That Despicable Rogue Page 11
She had certainly kept a lush figure hidden under all that brown serge—Ross was as hard as iron and in a state of aroused discomfort. For a brief moment he felt guilty at this intrusion into her privacy. Then he remembered the fact that she was blatantly intruding into his with her spying—if indeed she was a spy—and the guilt lifted slightly.
Prim scurried to the spot where she had left her clothes and pulled a towel out of her basket. She sat with her back to him once again. As if to torture him further, she subjected him to several painful minutes when he had to endure the sight of her thoroughly drying every single inch of her soft, creamy skin, before unpinning her wet hair.
Like a siren, she wrung out the long, curling ponytail, then spread the towel on the ground and sat gloriously naked upon it. Unaware of her audience, she obviously wanted the remnants of the sunshine to dry her body, so made absolutely no effort to cover herself. He caught a glimpse of the side of one of her breasts. It jiggled a little as she pulled a hairbrush out of her basket, which she then proceeded to draw slowly through her hair.
He stifled a groan. Who could have known that Prim was, in actuality, a temptress? Ross could not remember ever being so aroused in his entire life—and by the mere sight of a bare back and bottom and all that perfect alabaster skin.
When she finally dropped the brush and pulled on her shift ten minutes later he felt bereft. Then she twisted her lush hair into a savage knot and pinned it ruthlessly at the nape of her neck. She rolled on her stockings, laced her boots, and stepped into her ugly brown dress last of all.
Ross made no attempt to follow her when she eventually set off. Frankly, he did not care where she was going or who she was going to see. If she was about to pass all his secrets to the East India Company she could do so unhindered, as far as he was concerned. It was not as if he was physically capable of following her. He was still as hard as iron and positively dripping in sweat.
Once the coast was clear he exploded out of the trees, ripped off his own clothes and stalked towards the pond. Cold water had never looked so appealing. Or been as necessary.
Chapter Eleven
Hannah tapped her chin thoughtfully. This letter was slightly different from every one she had read before, and hinted at something that might prove useful. It was short and to the point and had been written by Viscount Tremley.
She remembered him from her brief time as a debutante as a handsome fellow with a dashing smile. They had danced once or twice at various balls almost a decade ago—it had been such a long time since she had last danced that it felt like a complete lifetime. There was no point in churning up that unhappy memory now, though. It would change nothing. She would never be invited to another ball.
She had a vague recollection that Tremley had been involved in some sort of scandal involving money—much as her foolish brother had been—but he had not been seen in society for a couple of years. For a little while the newspapers had been filled with stories of his financial disgrace. Hannah could not remember the exact cause of his downfall, but seemed to have a vague recollection that gambling debts had been instrumental in his reduced circumstances.
The letter alluded to this. Tremley thanked Jameson for his patience in repaying his debt, and assured him that he would visit soon to ‘pay off my marker in full’. Hannah had a basic understanding of what a marker was, and could only assume that Ross Jameson had taken Tremley’s during a card game as collateral—in much the same way as he had taken the deeds to Barchester Hall. Like her brother, Tremley had been left ruined. But Jameson had clearly profited. The man made money the way King Midas made gold.
Carefully, she dripped a fresh blob of wax under the disc and resealed the letter. Now she had evidence that at least two men had been shockingly misused by Jameson. Unlike her brother, however, Tremley was still very much alive. Perhaps he might be willing to share some information with her? In the meantime she needed to find his gambling marker. It might be tangible proof of deception that could be used as evidence in court.
After weeks of searching she had still found nothing that would get her home back apart from this one letter. What if the letter was actual proof that he was exerting undue pressure on silly men who were hell-bent on losing their fortunes? If it was, could she really hand him over to the authorities now that she knew him?
Just the thought of it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Hannah had already abandoned her belief that Jameson was responsible for her brother’s suicide. He had not killed her brother, nor truly been the cause of his ruin. George had managed that all by himself. Probably Tremley had as well. All Jameson had done was take advantage of the situation and see it as a chance to make money—something that by his own admission he was not ashamed of doing. And why should he be? He had dragged himself up from nothing, built a successful business, and he provided decent employment for numerous people—herself included.
He was a kind and generous employer. Barchester Hall had felt empty without him this last week. If the truth be told, she also felt a little empty without his teasing presence.
In his absence, the renovations in the morning room, hallway and study had all been finished, and she was inordinately pleased with the way they had turned out. He had entrusted the task to her, and she was eager to see his reaction to the changes. Especially in his study. She was particularly proud of the bright, airy and practical space she had created for him there.
As he had complained that the room was dingy, she had instructed the decorators to cover the top two thirds of dark panelling with a muted cream colour. Only the lower panels remained as the natural dark wood. Rather cleverly, she had set the carpenters to making a bank of cupboards along one wall that appeared to all intents and purposes to blend into the panels as if they had always been there. This gave him a long surface to spread things out on, and storage to move his many documents into. The large leather Chesterfield and matching wingback chair she had found were now arranged around a small table near the window, so that he could read whilst looking out onto the gardens, and the heavy oak desk was now closer to the other window, so that he would have plenty of natural light while he worked.
There was nothing dingy about the room now. Even the ugly Runcorn family portraits had been consigned to the attic. It had been quite therapeutic to banish her brother’s smug face to that dull, forgotten place to rot. It some small way it had felt a little like revenge.
Hannah glanced back to the potentially damning letter in her hand. It was odd that she did not feel the same little thrill at finding her first piece of evidence against her employer as she had on exiling George’s likeness to the loft. If she was ever going to expose him then she needed to harden her heart and double her efforts, rather than allow herself to be waylaid by renovations and wayward thoughts as she had been all week.
The trouble was, Hannah had too many things cluttering her mind. For a start, a week on and she was still mulling over that kiss. Her head might well be warning her to resist his charms, but her body—and perhaps a tiny forgotten piece of her heart—kept urging her to go for it. And that one single kiss had apparently scrambled her wits to such an extent that she had started dreaming about it. More than once she had relived the experience in her sleep—except in her dreams she had not pushed him away and fled. In her dreams things had gone much further, and she’d woken feeling restless and agitated, with her body craving things she had not realised she needed.
One particular dream had been most unsettling. It had started innocuously enough, with images of Barchester Hall pictured in her mind’s eye. Every room had been finished and the gardens had been filled with colourful flowerbeds stuffed with beautiful fat blooms. Hannah had been sitting on the lawn, enjoying the peace of it all—and then the garden had been filled with childish laughter. Two chubby green-eyed cherubs with dark hair and mischievous grins had raced across the manicured lawns, with Dog yapping at their feet, while Hannah had been sitting with a man, drinking tea and laughing at the children.
Irritated at her odd, melancholy mood, Hannah sighed. This was most unlike her. She was allowing silly thoughts and emotions to cloud her purpose. If she was going to get her home back she needed to concentrate on exposing Jameson, the sooner the better, not on yearning for things that she could not have.
Filled with a new sense of purpose, Hannah marched into the hallway and dropped Tremley’s letter on the mounting pile of post on the tray. With her despicable employer gone to Portsmouth, followed by a quick trip to see his family in Kent, there was no better time to search through another locked chest. She headed to his study and closed the door behind her, then quickly removed a hairpin from the knot at the back of her head and twisted it into the shape that she now knew worked best. A few clicks and turns later and another of his chests was opened for her scrutiny.
Hannah had probably already worked her way through half of them and found nothing. This current chest held large rolled documents tied with ribbon. She picked up the first one, undid the bow, and opened it out on the floor. The unravelled parchment showed a meticulous plan of a sailing ship. She had begun to roll the thing back up when she heard Reggie call her from another part of the ground floor.
‘Miss Prim!’ he bellowed. ‘I can see Ross’s carriage coming down the driveway.’
Hannah panicked and hastily stuffed the untied plan back into the chest and closed the lid.
Then she realised the strangest thing.
She was actually looking forward to seeing him.
All the signs were there. Her heart was beating a little too rapidly and she had excited butterflies fluttering in her tummy, not to mention the overwhelming urge to primp a little in front of the mirror to check that she looked pretty enough to greet him.
She sat back on her heels and absorbed this new development. Was that why he plagued her dreams every night? With a brisk shake of her head she dismissed the thought. In this heat it was a wonder that she managed to enjoy any undisturbed sleep. Hannah had never known a summer quite so hot—and besides, she had long ago sworn off men. Every single one she’d known had let her down, one way or another, and she would certainly never be foolish enough to offer her heart to one—especially Ross Jameson.
She was out of sorts. That was all. And just because she was not interested in any form of romantic attachment, it did not mean she was dead, either. It was only natural that her mind should occasionally wander in that direction. Jameson had said lust was simply an animal instinct, much as hunger was. At the time she had not understood what he meant, but now she did. With no other suitable man to fantasise over, it was perfectly reasonable that her mind should latch onto him. His was merely the face that her brain had attached to her lustful dreams—whether those dreams involved kissing or darling little green-eyed babies—it certainly did not mean anything more than that.
Equilibrium restored, Hannah smoothed down her dress and hurried out of the study, ready to greet him. By the time the glossy black coach had pulled up at the front door she had pasted a respectful smile on her face.
Jameson’s dark head appeared the moment the horses came to a stop. ‘Hello, Prim,’ he said.
And her insides melted.
It was only then that she realised she might just be in a bit of trouble.
Prim stood quietly, looking as if butter would not melt in her sinful mouth, and he could not resist riling her just a tiny bit. ‘Did you miss me?’ As he’d expected, her upturned lips flattened, and then pursed in consternation. ‘I can see that you did, as your mouth is already puckered for a kiss.’
That did it. She huffed and spun on her heel, and then he was treated to the sight of her swaying bottom retreating into the house at speed.
‘She ain’t never going like you if you keep treating her like that,’ Reggie chastised. ‘She’s a nice girl.’
Ross held his tongue. His trip away had been most enlightening. He now knew for a fact that all her references were patently forged. There was no Nair House. Nor was there any record of a Hannah Preston within ten miles of where she had claimed to be for all those years.
Of course that anomaly might well be easily explained because she had lied to get the job in the first place, so it stood to reason that her references would be fake. It did not mean that she was a spy for the East India Company.
However, Carstairs had made a valid point. Until they could be certain that she wasn’t a spy they had to err on the side of caution and keep a close eye on her. A spy in their midst would leave the business vulnerable. The East India Company might benefit from knowing the names of their suppliers and the prices they bought things for. They could make things extremely difficult for them if they wanted to.
He was not prepared to let his libido undermine that. If he understood exactly what was going on he could control it—and perhaps benefit in the long run.
Reggie gave him a pitying look as they wandered back inside. ‘You just don’t know her like I do. Perhaps you need to make a bit more effort to soften her up?’
Now, that was an intriguing thought. He would quite enjoy softening the woman up. Even after he had uncovered more of her deceptions he still had not been able to stop thinking about her this past week. Granted, in most of those thoughts she was naked and floating in the pond, or he was wondering if she was indeed not quite what she seemed.
He had never been so flummoxed by a woman in his life. Prim was hot and cold. Fire and ice. Thoughtful and disapproving. Completely competent whilst perhaps being disingenuous and threatening everything he had built. She was maddening and addictive all at the same time. He did not understand her at all—and nor did he understand why he wanted to.
Usually Ross was able to compartmentalise the women in his life. There were three distinct categories: those he had a responsibility to care for, the ones he wanted to bed, and the ones he had no interest in bedding. At the moment he could not stuff Prim into any of them. She was intrinsic to his household because she was making the old ruin a home for him, so in that respect he was coming to care for her. Sort of. But he definitely wanted to bed her as well.
His dreams ever since that night in his bedchamber had been filled with her soft sighs as he kissed her—both her mouth and all those intriguing naked bits, the image of which was now apparently seared onto his brain for ever. Not that he was complaining. Some memories were worth keeping. However, he was also duty-bound not to bed her, because she was an excellent housekeeper and deserved more than being a passing dalliance—a fact that she herself had reminded him of—and he was certainly not in a position to offer anything more. Not yet at least.
So pursuing the attraction properly made him feel guilty. And there was also the slight prospect that she might be a spy.
Ross was so confused it took him several seconds to realise that his study was barely recognisable. And perfect. How typical of Prim to get it exactly right. At times she seemed to know what he wanted better than he did himself—as if she could read his mind.
His old trunks were stacked against one wall, no doubt waiting for him to unpack and organise as he wished. If the sun had not been streaming through the window he would not have noticed the tiny piece of metal wire protruding out of one of the locks on a chest. But it glinted slightly so Ross walked towards it. It looked like... Was that a hairpin?
On closer inspection, he saw it was a hairpin—which meant that somebody was going through his blasted business papers! He could still smell the vaguest hint of her perfume, rose tinged with jasmine, so he knew she had been in here. Prim always smelled of flowers. The blasted aroma had haunted his dreams for
a week.
He muttered a few coarse words under his breath, but left the hairpin exactly where it was. ‘Reggie—can you get Prim for me? I have to thank her for the splendid job she has done in here.’
‘I knew you would,’ Reggie replied cheerfully as he stomped off to do as he’d been bade.
‘And tell her to bring in some tea!’ he shouted to the man’s back. ‘I’m parched.’
A few minutes later the object of his musings appeared in the open doorway, followed by a young maid carrying a tea tray laden with cakes.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ she asked politely, and he smiled and gestured for her to come and sit with him.
She chose the wingback chair and perched on the end of the seat while the maid arranged the tray on the little table next to them, then she shooed the maid away and started to pour herself. He found himself smiling as Prim fussed over his tea, making small talk about his trip. She knew exactly how he liked it—two sugars and lots of milk. As always, his favourite pastries were on the tray. He had missed her thoughtful little touches this past week. He would miss them dreadfully if she had to leave.
But there was no point beating around the bush. If she was a spy then she had to go—no matter how much that fact bothered him. He and Carstairs had agreed that the quickest way to find out if she was up to anything was to give her the opportunity to get caught by putting temptation in her way.
‘I have had an idea for the upstairs bedchambers, Prim. I thought that the beds and windows would look good covered in silk. To that end, I should like you to accompany me to my warehouse tomorrow and select some. You have such a good eye.’
It was time to see if the East India Company was up to no good. If Prim was a spy, then he would ignore his noble feelings of guilt and use her shamelessly to his own advantage until he sent her packing. At least he would be the one in control, and he would lead the East India Company a merry dance.