t bear to imagine what my parents will think if word of my aunt’s vile rumors reaches their ears. Mama will be beside herself, and Papa... well, I don’t even want to think about it.” She let out a breath. “But if you send them a message, there may be repercussions.”
