That Despicable Rogue

by Virginia Heath

  For emphasis, Hannah folded her arms across her chest and stoically held her ground. She would not allow the sight of his naked body to distract her.

  Although it was quite distracting... He had interesting muscles all over the place. And hair. Fine dark hair dusted his chest, and a thin trail of it bisected his navel and disappeared into his drawers. To make matters worse he had crossed his own arms, mirroring her posture, and this caused the muscles in his upper arms to bulge significantly in a way that made her breath hitch.

  ‘You dare to lecture me on my bedtime, Mrs Prim? Have you been keeping track of the hours I keep? I did not know that you cared.’

  He raised his dark eyebrows suggestively and she felt a hot, guilty blush stain her cheeks. She had become a little preoccupied with his nocturnal activities.

  His voice dropped to a silky whisper. ‘Do you disapprove?’

  ‘The hours that you keep and how you choose to spend them are not my concern, sir,’ she finally bit out. ‘But the hours that the servants keep are. The maids start at six o’clock. Are you suggesting that I pay them for standing idle for hours on end while you are still abed? That is not going to get this house finished by the end of the summer.’

  His green eyes narrowed in assessment and then he cheerfully shrugged in surrender. ‘You are right, as always, Mrs Prim. I am still working to town hours. Now that I am intent on rusticating for the summer I should make more of an effort to get up in the morning. Add a cockerel to the list of things I need to buy. I shall endeavour to drag myself from my pit the moment that he crows.’

  Hannah nodded curtly, refusing to be amused by his roguish charm. The man was a snake, after all. She needed to remember that. ‘As you wish, sir. I shall also add a dressing gown to the list.’

  Clearly the woman was a mind-reader. ‘Does the sight of my near nude body bother you, Mrs Prim?’

  He was laughing at her—she could hear it in his voice despite her resolutely avoiding his eyes. Of course the sight of his naked body bothered her. Hannah had never actually seen a man without his clothes on—not that she could admit that as a supposed widow. Nor could she admit that the sight of his fascinated her far too much—although she suspected he knew that already.

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Jameson.’ Her eyes locked with his defiantly. ‘I find your shameless displaying of it to all and sundry crass. A gentleman would never behave in such a manner. He would have more respect for the impressionable young maids in his employ.’

  He sighed and pretended to be contrite. ‘You are quite right again, Prim. Thank goodness I have you here to correct my errant ways. Sometimes I can be a very naughty boy.’

  Hannah glared back at him, unfazed. ‘So I have read, Mr Jameson. In fact there is another story about you in the newspapers this morning. Something about a vicar’s daughter, I believe, although I could not be bothered to read it all. I suppose we should be thankful that your indiscretions are kept in London and that none of the maids can read.’

  Then she turned and scurried down the hallway before he could use his abundant charm again. That was the problem, she conceded. He was charming—and surprisingly affable. So far none of the servants had a bad word to say about him. He had already memorised all their names, knew about their families and backgrounds, and happily chatted away to them in a manner that made them feel comfortable around him.

  And she found his cheeky humour entertaining. More than once she had been tempted to laugh at his irreverence or a witty turn of phrase, especially as his comments so often mirrored exactly what she was thinking. The fact that he was also very pleasant to look at did not help. More than once she had found her traitorous eyes flicking towards him in admiration. At times, the only way she could stop herself was to list silently all the reasons why she disliked him in her head, like a mantra.

  Of course she had been keeping a close eye on his routines and whereabouts. Most days he disappeared in his carriage, allegedly headed back into London or to Kent to visit his family, and did not return until late. Then he usually worked in the study for several hours, scratching in big ledgers by candlelight or writing lists of things to attend to. His handwriting was an abomination. It was legible, but it lacked the form and discipline that came from a proper education. In actual fact it looked as if he had dipped a nest of spiders into his inkpot and then allowed them to walk unchecked all over the paper.

  She had been searching through his private papers while he was away, although so far she had found nothing of any use. Even his post was disappointingly mundane. As soon as it was collected every day she carefully sliced through the wax seals and read his correspondence. It was all either genuine business letters, outlining investments, profits and speculations, or surprisingly jocular missives from people from all levels of society, usually thanking him for investing money on their behalf.

  All she really knew about the man, so far, was that he was apparently well-liked and was in possession of an impressive fortune. Once read, she meticulously resealed the letters with a small blob of wax, so that to all intents and purposes they appeared unopened, and left them on a tray in the hallway.

  Jameson was also annoyingly even-tempered. He did not shout or snap, even at Reggie—although goodness only knew that man would try the patience of a saint. His lovable henchman was an accident waiting to happen, and was so clumsy that he left a trail of destruction in his wake wherever he went. She had lost count of the number of plates and cups he had broken already. But Jameson simply rolled his eyes like a long-suffering parent and said, ‘Never mind’.

  In fact, to anybody who did not know better, the rogue appeared on the surface to be a thoroughly decent sort—nice, even, if you ignored his frequent appearances in the gossip columns and constant shameless flirting.

  That irritated Hannah more than anything. Every time he flirted with her she found herself feeling a little off-kilter. He had a way of looking deep into her eyes, as if he could see into her very soul. It made her feel nervous, awkward—and very, very special. But when he flirted with the maids in her presence it was worse. She did not want people to like him. She wanted them to see the truth about him. As she did. And she certainly did not want to feel that possessive pang of jealousy when he bestowed his ample charm on another woman. That was happening a little too frequently for her liking. Clearly, the memories churned up by this house were more unsettling than she had given them credit for. As if she could be jealous!

  Hannah was so deep in thought that at the bottom of the staircase she almost collided with Reggie. He had a large wooden chest in his arms, which obviously weighed a considerable amount, although he carried it effortlessly in his meaty arms.

  ‘What’s that, Reggie?’ she asked as curiosity got the better of her.

  ‘Some of Ross’s papers, mum. The carriage has just brought them all from his office at the docks. I’m to put them in the study, where they will be safe.’ He smiled his lopsided smile and trudged past her.

  With nothing better to do, Hannah followed him. Six large chests were already stacked against one wall.

  ‘Mr Jameson must have a lot of papers,’ she said with renewed interest. And she would bet her entire five thousand pounds that those very papers held the key to Jameson’s downfall.

  ‘You have no idea, mum!’ Reggie exclaimed good-naturedly as he hoisted the chest he carried onto the pile. ‘There’s deeds and contracts, ledgers and letters... I reckon Ross has enough paper here to light all the fires in this house for a year.’

  He smiled proudly at his own joke, then shuffled back out of the study to fetch another box.

  Hannah wandered over to the pile of chests and tried to open one. It was locked, but that did not surprise her. He would hardly leave important and potentially damning documents unsecured during transit. But at least they were now here!

  She would have to bide her time and wait for an opportunity to go through them properly. Jameson’s business interests intrigued her more than anything. He was obviously s
uccessful and rich, as far as she could make out, but she doubted that he had come by the bulk of his riches honestly. Especially as it was no secret that he had hauled himself out of the gutter. Guttersnipes did not, as a rule, make the transition from squalor to high society quite so seamlessly.

  Aside from the fact that he had told her that he ‘invested’, she had no clear idea what he did. He always claimed he had urgent business in town, but what sort of business brought him home so late at night? The banks and the Stock Exchange were closed by six, and the journey back to Barchester Hall was only an hour—she really could not think what else he might be doing.

  Unless he was out whoring and gambling. She already knew that he indulged in both those vices with regularity.

  Also surprising was the fact that he rarely took his henchman into town with him. This led her to conclude that he probably had other cronies in town who fulfilled the role of protector.

  Reggie approached, huffing and puffing with another trunk, so she slipped out of the study. Fortunately, thanks to Jameson’s peculiar hours, she would have plenty of opportunities to rummage through his precious papers. In the meantime, it would not hurt to practise picking a lock or two with a hairpin in the privacy of her own room, just in case the chests remained sealed. Every good spy needed to be able to pick a lock.

  Chapter Five

  By the end of May the heat had become uncharacteristically oppressive in London, and the majority of those who could afford it departed the city much earlier than usual. This meant that Ross did not really have much cause to visit there quite as often. The stock market was so slow that it was almost stagnant, and he could manage his other businesses quite effectively from home. The only thing he needed to go to town for concerned his new ships—but even they were nowhere near ready.

  He found this enforced hiatus unnerving. He had never really experienced the concept of free time—he had always been too busy building his little empire and consolidating his power. Becoming important, and respected, took a great deal of time. However, he was beginning to feel at a bit of a loose end with so much free time on his hands and it had only been two days. He feared he might actually die of boredom.

  ‘Are you going to eat that?’ Reggie asked, looking covetously at the last sausage on the sideboard. Before Ross could reply he had already speared it on his fork and taken a huge bite.

  ‘Tell me, Reggie, what do you do with your days when I am in town?’ Ross was genuinely curious—perhaps he was missing something that he might enjoy.

  The big man chewed thoughtfully for a moment before replying. ‘Well, let’s see. I have me breakfast, then I chop some wood and fetch and carry stuff for Cook. Then I usually help Mrs Prim with whatever she needs doing. Prim says that she would be quite lost without me.’

  The fact that Ross’s little nickname had taken root in Reggie’s brain must really rankle the housekeeper, but he was glad that she put the big oaf to use.

  ‘What things does Mrs Prim ask you to do?’

  The big man smiled. ‘Yesterday we was stripping all the curtains out of the back bedrooms ready for the painters to go in. Today she wants me to help lug some old furniture up to the attic.’

  Reggie looked remarkably pleased to have been asked to do it, and then he said something that shocked Ross.

  ‘I like Mrs Prim. She has a lovely laugh.’

  Ross gaped at Reggie in astonishment. ‘Are you sure, Reggie? You must be confusing her with one of the maids. Prim doesn’t laugh.’

  ‘She might not laugh around you,’ Reggie said sagely, ‘but she laughs around me. And I ain’t so dense as not to know the difference between Mrs Prim and one of the maids. When we work together she makes it fun.’

  ‘Fun? Prim?’ The very concept was laughable.

  Reggie actually grinned at that. ‘Yesterday she wrapped one of the velvet curtains round her shoulders and stuffed a pillow under her skirt and pretended to be the King George for the whole morning. Made me bow to her every time I said something.’

  Ross snorted. That sounded about right. ‘I doubt that was a joke, Reggie. She is so bossy I imagine she expects you to bow to her. You must have got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘She even knighted me,’ Reggie boasted. ‘I was Sir Reginald Hamfisted of Hackney all afternoon. What’s that if it’s not a joke?’

  He had him there. It certainly sounded like a joke.

  ‘Like I say, Ross—Mrs Prim is lovely when you get to know her.’

  Well, this was an astounding and interesting piece of news. Prim-and-Proper possessed a sense of humour and a pair of lips that did curl upwards? He would have to test that theory. All he had witnessed so far was outrage tinged with barely disguised hostility.

  That was not strictly true, he conceded. She was also kind and thoughtful. The way she looked after Reggie was admirable. The pair of them were constantly to be found in each other’s company. Ross rarely collided with her, and he had the distinct feeling that was deliberate. They corresponded through the maids, or little notes that she left atop his desk in the surprisingly flamboyant sloping handwriting that did not suit her repressed and dour character in the slightest. It was far too...effervescent—too devil-may-care for such a repressed and formal woman.

  Despite her lack of sociability, he could not complain about her work ethic or her common sense. As a housekeeper she was a marvel. In the last fortnight Mrs Prim had made great inroads into transforming Barchester Hall from a wreck to a home. Pretty soon it would be a suitable home for his sister and mother. A nice, snug place where they would be safe for ever.

  Parts of the house were beginning to look much better already. The morning room had been stripped, the paint and papers had quickly been selected for the walls, and a great deal of the shabby upholstery and rugs throughout the house had disappeared. He actually looked forward to coming home. Instead of the dank and musty smell of neglect, his house smelled of polish—and increasingly of fresh paint. It was beginning to have a cosy feel that was most comforting, thanks to Prim, and he made a point of taking a keen interest in each new change.

  Why didn’t she like him?

  Ross must have been scowling, because he noticed Reggie grinning at him smugly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked as he stood up from the table.

  ‘You are.’ Reggie pointed at him with his fork. ‘You’ve got the hump because Mrs Prim don’t like you.’

  ‘Hardly,’ he replied peevishly, irritated that Reggie was a little bit right. Women were always charmed by him. He had the knack. Usually. ‘I could not care less either way.’

  Why the devil did she not like him? Had he inadvertently done something to upset or offend her since he had moved in to Barchester Hall? And what on earth made her prefer Reggie to him? That was just insulting. Much as he liked the big oaf, he was certainly not as likeable and definitely not as handsome or charming as Ross was himself. Surely the woman was not still holding a grudge about their first meeting?

  Ross marched out of the breakfast room and went off in search of his housekeeper, determined to make her re-evaluate her opinion of him. It had become a point of personal pride. People always liked him—well, most people liked him. He worked hard to ensure that they did. His business depended on it. If his housekeeper did not, then he simply had to change her poor opinion of him. It would give him something to do, if nothing else.

  He spied her in her little office near the kitchen and marched towards her. The door was slightly ajar and she had not yet noticed him, but something about the way she sat made him stop and loiter in the passageway.

  For a start, her floppy cap was not stuffed on her head and he got his first proper look at her. Her hair was thick, with an obvious natural wave to it, and, although it was secured in an austere knot at the back of her head, there was no disguising the fact that it was quite lovely. It seemed to run the gamut of shades of blonde. The fine tendrils that sat at the base of her swan-like neck were pale golden, the rest was a swirl o
f honey, wheat and bronze.

  Stranger still was the fact that her unattractive spectacles had been carelessly discarded, despite the fact that she was busily recording numbers in a large ledger. She clearly did not need them for close work either, it seemed. All in all she was a very tidy little package.

  Ross leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded. ‘Morning Prim,’ he said cheerfully, and watched her nearly jump out of her skin and hastily turn towards him.

  Without the glasses and the lace cap she was a very pretty woman indeed. Her pink lips formed a startled ‘O’ as she blinked at him in surprise. Her eyes were not even slightly frog-like. They were large, though, deep blue, and framed in lovely long lashes.

  He gave her an assessing half-smile. ‘Somebody has been hiding their light under a bushel,’ he drawled appreciatively, and then he smiled again as she grabbed her cap and plonked it ruthlessly on her head and scrambled for her glasses.

  ‘I think we both know that you don’t need those,’ he said, and at the same time he reached out and plucked the wire frames off her small nose. He held the offending glasses up to his eyes and then put them on. ‘Good grief, these are thick. Did they belong to a blind person?’ He tentatively took a few steps around the small office, his flailing arms outstretched for comic effect. ‘No wonder you always look over the top of them. Do they give you a headache?’

  They did. Hannah had taken to removing them at every opportunity—hence her current predicament. ‘Give those back!’ she hissed, and she could feel a virulent flush of embarrassment sweep over her face.

  ‘You do not need them to read,’ he responded suspiciously, ‘and you constantly peer over them—never through them. In actual fact, I suspect that they are not even yours.’

  She was glowing beetroot-red now, and clearly flummoxed. Obviously he had sailed dangerously close to the truth. Ross leaned over her and peered through the glasses. ‘Why do you wear them? Are they a disguise?’ He wiggled his dark eyebrows, as if greatly intrigued by the mystery.