That Despicable Rogue Page 2

  ‘That does not make the man a murderer, Hannah,’ Beatrice said in relief.

  ‘But it does give us some insight into his character, Aunt. He betrayed his kin. He did not deny it. What sort of a person does that?’

  Neither of the older women could think of a suitable response, which led Hannah to believe that they did actually agree with her on that score.

  ‘Barchester Hall is his now,’ Aunt Beatrice said kindly, and patted her hand. ‘You must reconcile yourself to that sad fact. It is lost to our family for ever.’

  ‘Not if I can prove that he came by it dishonestly,’ Hannah countered vehemently. ‘Perhaps then there is a chance that it can be returned to the family. If not, when Jameson is behind bars the Crown will sell it, and—as you rightly point out—I have five thousand pounds sitting in the bank to purchase it if such an opportunity presents itself.’

  She was quite prepared to do whatever it took to go home again. She felt as though she were slowly dying here. Days, weeks, months, years—all had merged into one never-ending stream of monotony that left her so despondent that at times Hannah struggled to get out of bed.

  Years ago she had been so vibrant—so full of life and hope and fun. Where had that effervescent girl gone? This prolonged period of exile had sucked all of the joy out of her heart and she was tired of feeling imprisoned. If only she could go home to Barchester Hall... Then perhaps she might once again blossom into the woman she had once been and live the life she deserved.

  Aunt Violet shook her head slowly. ‘But, dearest, we are in the wilds of Yorkshire and Barchester Hall is two hundred miles away. How exactly are you going to achieve all this from such a distance?’

  Both her aunts still thought of her as a child. She knew quite well the futility of attempting such a thing from their tiny cottage on the moors. Hannah stifled the slow grin that threatened to spread across her face. She was no longer the green girl she had once been. Complete ruination had a way of hardening one’s character, so she had every intention of pursuing any opportunity that presented itself—no matter how tenuous. But there was no way her aunts would support her if they actually suspected what she was up to. Cook’s letter had thrown her a lifeline that she intended to grasp with both hands. This was her chance to have a different future.

  ‘On a separate note,’ she said after several minutes of silence, ‘Cook says that Jane Barton has invited me to visit her for the summer.’

  She had not spoken to the girl since the last ball they had attended together—just before Hannah had been banished to Yorkshire so spectacularly—but her aunts did not know that. None of her old London friends had spoken to her since that dreadful ball either. They had all taken her guilt for granted. Not that she would ever discuss those shameful facts with them... The lie would give her an excuse to get away for a month or two at least.

  ‘That’s nice, dear,’ Violet said kindly as she picked up her embroidery. ‘You should go and stay with her. It will be good for you to spend time with somebody your own age for once. You have been cooped up here with us old ladies for far too long.’

  Aunt Beatrice heartily agreed. ‘A good holiday will sort you out and take your mind off this silly revenge business. You might even meet a nice gentleman and be swept off your feet. Wouldn’t that be nice?’

  Hannah smiled politely at the familiar suggestion. Both women were convinced that the only route to her future happiness was with a man. Normally she would have set them straight on that score immediately. The very last thing she needed was a man in her life. It was thanks to men that she was in this predicament in the first place. However, if her aunts were hopeful that she would change her mind and be open to the idea of marriage they would actively encourage her to take a little holiday.

  ‘I suppose...’ she said a touch wistfully, and stifled a triumphant smile when she watched her aunts exchange a pointed look at her apparent sudden change of heart. ‘Perhaps enough time has passed.’

  ‘It has been seven years,’ Aunt Beatrice said excitedly. ‘It will all be forgotten. Besides, you are such a pretty girl, Hannah. You always did turn heads. And you are so thoughtful and caring—you deserve the chance of a family of your own. I firmly believe that once you meet the right gentleman he will not care one whit for silly gossip that is so many years old. But for that to happen you need to be with people of your own age—like Jane Barton. You should write to her at once and accept.’

  ‘I shall make the arrangements, then,’ she said, rising.

  And now that she had the entire summer free she could take advantage of the very interesting information that Cook had told her. Not only was Jameson moving in to Barchester Hall, but he had asked Cook to advertise for a housekeeper. Finally she’d have an opportunity to study the beast in his lair. All applications were to be sent to Barchester Hall, and Cook had been given the responsibility of sifting through them and selecting the most suitable candidates for him to interview in London next week. Jameson did not want his busy lawyer to be burdened with such mundane things.

  Hannah’s application would be one of the few that he would see.

  Hannah sailed out of the room without looking back. If she was going to make it onto the post in the morning she had much to do. Firstly she had a letter of application to write. Then she had references to forge. And at some point this evening she would also have to pack up her meagre possessions ready for the trip.

  Fortunately her wardrobe was so dire already that she did not have to purchase new clothes to resemble a servant. Her existing clothes were drab and plain enough already. She probably did look a little too young to be a housekeeper, but she could scrape her hair into an unbecoming bun and perhaps affect some sort of disguise that would make her appear more suitable.

  By hook or by crook she would be Ross Jameson’s new housekeeper. It was her only real hope of getting some of her life back.

  * * *

  Ross folded his arms over his bare chest and stared at Francesca. What he had seen in her all those months ago he could not fathom. She was a selfish, self-centred, mean-spirited and manipulative wench with far too much to say for herself.

  ‘You need to leave now—and this time I want you to leave the master key you charmed from the doorman.’ For emphasis he stuck out his palm and waited.

  ‘Oooh, Ross, we both know that you don’t mean that,’ she cooed as she lay back against his pillows and began to unlace the front of her low bodice. ‘Come to bed and I will make you forget all your anger.’

  Once upon a time he would have happily taken her up on the offer. Despite her intrinsic character flaws, Francesca had always been a good tumble. He had, of course, paid dearly for that privilege—but the harpy could keep the jewellery and the fripperies he had given her. It was the least he could do, he supposed, but facts were facts.

  ‘I think that you are forgetting one tiny detail, Francesca, and it is one that I cannot overlook. Our arrangement was supposed to be exclusive for its duration.’ And Ross knew she had been dallying elsewhere these last few weeks.

  ‘I would never have strayed if you had taken more of an interest in me.’ Her rouged lips pouted and she slowly pulled her bodice open.

  Two very large, very round breasts stared back at him in open invitation. She did have a point, he supposed. He had lost interest in her. In the last few months he had been so busy with his work that he had scarcely had time for her. However, that did not give her carte blanche to seek entertainment from another benefactor before they had formally ended their arrangement. That was just basic good manners.

  ‘I have it on good authority from Lord Marlow himself that he is more than happy to support you going forward,’ Ross explained calmly. ‘It will, I am reliably informed, suit you very well too—seeing as you have been inviting him over this last fortnight for a bit of a trial run. I do not actually have the time for a mistress at the moment, so let’s just let bygones be bygones and leave it at that.’

  Francesca bristled and stuffed
her exuberant breasts back into her dress. ‘You will come back to my door begging for it. You wait and see.’

  The fact that he had not done so in over two months did not appear to have registered.

  ‘Well, in the meantime I think you had better hand over that key and give it back to the doorman. I would prefer it if you did not turn up to my lodgings unannounced in the future. You gave me quite a scare.’

  She had as well. One minute he had been enjoying a deep and dreamless sleep and the next he had felt her hand clamp around his privates. But then again Francesca had never been particularly subtle.

  With a huff she fished the key out of her reticule and slapped it into his open palm, but she made no attempt to rise from her semi-reclining position on his bed.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t fancy one last ride, Rossy-Wossy? For old times’ sake?’ Francesca gave him her best come-hither smoulder and began to inch her frothy skirts slowly up her open legs.

  ‘Here we are, mum.’ The bedroom door crashed open and Reggie filled the frame with his enormous bulk. ‘Your appointment is here, Ross,’ he said, smiling, oblivious to the fact that he had not knocked and had brought a complete stranger into Ross’s bedchamber without any warning whatsoever.

  With a long-suffering sigh Ross walked towards the door. ‘Thank you, Reggie. But do you remember I told you that visitors should be seated in the parlour and given a cup of tea?’

  Reggie nodded his enormous mousy head and looked contrite. ‘I remember, Ross. Sorry...’ He turned towards the wide-eyed woman next to him and used one of his meaty arms to manhandle her out through the doorway. ‘I have to sit you in the parlour and make you tea, mum.’

  Ross closed the door and grabbed a fresh shirt. This was not exactly the way he had planned to start his day. First he had been forced to deal with Francesca, and now he had probably frightened off the only reasonable applicant he’d had for the job of housekeeper. He doubted the woman would even stay—she had looked so outraged at the scene she had just witnessed that she was probably halfway to Mayfair by now.

  ‘Who is she?’ Francesca snarled as she finally deigned to rise from his bed. ‘Is she your new mistress?’

  Ross heaved a long-suffering sigh. ‘She was applying for the post of housekeeper at Barchester Hall—not that it is any of your business. But I should imagine she is already outside hailing a hackney, thanks to you and Reggie.’

  Ross stalked to the door and headed towards the parlour. To his complete surprise the woman was in there. She sat primly, balanced on one edge of a chair, looking as though she was likely to bolt at any moment. Ross arranged his features into the most apologetic and friendly smile he could muster. Perhaps he could salvage the situation with his usual charm?

  What was he thinking—of course he could salvage the situation with his charm. It was what he did best.

  His search for a housekeeper thus far had been fruitless. Who knew that hiring servants was such an onerous task? Not having ever had a need for servants before, Ross had had no idea how problematic the process could be. He was offering a good salary, and more than the usual amount of time off, but so far every woman he had interviewed had been totally unacceptable. One had been obviously drunk, the second very peculiar and actually quite frightening, and the third had been so old and creaky she’d looked as if she might keel over at any minute.

  Perhaps even decent servants were snobs? He had no title. He was not even a gentleman. And everyone in London knew that. Ross made no secret of his past because he was not ashamed of it. He might well have grown up in the gutter, but he had clawed his way out with determination. He had even taught himself to read and write. Now he had an impressive fortune and the reputation of being the canniest businessman in the city—a position that gave him both status and power, which in turn provided the kind of safety and security he had always craved.

  He was a person to be reckoned with rather than someone who lived at the mercy of others. It was gratifying to know that his services were in demand from the great and the good—it gave him a sense of satisfied achievement.

  Apparently all that made no difference when one was hiring staff. This one was the last application he had received—there were no more candidates left—and even if she did look much too young to him, he was prepared to overlook a great many faults so long as she was even partially suitable.

  If he did not have a housekeeper then he could not realistically begin renovating his new house. He certainly did not have time to hire all the tradesmen and servants himself, and somebody had to be around to supervise them. Especially now that the new ships were taking up so much of his time.

  He could hardly go and find a butler. Reggie had got it into his head that he was going to be the butler, and Ross could not bring himself to shatter the oaf’s dreams like that.

  ‘I am so sorry for the way we were introduced, Mrs...er...’ Blast, he had forgotten the woman’s name.

  ‘Mrs Preston,’ the woman said tightly, and she peered at him coldly over the rims of her unflattering glasses.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Ross gave her his most dazzling smile, but when it became clear that the woman had absolutely no intention of reciprocating it slid off his face despondently.

  Already he was predisposed to dislike this woman. She was regarding him with complete distaste and ill-concealed disapproval. He hated it when people did that, and unfortunately it was an occurrence that happened far too often—especially since the newspapers had begun to immortalise his supposed exploits in print. However, somewhere in the back of his mind he quite liked the ruthless blackguard’s reputation he had had foisted upon him. It portrayed the image that he was a force to be reckoned with—and surely that could not hurt in the long run?

  The woman was still staring at him distastefully, as if he were the lowest of the low. This really was not a good start to the interview—although he did realise that the sight of Francesca sprawled on his bed might have shocked Mrs Preston, so he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘I think we might have got off on the wrong foot,’ he explained benevolently. ‘What you just saw was not quite as it might have appeared.’

  He grinned boyishly. That usually won over even the most hardened matron—but not this one. She stared at him levelly—a feat that was made all the more uncomfortable because her bright blue eyes were magnified in the thick lenses of her spectacles to such an extent that he was reminded of a frog.

  ‘Really? How else should I construe what I just witnessed?’ She was watching him so steadily that it made him feel like an errant child.

  ‘Francesca arrived out of the blue,’ he clarified, although why he felt the urge to do so was beyond him. ‘Nothing untoward happened.’

  ‘Perhaps not this morning,’ she stated coldly. ‘But I think it was plainly obvious that you and the lady have a...a special relationship. Am I correct?’

  Ross felt his hackles rise at her sanctimonious tone. He certainly did not need to explain himself to this woman. Or to anybody, for that matter. He would be paying her wages. He certainly did not care whether or not she found him suitable.

  ‘Mrs Preston, I am a single man and these are bachelor quarters. I am sorry that Reggie inadvertently exposed you to my bedchamber—but what happens in that room is none of your concern.’

  He steeled himself for the woman to storm out, but she stayed resolutely where she was, chewing her bottom lip nervously.

  The awkward silence was broken by Reggie, bumbling in with a laden tea tray. He smiled proudly at Ross and deposited the tray heavily on the side table. Hot tea sloshed out of the teapot and bathed the haphazard cups in brown liquid. Undeterred, Reggie poured tea into one of them and thrust it, without a saucer, at Mrs Preston.

  ‘Here you are, mum, a nice cup of tea.’ A large, hot drip fell onto her skirts, and she shrieked in pain and immediately stood.

  ‘Oh! Let me help, mum!’ Reggie began to use the hem of his own shirt to mop up the mess, rubbing it ine
ffectually over the woman’s wet clothing, unaware that in doing so he was also—shockingly—rubbing her thighs.

  To begin with she appeared mortified by this indiscretion, but then the most peculiar thing happened. Her features softened in sympathy and she allowed Reggie to try to help—even though he really wasn’t. It was only then that Ross witnessed the look of stark panic in the big oaf’s eyes—the look he had when he realised he had done something wrong but had no idea how to fix it.

  ‘It is perfectly all right now. I was merely a bit shocked.’ One of her hands came up and touched Reggie’s enormous shoulder gently. Then she squeezed it for good measure, in a comforting manner that belied her previous cold expression.

  Like an obedient sheepdog, Reggie stepped back and stood awkwardly. Then once again the harsh woman surprised Ross.

  ‘I like one sugar in my tea.’ This was accompanied with a genuine and kind smile that instantly made poor Reggie feel better about being such a clumsy fool. As if in an afterthought she glanced back at Ross, and her features froze again.

  ‘Here we are, then,’ said Reggie, proffering the second cup of tea to Mrs Preston as if it were the Crown Jewels and she was the Queen.

  Mrs Preston glanced at Reggie’s eager expression and her tense pout relaxed. Her lips curved in a lovely smile and she thanked him politely. ‘This looks perfect. You clearly have a talent for making tea exactly the way a person likes it.’

  Reggie beamed with pride and gave an embarrassed little chuckle—already won over by this strange conundrum of a woman.

  The fact that she had shown such kindness to the big oaf made Ross soften towards her immediately. She was not all bad if she could do that—most people wouldn’t. Reggie usually terrified them. Perhaps she was simply nervous. Or shy?

  ‘You have excellent references, Mrs Preston,’ he said eventually, while taking the cup that Reggie proffered. ‘Can you tell me what type of household you last worked in?’