That Despicable Rogue Page 22

  A bespectacled clerk greeted her sedately and bade her to wait while he enquired if Mr Compton-Lewis was in. Moments later, the clerk asked her to follow him into a dark and austere office, where the solicitor greeted her with his usual pompous disdain.

  ‘Lady Hannah. I thought you were still rusticating in Yorkshire?’

  ‘I was never rusticating, sir, as well you know. I was banished to Yorkshire by my brother after a scandal. It was all over the papers, if you remember, and I was painted very black indeed.’

  She watched him blink in alarm at her bold statement, but she could not find it in herself to be remorseful. She had come here for answers and there was no point beating around the bush.

  He motioned for her to sit, and only after she had done so did he follow suit. He rested his elbows on his desk and made a steeple out of his fingertips. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, my lady?’

  ‘I wish to know why you refused to accept an offer to restore Barchester Hall to the family on my behalf, and why you wilfully neglected to inform me about it in the first place.’ She stared at him levelly. ‘It should not come as a great surprise that I am not very happy about your decision. Tell me, on what authority did you begin making my decisions for me?’

  Mr Compton-Lewis had the nerve to be affronted. ‘I have looked after you family’s legal affairs for over thirty years, my lady. I can assure you that I had only your very best interests at heart.’

  ‘How would you know what was in my best interests, sir? To the best of my knowledge we have not met since my father was alive.’

  He bristled at that, and peered imperiously over his spectacles. ‘Your brother entrusted me to handle all arrangements in the event of his death, and under the circumstances it was prudent to turn down the offer. Three spinsters would not have possessed the wherewithal to manage the estate. You did not have the money to take on such a burden. I know because your brother left the coffers empty.’

  ‘Apart from my inheritance!’ she countered angrily, annoyed at his arrogant male attitude. ‘You knew that was still intact because it was held in trust. My father kept it away from George.’

  He glared at her as if she had gone mad. ‘Your brother withdrew those funds many years ago, upon the announcement of your engagement—as was his right as your legal guardian. He did so, he assured me, in order to give them to your fiancé as part of the marriage settlement. When the wedding did not take place he did not return them. I have always assumed that he spent the money himself, as he was wont to do. That would not surprise me. He had been trying to unlock your dowry for several years. I was reluctant to pass it over to him, but I had no choice in the matter.’

  This did not make any sense. The old lawyer was clearly losing his marbles. ‘But I received the money only a few months ago,’ she explained irritably. ‘You yourself informed me of the bequest.’

  He coloured and clenched his jaw. ‘That money did not come from your brother’s estate. And at no point did I suggest that it did. I merely said that you had come into the money. It was a bequest from a benefactor who preferred to remain anonymous.’

  ‘A benefactor?’

  Why on earth would somebody send her five thousand pounds so swiftly after her brother’s death? Unless...

  ‘Did the bequest come before or after Mr Jameson offered the house back?’

  She knew from Cook that Ross had initially expressed no intention of living at Barchester Hall. Had he changed his mind after the solicitor had refused it on her behalf?

  ‘I am not at liberty to say, my lady.’ Compton-Lewis became very tight-lipped, stood up and walked towards the door to his office. ‘I am bound by client confidentiality and the man was adamant that the transaction remained anonymous. I wish you a good day.’

  It was a curt dismissal.

  ‘You said “man”—not gentleman,’ she said, mortified, as it all suddenly began to fall into place.

  ‘I am sorry?’

  Hannah stood and walked to the doorway. ‘Why would you make such a distinction—unless he was not a gentleman, of course?’

  Men like Compton-Lewis would always look down their noses at somebody like Ross. He would never be considered good enough to be one of them.

  Hannah felt numb. It was all too much to take in, and yet it did not take a great deal of imagination to fill in the blanks. Her brother had taken her dowry and spent it—lost it at the gaming tables, more likely. Unable to pay her marriage settlement, he had concocted a terrible lie that had meant the marriage would have to be called off. Eldridge—the spineless, arrogant fool that he was—had believed him without question and done exactly that.

  To add insult to injury, her brother had then banished her—either so that she would either not discover the truth or so that he would not have to live with the constant reminder of what he had done. Knowing her brother, the truth was likely to be a bit of both, and neither made her feel particularly charitable towards him. Then, being an idiot, he had lost the house.

  It all made perfect sense.

  Ross had offered the house back to the family, because he would have thought it the decent and honourable thing to do, and when that offer had been rejected he would have insisted on paying for it. She had five thousand pounds sitting in the bank because Ross had actually bought Barchester Hall from her. In his mind that would have been the right thing—and Ross always did what he thought was right.

  The deeds to the house felt suddenly heavy in her reticule. All along he had behaved like a true gentleman and she was a fool—no better than her idiot brother—ever to have doubted him. Ross Jameson was unlike any man she had ever known and thank God for it.

  As soon as she was outside she hailed a hackney. She demanded that the driver take her to her bank. ‘And be quick about it.’

  * * *

  White’s was full, and frankly Ross was in no mood to be in a crowd. But Carstairs had sent a message that Prim had come to town looking for him, and the gentlemen’s club was the only place he could think of where she would not be able to bother him. They might let guttersnipes-made-good into their marbled halls, but they would draw the line at a woman. Even a titled woman.

  If his heart had not been broken he would have laughed at his own stupidity. She had only wanted the house. Not him. Never him. She had been so determined she had seduced him to get a stake in it—especially if her story about her solicitor was to be believed and she had not known that he had tried to give the thing back to the family first.

  The more he thought about it, the more plausible that explanation became. To start with she had been so hostile and then, just like that, she had been all friendly and gushing and telling him that he was the best man she had ever known. What a joke!

  She must have realised he would follow her down to the pond. Prim had planned it to perfection. He had to give her credit for that. Every splash, siren stretch and casual bit of naked hair-brushing had been a deliberate ploy to seduce him so that he could not think straight. And all for her precious Barchester Hall.

  At least his arrangement with his former mistress had been based on honesty. She had wanted money, he had wanted sex, and both of them had benefited. He had known where he stood. He had never really known where he had stood with Prim.

  He did not want the house now—it would be a constant reminder of her. She had decorated all the rooms, chosen the colours and fabrics, with her own future comfort in mind. Hell, the blasted woman had turned the place into her home and made him pay for it! If he even sat in his study he would have to remember her in it—making him tea, pretending to be thoughtful, making him think that she cared about him. She could keep the house because he was done with the place—and he certainly did not want her either. No matter how much that irritating spot on his chest ached.

  The fact that he was still dwelling on it this late into the evening annoyed him. With no better plan, he headed listlessly towards the card tables. The familiar pattern of numbers and strategy might be just the t
icket. He would need to lose big to do that—but it would be worth it if he could forget about her for a few hours.

  * * *

  The hackney pulled up outside White’s and Hannah practically broke into a run as soon as she had the door open. She marched towards the uniformed doorman. ‘I am looking for Mr Ross Jameson,’ she announced imperiously. ‘Please take me to him.’

  The doorman gave her a bored look. ‘Sorry, miss, ladies are not permitted in the club.’

  ‘I am well aware of that fact—but this is a dire emergency. I am Lady Hannah Steers, daughter to the twelfth Earl of Runcorn.’ She pulled herself up to her full height and tried to appear affronted.

  ‘It makes no difference who you are, my lady. I cannot let you in. I can pass a message to him for you if you would care to wait?’

  Hannah huffed in annoyance. Ross was rightly furious at her. If he knew that she was waiting for him outside he would likely never come out. ‘No, thank you. I shall speak to him later. In person.’

  Hannah made her way down the short steps and loitered under one of the gas lamps. This was a good spot to watch the entrance in the hope of seeing him when he finally decided to leave.

  After leaving the bank, it had taken her hours to track him down. She had been to his warehouse and his bachelor lodgings. As a last resort she had bribed the doorman at his lodgings and thankfully, with a few shillings in his hand, the man had suddenly remembered Mr Jameson telling his driver to take him to White’s.

  Now that she knew exactly where he was she did not want to have to start again from scratch because he had disappeared out through the back door to avoid her.

  That was an idea! With fresh purpose she hurried down the street and then turned into the mews behind. It was easy to discern which building was the back of the gentlemen’s club. A few coach drivers were sitting around a makeshift table, playing cards.

  She edged as close as she dared to the rear entrance. It appeared quiet, but she could not make out whether or not there was a doorman inside, guarding it. In desperation, she crouched down and hid behind a low wall and bided her time.

  After the better part of five minutes the coast appeared to be relatively clear and a servant finally opened the door to inform one of the drivers that he was needed. Like a flash of lightning, Hannah shot up the narrow steps in front of the door, squeezed underneath the man’s arm and emerged into the passageway beyond. Guessing that the centre of the club was upstairs, she headed to the servants’ stairs. At least she assumed they were servants’ stairs...

  ‘Oi!’ came an ominous cry. ‘You shouldn’t be in here!’

  Hannah quickly looked behind her to see the uniformed servant charging up the stairs after her. She did not bother stopping and trying to talk her way out of trespassing. If the man caught her she would be unceremoniously kicked out on her ear. Instead she picked up her skirts and broke into a run.

  Two flights up, and the raucous noise coming from behind the panelling signalled that she was close to the right place. She followed the noise, dashing down the narrow servants’ corridor until she found a door. She managed to burst through just before her pursuer grabbed the back of her dress.

  ‘Now I have got you!’

  She was yanked backwards with a jolt. Hannah swiftly brought her right elbow back. It landed satisfyingly between the man’s ribs and his firm hold loosened enough for her to wriggle free.

  ‘Take your hands off me! I will leave as soon as I have done what I came to do.’

  By now she was attracting quite an audience. Gentlemen in varying states of inebriation eyed her with open curiosity.

  ‘I am looking for Ross Jameson,’ she announced defiantly, daring anybody to try and stop her.

  One gentleman answered, obviously highly amused by her antics. ‘He is at the card table.’ He jerked his head over to the left of the large, well-lit room and intercepted her would-be jailer with a smile. ‘Give her a minute. It might be entertaining.’

  As she began walking the crowd parted as if they were the Red Sea and she were Moses, Hannah could hear murmurs of speculation and outrage from them. A woman in White’s was a great scandal. Her antics tonight would likely make it into the newspapers, and Ross would not like that at all. However, as he had given her no choice but to come here and root him out, he could hardly blame her for that tiny detail.

  As she turned into a small ante-room she spotted him straight away. He was dressed formally for once. The well-cut clothes made him look more dangerous, and she realised she much preferred him in just his shirt. Or nothing at all.

  The buzzing around him must have alerted him to the fact that something was amiss, because his green eyes flicked up and met hers. Apart from the smallest twitch of an eyebrow he managed to disguise his shock at seeing her. Here. In his club.

  She took a steadying breath and walked slowly towards him, aware of at least a hundred male eyes watching her intently. He made no move to stand or to speak to her. He simply looked back at the cards in his hand with a bored expression on his face and waited for her to do her worst.

  She pulled the papers and the banknotes out of her reticule and threw them on the table. The crowd gasped to see such a vast amount of money.

  ‘I came to challenge you to a game of cards,’ she said loudly, so that everyone in the room could be left in no doubt. ‘My stake is five thousand pounds and the deeds to Barchester Hall.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘That is a significant bet, my lady,’ he drawled, gathering the cards in his hand and placing them neatly on the table, the very picture of complete indifference. ‘What do you expect me to wager against it?’

  ‘I would have thought that would be quite obvious,’ she challenged. ‘If you win, you take the house and all the money you paid for it without my knowledge. If I win, all you have to do is marry me.’

  Hannah ignored the gasps from the crowd behind her and focussed solely on Ross. He gave nothing away, but she could see his clever brain whirring away.

  Two more uniformed guardians of the club skidded into the room. ‘Madam,’ said one, in his best authoritative tone, ‘we must insist that you leave immediately. Ladies are not permitted in the club under any circumstance.’

  The other man grabbed hold of her arm roughly.

  ‘Let go of her.’ Ross’s casual delivery did nothing to hide the veiled threat in his voice. The man backed off instantly and both men stepped back reluctantly.

  ‘Let her play!’ This came from the same man who had directed her to the card tables. ‘I will wager one hundred pounds that she beats Jameson.’

  He motioned for her to sit and picked up the deck of cards. ‘You know you cannot beat me. By the end of this game you could leave here with nothing.’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘A very sensible man once told me that you should never wager any more than you can comfortably afford to lose. As it turns out I have walked in here with nothing of any significant value to me. I am quite happy to lose it all.’

  She watched him for any signs that he believed her, but he merely placed the neat deck of cards on the table and sat back in his chair, nonchalant.

  ‘I suppose the reality of managing a big estate is that it requires a significant amount of money to do so. A husband with a large fortune would come in handy in such a situation. It would certainly make your life a little easier.’ He picked up the cards again and began to deal them out.

  Hannah rolled her eyes in exasperation. The stubborn man still believed the only thing she would ever want him for was his money.

  ‘It must be a wonderful thing, to be born a man. You take so many freedoms for granted. We women are subject to the whims and edicts of the men in our lives. For example, according to English law if I marry everything I own becomes my husband’s property, to do with as he wants. That would mean the house would be yours again. And as to your suggestion that a wealthy husband would make my life easier—need I remind you that my husband could banish me back to the wilds of Yo
rkshire quite legally as soon as we leave the church? He could dally with a succession of mistresses or gamble away all his money and I would have absolutely no recourse whatsoever.’

  Hannah picked up the cards in front of her and fanned them out, because that was what people who played cards did.

  ‘What game are we playing?’ Not that it really made much difference. She had played slapjack in the nursery, but apart from that her knowledge of cards was woeful.

  He gave her a disbelieving look. ‘Piquet—that is why you have been dealt twelve cards.’

  He began to sort through his own hand, then sat back and waited for her to start.

  ‘Just the one hand, then. The winner takes all.’ Hannah turned towards the gentleman in the crowd who had so far been the most helpful. ‘Excuse me, sir, I wonder if you could give me one or two pointers about the rules? I am a little out of practice with Piquet.’

  The crowd began to buzz at this. Behind her there were snorts of disbelief and frantic wagering.

  ‘One hundred pounds on Jameson!’ one man shouted gleefully.

  ‘She’s bluffing,’ said another, ‘Fifty pounds on Lady...?’

  The voice trailed away, so she turned helpfully and smiled. ‘Lady Hannah Steers—you might remember me. I was involved in the most terrible scandal a few years back.’

  This started a furore of excitement as the gruesome details of her past were bandied about in hushed tones by one and all. If he wanted her total humiliation as proof of her sincerity she was perfectly happy to give him that too. Without him she had nothing.

  The kind gentleman gave her a brief rundown of how to play, then glanced at her hand. ‘Those first, my lady.’

  She thanked him and laid the cards down face-up on the table.

  ‘If you would prefer to play a different game we can start again,’ Ross offered, looking bored.

  She shook her head cheerfully. ‘This game suits me well enough, thank you.’

  Ross stared at his own hand to give him time to think, but his heart was hammering so hard in his chest it threatened to burst out of his ribcage at any moment. He was like a swan, gliding effortlessly across the water. Nobody saw how frantically his feet were paddling to achieve such serenity. On the outside he might appear to be calm—but inside he was a complete mess.