That Despicable Rogue Page 8

  Reggie’s eyebrows drew together as he thought about the question and she sat quietly while he did so. In the short time she had known him she had learned that his memory was better if he had time to recall things. If put on the spot, he remembered nothing.

  After almost a full minute he smiled in recollection. ‘I was a fighter. ’Course, them sorts of fights is illegal, so they happen on the quiet. The guvnor had the warehouse because it was a good venue, with plenty of space for the Fancy.’ He popped another chunk of cheese into his mouth.

  ‘The Fancy? What is that?’

  ‘Well, that’s the name we give to the punters who come to watch and bet on a fight. Some of them are from the gentry, and dress right posh, so we call them the Fancy.’

  ‘You used to engage in illegal boxing matches in a warehouse and you lived there as well?’

  Reggie nodded and began to carve off another slice of bread from the loaf that had been left on the table. His explanation raised more questions for Hannah than answers.

  ‘Men go to Gentleman Jackson’s all the time—what was different about the boxing matches you took part in at that warehouse that made them illegal?’

  Reggie did not need to think about his answer. ‘Jackson’s has proper rules and things. We didn’t. When you fought at the warehouse you had to keep going till you either won or was knocked unconscious. Especially if the fight was fixed—which it usually was. The Guvnor would tell me to keep going for as long as I could as the punters bet more money on the fight then. ’Course, I was one of his favourites because I could take a punch. Sometimes I could go for twenty or thirty rounds before I was knocked out.’

  This went a long way to explaining why Reggie’s mind was damaged. ‘Did you ever win, Reggie?’

  ‘In me prime, I did. But as I got older I had to throw the fights. With me being so big the punters always bet on me to win—but I let the other fella win, the Guvnor raked in the cash and I got me board and lodgings for free.’

  And his skull battered for the privilege.

  The reality of what he had endured was awful. Reggie had been grossly taken advantage of because he’d lacked the intelligence to know better or the power to do anything about it.

  ‘And Mr Jameson bought the illegal boxing ring and you with it?’ Poor Reggie had been a means of making money for Jameson as well. The man had the morals of an alley cat.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Reggie confirmed happily. ‘I was part of the deal because Ross said he needed my services. I thought he meant as a fighter, though, so I was a bit surprised when he stripped the place out and turned it into a proper warehouse.’

  The last piece of bread disappeared down Reggie’s gullet and he sat back in the chair with his hands resting comfortably on his now full stomach.

  ‘What do you mean? Did he close down the boxing ring or simply move it?’ Surely he’d moved it. Such a spectacle would have created an easy source of revenue for a person who fed off others like carrion.

  Reggie chuckled and sighed. ‘Ross ain’t got no appetite for boxing. He closed it completely and put me in charge of guarding the warehouse.’

  Hannah sat forward in her chair, staggered by this news until she realised that there was obviously something even more lucrative and illegal than bare-knuckle boxing going on there.

  ‘What sort of things did you have to guard in that warehouse, Reggie?’

  He had to think about that, and she had to hide her impatience while he did so.

  ‘Mostly silk,’ he said after an interminable age, ‘although sometimes there was fancy pottery as well. Ross gets a lot of things from the Orient, and quality ladies do love nice frocks.’

  This information could not have been more disappointing, and Hannah felt her spirits plunge. If Reggie was to be believed—and he really did not have the intelligence to lie convincingly—then Jameson had saved him from a life of extreme violence and potential death, closed down a lucrative underground gambling den and instead traded in fine silks for the gentry.

  That made him sound almost noble!

  ‘Does Mr Jameson ever need your fighting skills for other things, Reggie? For example, have you ever had to threaten people for him, or collect debts owed to him?’ Surely he had to do that at least?

  The big man shook his shaggy head. ‘I ain’t thrown a punch in five years, mum—honest. Now I just look after Ross, on account of him needing someone to fetch and carry for him, so I moved out of the warehouse a few winters ago and moved in with him. Mind you, it was proper cold that year, so I can’t say that I minded.’

  With a sinking feeling Hannah just knew that the cold winter had had a great deal to do with Reggie’s promotion. ‘Does Mr Jameson pay you well, Reggie?’

  Not that Reggie had any need for money—he was fed at the master’s table and slept in one of the best family bedrooms in the house—but it would give her some consolation to know that he treated his personal servant badly in at least that respect.

  ‘I ain’t got no need of money!’ Reggie exclaimed in outrage. ‘I keep telling him that, but he don’t listen. Ross puts me wages into investments. He says money makes money. Do you know, I get yearly dividends on it? I must have close to five hundred quid in the bank.’

  Hannah’s spirts sank further. To listen to Reggie, Jameson was a candidate for sainthood. Depressed, and more than a little confused, Hannah finished her lemonade. At this rate she would be a very old lady and still merely a housekeeper in her own house.

  * * *

  Ross felt the first sign of a headache beginning to form behind his eyes and realised he had been staring at his ledgers for hours. Not that he minded the work. The columns of numbers were his friends. They made perfect sense to him, and he loved to see his profits rise exactly as he had predicted they would. However, the headaches were always a sign that he had done too much and needed some air and a change of scenery.

  He should have stopped when the tea tray had magically arrived. It did that a great deal of late, he had noticed, thanks to Prim, and it was always timed to break up his work—as if she realised he was doing too much.

  The woman appeared to have clairvoyant tendencies at times. Ever since the day she had shed her disguise she had taken the trouble to fuss over him a bit. More often than not she bustled in with her usual disapproving expression on her face, yet she brought him fresh fruit in the mornings and his favourite cakes in the afternoons. If he worked late in the evenings she would bring in a light snack with the tray, and then wordlessly go about the study lighting all the lamps and admonishing him for squinting in the dark and potentially ruining his eyesight.

  All around the room were little feminine touches that had her name written all over them. He knew that the vase of fragrant roses on the mantel, for instance, were refreshed every few days because he had casually mentioned that he enjoyed the smell of the ones she had put in the hall.

  It was those little thoughtful, personal touches that had him baffled. On the one hand she could be brusque and formal, but apparently she could not stop herself from doing little things that made him feel happy. She could be as cold and brittle as a brisk north wind one minute, then burn hot with fiery passion the next. Last night had proved that.

  She exuded so much confidence sometimes that she could be a little intimidating, and then she would retreat into herself like a timid mouse as she had today. He had expected her to come and give him a sound telling off for kissing her yesterday evening, but she had avoided him quite deftly instead, as if she were embarrassed rather than outraged. Everything about her was so conflicting he found her oddly intriguing. He had certainly never encountered another woman quite like her.

  With a contented sigh he closed the big leather book and stretched, before heading towards the convenient French doors that connected his study with the garden. His new gardener had already begun to clear the flowerbeds from the choking weeds that had overtaken them. Next year there would be flowers everywhere, he promised himself, and cheerful new benches w
ould be set in secluded parts of the gardens, so that he could sit and think in tranquil peace—master of all he surveyed and at the mercy of no one.

  That thought made him smile as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed outside. The early-evening air was less oppressive, and he traipsed towards the wooded area at the back of the formal gardens and found a suitably sturdy tree to sit against...

  Ross must have nodded off, he realised with a start, because he was no longer alone. A very skinny, pathetic excuse for a dog had plonked itself on the ground next to him and was watching him with interest. The animal was of no discernible breed, and was neither large nor small for a hound. Its fur was a dull shade of beige, but his eyes, ears and tail were ringed with black. Ross stared back at the ugly canine and then tentatively reached out a hand to stroke it. The dog stood and pushed his knobbly head into his open palm, and let out a small doggy sigh of contentment when he scratched behind one of its flea-bitten pointed ears.

  A quick glance to the left confirmed its sex. ‘Hello, boy,’ Ross whispered. ‘Where is your owner?’

  There was not a single person in sight. The creature panted in response and the sour aroma of dank dog wafted up Ross’s nostrils and made him pull a face.

  ‘Pardon my forthrightness, Dog, but you stink.’

  His hand felt decidedly unpleasant, and he immediately regretted petting the mangy thing. He wiped it on the grass and then hoisted himself to his feet. The dog sidled up next to him and looked up hopefully.

  ‘Shoo! Go away!’ He started to walk towards the house and the dog trotted alongside. Just what he needed—another stray to blight his life. ‘I mean it, dog—go away!’

  The animal paused and Ross made a break for it. Decisively he marched out of the woods, and did his best to ignore the sound of the mongrel’s panting as it continued to trot behind his heels. The blasted animal had latched on to him. Annoyed, he stopped dead and turned to face it, with his hands planted on his hips. But then he saw something else move through the edge of the trees in the distance and forgot about the mutt. If he was not mistaken that was Prim he had just spotted—no doubt she was still fuming about the kiss.

  A smile crept over his face as he remembered how enthusiastically she had kissed him back. Kissing Prim had been a bit of a revelation. Usually, kissing was a bit of a means to an end—a way of getting a woman into bed. Kissing Prim had been a wholly enjoyable activity in itself. Ross could have carried on and on. When she had abruptly ended it he had felt bereft—and more than a little bit stunned. He had certainly never experienced that before—and certainly not from just a kiss. Would it have the same effect on him again? he wondered.

  There was only one way to find out.

  Quickly, he slipped back into the woods. She was walking at some speed in the opposite direction to the house and was clutching a bouquet of freshly picked wild flowers. Curious, he kept in the cover of the trees and followed her. Soon she had inadvertently led him to a part of the grounds he had not yet seen. There was a small area enclosed by a low wall that had been almost completely obscured by weeds and meadow grass. From a distance it appeared to be a small cemetery. He could just make out the tops of one or two of the headstones.

  Prim opened the gate and let herself in, then he watched her separate the flowers into three small bunches, which she placed next to the stones. Oblivious to his hiding place, she knelt down and began pulling up the weeds.

  Chapter Eight

  Hannah felt guilty as she tidied up her brother’s grave. Up until now she had not even seen it. Word of his death had arrived in Yorkshire only after his funeral. Their solicitor had informed her that Jameson, in an unexpected show of decency, had allowed her brother to rest with the family and his remains had been buried quickly. Since her return to Barchester Hall she had not been able to bring herself to come and see him. There were too many bad memories. She could not even bring herself to forgive him for sending her away.

  ‘I am sorry I have not come sooner,’ she said aloud, ‘But you must understand, George, that I am beyond angry at you.’

  She tugged at a stubborn dandelion and sighed.

  ‘What were you thinking? You lost everything George. Everything. How could you gamble away our home on a game of cards? Although I suppose I should not have been surprised after you had gambled away everything else first.’

  She felt tears prickle her eyes and let them fall. There was nobody here to see her and she was truly miserable.

  ‘Do you know what was worse?’ She spoke directly to the gravestone. ‘You kept the truth from me. I had no idea how dire the situation was until after I had learned that you were dead—and by then it was far too late for me to be able to do anything. The house was gone. There was nothing left in the bank. How could you do that to me?’

  She did not expect an answer and sat back on her heels to survey the graves of her parents. They were in an even worse state, and had obviously been neglected since George had banished her to the North.

  ‘I shall have to come back with proper tools to get rid of those brambles,’ she muttered as she swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. Crying was not going to make things right. It would not bring back her reputation or her chance of marriage and children. ‘At least Father saved some money. I have the five thousand he kept in trust for my dowry to buy back Barchester Hall—although I should not have to do it, and I doubt I will be able to forgive you for that either.’

  The hall represented the very last vestige of what she had once been—before she had been jilted, publically shamed and exiled. If she lost that, then she was truly left with nothing. All that would lie ahead of her were more empty years in Yorkshire, living with two old and timid maiden aunts, her future as bleak as the landscape on the moors in the winter.

  That prospect terrified her more than anything. If she had learned one thing in the last seven years it was that she simply had to be in control of her own destiny. She had had enough of banishment and isolation and obeying another’s commands. When she got the hall back things were going to change for the better.

  ‘Perhaps I will feel differently when I find something on Jameson,’ she continued, forcing optimism into her voice. ‘That is proving particularly difficult as well—but I am determined. So far I have found nothing untoward. Of all the people to lose the house to, you had to choose him. He is far too clever. Any evidence of his wrongdoing is well hidden. Obviously I shall be persistent, and I am sure that I will find something, but I think it is going to take far longer than I had originally hoped. At least I am home...’

  Hannah glanced back towards the house wistfully.

  ‘The truth is, Jameson does appear to have some decent qualities. He is kind to Reggie and the servants, and quite generous with his money. The house will look as good as new after we have finished. Aside from his loose morals and libertine lifestyle, I cannot help but admire him—he was born with nothing and has worked tirelessly to amass his great fortune—which makes this predicament all the more difficult. He appears to be very personable and is very easy to work for.

  ‘He even asks for my opinion. Imagine that. I can never remember either you or Father asking me what I thought about anything. Ever. I was always expected to adhere to your edicts without question. And he listens to my advice. Genuinely listens. He has this way of looking at me intently when I speak, as if he actually wants to know what I am going to say—which is surprisingly flattering. He has even let me pick the colours for the morning room and the hallway, and he trusts me to simply get on with things. Which is nice... More than nice, actually. It makes me feel special in a strange sort of way—like I belong here.

  ‘It’s quite an odd feeling, not to be considered a burden or an obligation for once. He is quite charming, really. And handsome, in a rough sort of way. Well, not so rough, now that I come to think about it. He has lovely green eyes that sparkle when he smiles. Under different circumstances, and if I did not know better, he would probably turn my head. I only hope tha
t I find something nefarious about him soon, George, because I find myself in danger of liking the scoundrel. He can be rather...intoxicating at times.’

  Hannah still could not stop thinking about the kiss. Even here, at her brother’s grave, she had to concentrate hard to avoid revisiting the way it had made her feel.

  After carefully standing, she tipped all the weeds over the wall out onto the meadow. As an afterthought she wandered back to her parents’ graves and stood for a moment contemplating them. It seemed to be the respectable thing to do, although she had very little memory of her mother. She had died while Hannah was very young.

  Her father had passed away when she was twelve. She recalled him as an aloof and self-indulgent man. Like George, he had set great store in his own comforts and pleasures, and had paid little attention to his only daughter. After her mother’s death he’d hardly spent any time at Barchester Hall, preferring the entertainments of town, so with George away at school, and then later at university, Hannah had grown up virtually alone. Alone save for Cook, who had been the one constant in a sea of ever-changing servants and governesses.

  It was no wonder she had been so bowled over by the first man who had courted her—right up until the moment he had cruelly cast her aside in that ballroom.

  Hannah felt fresh tears threaten and turned back towards the grave again. ‘What I don’t understand, George, is why you never sent for me. When I was bundled off to the middle of nowhere you promised me that it was only temporary. You promised me that you would sort it all out and restore my reputation. Why would you not let me come home? I wrote to you time and time again, begging you to let me, and you never replied. Did you actually believe all the lies he told you? Did you think that I deserved to be jilted?’

  * * *

  Ross could not work out exactly what she was doing, but found the image of her tending the Runcorn family graves to be a little odd. He watched her from a distance for a little while, until curiosity got the better of him and he bounded over to the little plot.