That Despicable Rogue (6 page)

‘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

H
annah had been going through Jameson’s chests 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.

And pleasant. She was such a pretty thing—if you ignored her belligerent personality—and he had not engaged in anything more than a little mild flirting in weeks. Maybe he should have a little fun at her expense? It might teach the wench a lesson.

As soon as the thought took hold Ross could not stop it. He stalked over to the brandy decanter that stood on a little side table near his bed and poured some of the amber liquid into his hands. Then he patted it liberally around his neck like cologne. If she thought him a drunk then he might as well
be
one.

He quickly pulled off his shirt and mussed his hair with his fingers. She would certainly disapprove of the sight of his bare chest as well. She had before—although she had also had a good look, he remembered with satisfaction. Prim had
liked
the sight of him half naked.

A quick check of his reflection in the mirror made him smile. He looked positively rogue-like and totally disreputable. Even his head was not giving him as much grief now that it was occupied with something else. Poor old Prim was in for a bit of a shock.

* * *

Hannah balanced the tea tray on one hand and knocked quietly on his bedroom door. With any luck he had already fallen fast asleep.

‘Come in.’

His deep voice sounded a little muffled, and as soon as she gingerly opened the door she could see why. He was face-down on his bed, bare arms flung carelessly above his head on the pillow.

‘I have your tea, Mr Jameson.’ She deposited the tray on the table smartly and turned to leave.

‘Could you pour me a cup, Prim, and bring it here?’

He did not even raise his head from the pillow, so she doubted he would actually even drink it. Hannah rolled her eyes in annoyance and stalked back to the tray. Not caring whether or not it bothered him, she noisily poured him a cup of tea, heaped in three sugars and stirred it furiously before plonking it unceremoniously on the bedside table.

‘Your tea, sir,’ she said snippily, but before she could walk away he rolled over and grabbed her arm.

‘Why don’t you like me, Prim?’ he slurred as he rose to a sitting position.

The dim candlelight made his bare skin glow golden and emphasised the powerful corded muscles in his arms and across his broad shoulders.

‘It is not my place to either like or dislike you, sir,’ she replied carefully, while trying to extricate her wrist from his firm hold and not look at his distracting body.

Up close, she could see the dark stubble on his chin. She should have found it unappealing—further evidence of his dissipation—but bizarrely it suited him. Hannah started to feel a little warm and off-kilter when she should have been outraged.

He laughed with drunken derision and leaned a little closer towards her, as if about to impart some great secret. ‘Come now, Prim, we both know that you are lying—although I have to say you are quite dreadful at it. If you did not dislike me so intently then you would be much...
friendlier
.’

His dark gaze held hers. There was no mistaking his meaning, especially when his thumb began to caress the sensitive skin on the underside of her trapped wrist—something that made the nerve-endings in her arm tingle with awareness. She forced her mind to be angry. The wretch was flirting with her. Shamelessly. Even drunk he was trying to manipulate her own body into betraying her.

‘If that is all,
sir,
then I should like to retire. It is very late and I must get up early in the morning to attend to my duties.’

Unfortunately her request fell on deaf ears, although why she had expected anything else she did not know. The gentle rhythm of his thumb circling that small patch of her skin was having an odd effect on her. It had been so long since anybody had intentionally touched her that she was keenly aware of every movement. She could feel her heart fluttering, and her flesh begin to tingle in a most unwelcome way.