That Despicable Rogue (2 page)

Chapter One

Just over one year later...

L
ady Hannah Steers read the letter again with mounting excitement. If Cook was to be believed then this was finally her chance to set things to rights.

‘What is that dear?’ her Aunt Violet asked, curious to see any sort of letter, such were their rarity.

‘It is a letter from Cook with news from Barchester Hall. That blackguard now intends to move in. Can you believe that?’

‘Oh, dearest, I do wish that you would try to forget about that place,’ said Aunt Beatrice with concern. ‘It is time that you moved on with your life.’

Both her aged aunts were wearing twin expressions of pity, and Hannah felt her irritation rise at their continued lack of understanding. How did they expect her to move on with her life when the single most important part of it had been stolen away? Barchester Hall was all she had left.

‘Aunt Beatrice,’ she stated, with as much patience as she could muster, ‘I cannot move on until I see Ross Jameson swing from a gibbet. In the meantime, somebody has to expose his true character to the world.’

‘Nonsense!’ her aunt replied. ‘He will get his comeuppance—but you are not the person to see that he does. You have five thousand pounds from your father sitting in the bank and you are still young enough to find a husband.’

Ha!
As if
that
was ever going to happen now. After the scandal, no man worth his salt would touch her—regardless of her aunts’ continued optimism. Nor did she want to put all her faith in one man again—any man for that matter. The last few years had taught her that she could function perfectly well on her own.

‘You need to enjoy your life now. All this bitterness towards Mr Jameson is not healthy. In fact we know nothing certain about him at all. Are you even sure that he is as guilty as you believe? No charges were ever brought, after all.’

Hannah felt her blood begin to boil at that suggestion. ‘Do not give that despicable rogue the benefit of the doubt. I can assure you that he does not deserve such kindness. All my enquiries and all the evidence I have gathered leads me to exactly the same conclusion. He is a villain and a swindler—make no bones about it. But he has covered his tracks well. Any man who can wheedle his way into society with such low-born connections has a particular talent for deceit. Of course he is charming, and his fortune has bought him entry into some of London’s finer homes, but there are still a goodly number of the ton who continue to turn their backs on him. They know what he truly is. The gossip columns are full of his salubrious exploits.’

‘Need I remind you that your brother’s exploits also made regular appearances in the scandal sheets?’ her Aunt Violet pointed out. ‘And we all know that George was not an angel. And most of society would still turn their back on
you
—not that you deserve it, of course—so I am inclined to ignore that particular point.’

Her two aunts shared a pointed look and Hannah sighed in frustration. She
had
featured briefly in the gossip columns too. Quite spectacularly, in fact—and none of that had been true either—but she would not let that distract her. The stories might have been false, but they had not been founded in fairytales. Everybody—her own fiancé included—had been convinced of her guilt before the cruel words had even made it to the papers. They had only printed the news.

‘I know that you do not share my desire to have him brought to justice, but I cannot stand by and let him ruin Barchester Hall. It is my home and I love it. I have to at least try to get it back. And, whilst I do agree that in the main society is fickle and not to be trusted, there has been too much written about him for it all to be false. There is at least one story a week, usually involving either women or his dubious business dealings, and he never denies them. Why would he allow such things to be printed if they were not true? He would have grounds to sue for libel. Do you know that one newspaper even went as far to suggest that he killed his own father?’

‘Surely not!’ Aunt Violet covered her open mouth with her hand.

At her aunts’ twin expressions of horror she clarified what she had read. ‘Well, perhaps not directly. He surrendered his father to the authorities for the reward money and upon his testimony the man was transported to the colonies. He died on the passage over.’

‘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 s
hould
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.’