That Despicable Rogue Read online

  His canny comment left her momentarily speechless. Her mouth opened to issue a denial, and then closed as she realised that she had been caught red-handed. ‘Yes—I suppose they are,’ she finally whispered, certain that the game was up. But he was still smiling... Then an idea struck. ‘I did not think you would employ me if you realised how young I actually am.’

  His dark head tilted to one side and his mouth curved slightly in amusement. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Most housekeepers are well into their fortieth or fiftieth years. I am not yet thirty.’ If she was going to keep her position she had to tell him some of the truth. It was not as if he did not have concrete evidence of the fact staring back at him.

  ‘Is that why you wear the ugly cap as well?’ he asked, glancing at the top of her head. ‘Because if it is you should probably take that off too.’

  Hannah reached up guiltily and pulled the mob cap off and placed it on the table. Then she stood primly facing him, with her hands folded in front of her. He was still wearing her aunt’s reading glasses and was peering at her over the top of them with a friendly smile on his face. He should have looked ridiculous—instead he appeared handsome. Her stupid heart gave a little flutter as he regarded her thoughtfully for a few moments.

  ‘You are very good at your job, Prim, so you have nothing to worry about. Already this house is beginning to look significantly better, and I should probably thank you for that. I have been very remiss in not doing so sooner. You have done a splendid job of organising the staff and the tradesmen—so much so that I am more than happy to let you get on with it despite your obvious lack of years.

  ‘I quite admire your tenacity. You saw an opportunity and you seized it. I cannot be angry at that—I have done it a time or two myself, in fact. You have proved yourself to be more than capable of running this house, despite your lack of age. Not to mention your obvious talent for choosing the correct colours and furniture for each of the rooms. It is a relief to be able to delegate that task to you and trust in the outcome. You seem to instinctively know what is best for this place—far better than I do. I am quite clueless, really. I could not ask for a more competent housekeeper, and already I feel that I would be lost without you.’

  He could have dismissed her on the spot, she realised. He had caught her out in a blatant lie—and yet he had instantly forgiven her for it, as if he understood and accepted her reasons for lying. Bizarrely, she felt he almost respected her for being enterprising in order to get the job. And he had praised her work. It was such a lovely compliment that Hannah blossomed—she could actually feel her shoulders rise and her mouth curve upwards at the unexpected flattery.

  He was an unusual man. He had noticed all the effort she was putting into the house. He valued her opinions. Trusted them. All at once she felt ashamed. She was truly enjoying the opportunity to turn the house she had always loved into the home that she had always dreamed of. A place where she could finally live free of the shackles that had always bound her. A place where she was going to be the mistress—free from any master to spoil it for her. And now she was able to make that transformation unhindered. Using his money, lies and deception.

  As guilt curdled in her chest she steeled herself against it with some pertinent facts. This man used lies and deception all the time. It was about time he had a taste of his own medicine. And wouldn’t that just serve him right?

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said awkwardly, without meeting his eyes. ‘It is good to know that my work is appreciated.’

  ‘I also appreciate your kindness towards Reggie. He speaks very highly of you.’

  Hannah beamed at that. ‘That is no bother. Reggie has been a great help to me and to Cook.’

  Despite his clumsiness and outwardly menacing appearance, Reggie was the sweetest and most trusting man. Already she felt great affection for him.

  ‘Is Reggie a relation?’ she asked tentatively, in the hope of changing the subject and assuaging the sudden bout of unexpected guilt that kept niggling. She had begun to wonder exactly what the man’s place in the household was.

  ‘Not really,’ he answered as he took off the thick spectacles and tossed them on her desk. ‘I sort of inherited him.’

  ‘How does one inherit a person?’

  ‘I bought a building and Reggie came with it. That is probably the best way of explaining it.’ He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall casually, clearly content with this limited explanation.

  ‘And now Reggie has a seat at your table and one of the best bedrooms in the house? You must think me very gullible, sir.’

  A devastating grin split his face and made her all fluttery inside again. She grinned in return, despite her better judgement, her lips curving of their own accord, as if he were a puppeteer and she just a marionette.

  ‘I can assure you that I am telling the truth—Reggie did come with a building that I bought and I have been stuck with him ever since.’

  ‘I do not believe you.’ Hannah folded her own arms cheekily. ‘I will have to ask Reggie for the truth.’

  ‘Ask Reggie—he will tell you the same. I am an open book, Prim. You, on the other hand, are not—and it has not escaped my notice that you have changed the subject on purpose to avoid being asked questions about yourself. Now that we have established that you are not a dour-faced middle-aged woman, I am rather intrigued to know what other little lies you have told me. For instance, are you really a widow—or was that part of the disguise as well?’

  Hannah chewed her bottom lip nervously, and then plumped for the truth. ‘I have never been married, sir.’ And never would be. ‘I thought I might appear more believable if I said I had misplaced a husband at some point. I am sorry for that too. I just wanted this job so very much.’

  He appeared vastly amused. ‘Did you misplace him in some tragic and gruesome way?’

  A rogue giggle escaped. ‘He went quietly in his sleep, sir. I barely noticed his passing.’

  When he laughed at her humour she felt a burst of triumph. So many people did not understand her ironic wit.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss. Tell me, does Miss Preston have a better wardrobe than Mrs Preston? Or do you both prefer to walk around in shapeless brown wool?’

  His dig rankled and her good mood soured instantly. She had a few decent dresses, but not many. Thanks to scheming men like him her brother had been bled dry, which had always left her with very little.

  ‘Whilst the renovations are going on shapeless brown wool is perfectly suitable for a servant, sir.’

  Ross sighed as prickly Prim returned with a vengeance. Her cornflower eyes had narrowed and her plump pink lips had thinned again. ‘I did not mean to sound insulting, Miss Preston, so lower your hackles.’

  He watched her face colour and her shoulders stiffen and regretted his words instantly. Their brief accord was clearly over. Stating the obvious was hardly going to get her to think better of him—although why he cared about that he could not quite fathom. Even without the spectacles and mob cap she was still a difficult and humourless woman.

  He had managed to make her smile twice, though, so he supposed that was some achievement. She lit up when she smiled. Unfortunately it did not appear that it was an event that would happen particularly often—much like an eclipse or a double rainbow.

  ‘I am sorry that I have lied to you. I can assure that it will not happen again,’ she said crisply.

  Ross did not believe a word of it. She certainly did not look particularly sorry. In fact she looked positively hostile again. The corners of her mouth had already begun to turn down as she glared at him in her customary disapproval.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ she asked flatly, and he realised he had been dismissed. In his own house.

  More than a little peeved at her attitude, and confused as to why she disliked him so intensely, Ross shook his head in exasperation and headed to his study.

  Chapter Six

  Hannah had been going through Jameson’s c
hests for over a week now and still had not found anything even slightly incriminating—despite having endless opportunities to search through his papers unhindered. Yesterday he had gone to London and had still not returned.

  The candle she was using had almost burned itself out and her eyes had begun to droop. A quick glance at the clock on the mantel told her that it was an hour after midnight and long past time she went to bed.

  She gathered all the documents together and carefully replaced them in the trunk exactly as she had found them. She had to give him credit for being thorough. Each one of the eight trunks she had already sifted through contained every bill, deed or ledger he had ever owned. At least she assumed they did. He might well have destroyed any damning evidence, but how he could ever have found it in such a disorganised mess was beyond her. There was no rhyme or reason to his filing system at all. Tailor’s receipts were mingled with deeds and share certificates.

  However, her search had given her a greater insight into the man. He had not lied when he had told her that he made money. Each nocturnal visit to his study had unravelled a little more about his finances and how he had made his fortune. He had a talent for backing profitable ventures and he had stocks in all manner of businesses—from shipping to poultry. It was really quite impressive, and a part of her could not help feeling a little respect at his achievement.

  Everything was frustratingly legitimate, and he also made money by investing other people’s fortunes for them and charging ten per cent of the profits made. There were several grateful letters from the great and the good, complimenting him on his astuteness on their behalf.

  No wonder he had gained passage into the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs and ballrooms of the ton. A goodly number of them owed him a favour or two, and probably did not feel they could refuse him—and their letters... Some of them were so affectionate in tone that she did wonder if he had made real friends amongst the powerful men of the ton, despite his humble beginnings.

  He certainly had more friends than she did. You could count hers on one finger—Cook. Or perhaps two now that she had Reggie.

  Hannah sighed in exasperation. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stick to her purpose. She simply had to expose him as a fraud and a cheat, yet at times he was so...honourable. He had even been gracious when he had seen through her disguise. The only real proof she had that he was not a hard-working, generous and admirable fellow was the nefarious details about his antics that had been printed in the newspapers and the one scandalous experience she had had of seeing him with his mistress.

  On that score she accepted that most gentlemen had mistresses. Her brother and father certainly had. George had been a hedonist, so she expected that his mistresses would have been as abundant in their charms as Jameson’s. Her own attributes were nothing compared to that woman’s, although why that had started to bother her she could not say.

  The thought of him with such an obvious floozy rankled.

  He deserved better.

  That thought really irritated her, and she groaned in annoyance. What in heaven’s name was the matter with her even to think so benevolently about that man? His manipulative charm was truly dangerous.

  A noise in the hallway alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone downstairs and she quickly closed the lid of the chest and hurried from the study. Jameson stood at the foot of the stairs, looking the worse for wear, but he had not yet noticed her.

  ‘Mr Jameson,’ she said calmly. ‘Welcome back, sir. I trust you had a good trip?’

  He stared back at her with slightly bleary eyes and grunted in response. ‘Hello, Prim.’ Then he rubbed his forehead and briefly closed his eyes.

  He had clearly been drinking. And probably gambling and enjoying the company of loose women as well, she realised with disappointment. Images of his shameless buxom mistress sprawled across his tangled bedcovers sprang immediately to mind and she pursed her lips in annoyance.

  ‘I suggest you go to bed, sir. You are obviously completely foxed.’

  He was carrying his coat and his waistcoat was undone. His shirt looked decidedly rumpled. He looked at her for several moments before shrugging his broad shoulders. ‘How like you to think that, Prim,’ he said flatly. ‘But I will take your advice. Could you send me up some hot tea? It might help me feel a little better.’

  ‘Certainly sir,’ she muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Tea is well known as the perfect antidote to a night’s debauchery.’

  Hannah turned on her heel and headed towards the kitchen herself. It was hardly fair to wake up one of the maids to furnish his unreasonable request. It was hardly their fault that he had chosen to come home in the small hours in such a state.

  After setting the kettle to boil, she arranged crockery on a tray and poured fresh milk into a jug—he liked his tea very pale and very sweet. Occasionally she had even seen him sneak a third spoonful of sugar into his drink. The man really did have a ridiculously sweet tooth. As an afterthought she added a plate of biscuits to the tray, in case he was hungry, and waited for the kettle to boil.

  Ross started up the stairs wearily. With his head still pounding he carefully made his way towards his bedchamber, massaging his temples. He really should not have spent his entire journey from London reading reports and writing letters, especially after the light had started to fade. Close work like that always gave him dreadful headaches, but he rarely took heed of the warning signs until it was too late.

  Of course, typically, she had assumed he was drunk and that had got her dander up—although why she felt she had the right to be quite so sanctimonious towards him when he had been so understanding about her ridiculous disguise, he had no idea. In fact he found her attitude two-faced and frankly outrageous. How dared she treat him as if he was the one with loose morals when it was hers that were questionable? He had never done anything untoward to her, and he had always treated her with the utmost respect—sort of. Even though she did not deserve it much of the time. She was the liar.

  It had not occurred to her to ask him what he had been doing for the last few days. If she had, then she would have realised that he had spent most of it with lawyers, signing the final papers and transferring funds for the new ships he would soon take ownership of. He had barely had time to eat dinner, let alone partake in the sort of ‘debauchery’ that she had just accused him of.

  But she did read those blasted newspapers, so no doubt her opinions of him came from those sordid pages. Did she not realise that almost everything written in those scandal sheets was created specifically for the purpose of selling more newspapers? And nothing sold better than a bit of light titillation.

  But, then again, why was he so surprised by it? From the moment he had starting to make serious money certain people—usually dyed-in-the-wool aristocrats—had become offended by his success, and had justified their reaction by embellishing it with colourful stories about his weak character.

  To begin with he had tried to deny them, and then he had tried to win them over. He had been charming, generous and helpful—all to no avail. The harder he’d worked at making those people like him, the less disposed they’d been to do so—until he’d realised that the reasons they disliked him had nothing whatsoever to do with his character and everything to do with the circumstances of his birth.

  People born into the higher orders felt distinctly uncomfortable around men like him. It threatened their ingrained view of the world. If a man like him—an upstart from the docks—could go around making money, mixing freely with his betters and increasing his influence and power, then society was surely in grave danger. Whatever next? Interbreeding? Revolution? Anarchy?

  Ross smiled at the irony despite his headache. It was a good thing they did not realise that it had been the innate power of the aristocracy that had motivated him to seek his fortune in the first place. Not because he envied it, but because he feared it. The great and the good in society wielded so much power that they could do whatever they wanted to the
people below them and get away with it. He knew that from bitter experience. So did his sister.

  Ross never, ever wanted to be that powerless underling again.

  So now he ignored all the criticism and lies levelled against him. Let them think exactly what they wanted. In his experience people always did anyway, and a bad reputation might actually work in his favour. It was good that some people feared him. If they had not he would never have been allowed to join White’s.

  One newspaper had got wind of his application for membership and written the most ridiculous story about how he intended to ruin anybody who obstructed his membership financially. For weeks he had wandered around town, giving certain people his ‘death glare’, and it had worked. His membership had been approved without a single black ball, and White’s had proved to be an excellent place for him to do business.

  Yet here he was again, trying to win Prim over when he had done nothing wrong. It was a pathetic character flaw that he could not seem to overcome. He apparently still needed people to like him. Why, he had no clear idea.

  His mother claimed that he did it to avoid being compared to his father. She had constructed an entire theory around it and convinced herself that Ross had made it an almost evangelical mission not to possess any of the man’s character traits. It was a ridiculous notion. Why would he even bother with such ludicrousness? The traits he shared with his unfortunate sire were physical. The dark hair, height and square chin were the only similarities he was prepared to concede. His father had been a selfish, devious and nasty human being who had not given one whit for anybody else—even his own children. The man had lived solely for his own pleasure.

  Much as his blasted housekeeper had just accused him of doing just now.

  Ross was still smarting when he reached his bedchamber. Perhaps he should start behaving like the libertine she clearly believed him to be? She had already found him guilty of the charge. It would serve her right to find out what it would be like if she had been employed by a lecher. If nothing else it would be amusing.