That Despicable Rogue

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.’

Ross closed the door and grabbed a fresh shirt. This was not exactly the way he had planned to start his day. First he had been forced to deal with Francesca, and now he had probably frightened off the only reasonable applicant he’d had for the job of housekeeper. He doubted the woman would even stay—she had looked so outraged at the scene she had just witnessed that she was probably halfway to Mayfair by now.

‘Who is she?’ Francesca snarled as she finally deigned to rise from his bed. ‘Is she your new mistress?’

Ross heaved a long-suffering sigh. ‘She was applying for the post of housekeeper at Barchester Hall—not that it is any of your business. But I should imagine she is already outside hailing a hackney, thanks to you and Reggie.’

Ross stalked to the door and headed towards the parlour. To his complete surprise the woman was in there. She sat primly, balanced on one edge of a chair, looking as though she was likely to bolt at any moment. Ross arranged his features into the most apologetic and friendly smile he could muster. Perhaps he could salvage the situation with his usual charm?

What was he thinking—of course he could salvage the situation with his charm. It was what he did best.

His search for a housekeeper thus far had been fruitless. Who knew that hiring servants was such an onerous task? Not having ever had a need for servants before, Ross had had no idea how problematic the process could be. He was offering a good salary, and more than the usual amount of time off, but so far every woman he had interviewed had been totally unacceptable. One had been obviously drunk, the second very peculiar and actually quite frightening, and the third had been so old and creaky she’d looked as if she might keel over at any minute.

Perhaps even decent servants were snobs? He had no title. He was not even a gentleman. And everyone in London knew that. Ross made no secret of his past because he was not ashamed of it. He might well have grown up in the gutter, but he had clawed his way out with determination. He had even taught himself to read and write. Now he had an impressive fortune and the reputation of being the canniest businessman in the city—a position that gave him both status and power, which in turn provided the kind of safety and security he had always craved.

He was a person to be reckoned with rather than someone who lived at the mercy of others. It was gratifying to know that his services were in demand from the great and the good—it gave him a sense of satisfied achievement.

Apparently all that made no difference when one was hiring staff. This one was the last application he had received—there were no more candidates left—and even if she did look much too young to him, he was prepared to overlook a great many faults so long as she was even partially suitable.

If he did not have a housekeeper then he could not realistically begin renovating his new house. He certainly did not have time to hire all the tradesmen and servants himself, and somebody had to be around to supervise them. Especially now that the new ships were taking up so much of his time.

He could hardly go and find a butler. Reggie had got it into his head that he was going to be the butler, and Ross could not bring himself to shatter the oaf’s dreams like that.

‘I am so sorry for the way we were introduced, Mrs...er...’ Blast, he had forgotten the woman’s name.

‘Mrs Preston,’ the woman said tightly, and she peered at him coldly over the rims of her unflattering glasses.

‘Yes, of course.’ Ross gave her his most dazzling smile, but when it became clear that the woman had absolutely no intention of reciprocating it slid off his face despondently.

Already he was predisposed to dislike this woman. She was regarding him with complete distaste and ill-concealed disapproval. He hated it when people did that, and unfortunately it was an occurrence that happened far too often—especially since the newspapers had begun to immortalise his supposed exploits in print. However, somewhere in the back of his mind he quite liked the ruthless blackguard’s reputation he had had foisted upon him. It portrayed the image that he was a force to be reckoned with—and surely that could not hurt in the long run?

The woman was still staring at him distastefully, as if he were the lowest of the low. This really was not a good start to the interview—although he did realise that the sight of Francesca sprawled on his bed might have shocked Mrs Preston, so he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘I think we might have got off on the wrong foot,’ he explained benevolently. ‘What you just saw was not quite as it might have appeared.’

He grinned boyishly. That usually won over even the most hardened matron—but not this one. She stared at him levelly—a feat that was made all the more uncomfortable because her bright blue eyes were magnified in the thick lenses of her spectacles to such an extent that he was reminded of a frog.

‘Really? How else should I construe what I just witnessed?’ She was watching him so steadily that it made him feel like an errant child.

‘Francesca arrived out of the blue,’ he clarified, although why he felt the urge to do so was beyond him. ‘Nothing untoward happened.’

‘Perhaps not this morning,’ she stated coldly. ‘But I think it was plainly obvious that you and the lady have a...a special relationship. Am I correct?’

Ross felt his hackles rise at her sanctimonious tone. He certainly did not need to explain himself to this woman. Or to anybody, for that matter. He would be paying her wages. He certainly did not care whether or not she found him suitable.

‘Mrs Preston, I am a single man and these are bachelor quarters. I am sorry that Reggie inadvertently exposed you to my bedchamber—but what happens in that room is none of your concern.’

He steeled himself for the woman to storm out, but she stayed resolutely where she was, chewing her bottom lip nervously.

The awkward silence was broken by Reggie, bumbling in with a laden tea tray. He smiled proudly at Ross and deposited the tray heavily on the side table. Hot tea sloshed out of the teapot and bathed the haphazard cups in brown liquid. Undeterred, Reggie poured tea into one of them and thrust it, without a saucer, at Mrs Preston.

‘Here you are, mum, a nice cup of tea.’ A large, hot drip fell onto her skirts, and she shrieked in pain and immediately stood.

‘Oh! Let me help, mum!’ Reggie began to use the hem of his own shirt to mop up the mess, rubbing it ineffectually over the woman’s wet clothing, unaware that in doing so he was also—shockingly—rubbing her thighs.

To begin with she appeared mortified by this indiscretion, but then the most peculiar thing happened. Her features softened in sympathy and she allowed Reggie to try to help—even though he really wasn’t. It was only then that Ross witnessed the look of stark panic in the big oaf’s eyes—the look he had when he realised he had done something wrong but had no idea how to fix it.

‘It is perfectly all right now. I was merely a bit shocked.’ One of her hands came up and touched Reggie’s enormous shoulder gently. Then she squeezed it for good measure, in a comforting manner that belied her previous cold expression.

Like an obedient sheepdog, Reggie stepped back and stood awkwardly. Then once again the harsh woman surprised Ross.

‘I like one sugar in my tea.’ This was accompanied with a genuine and kind smile that instantly made poor Reggie feel better about being such a clumsy fool. As if in an afterthought she glanced back at Ross, and her features froze again.

‘Here we are, then,’ said Reggie, proffering the second cup of tea to Mrs Preston as if it were the Crown Jewels and she was the Queen.

Mrs Preston glanced at Reggie’s eager expression and her tense pout relaxed. Her lips curved in a lovely smile and she thanked him politely. ‘This looks perfect. You clearly have a talent for making tea exactly the way a person likes it.’

Reggie beamed with pride and gave an embarrassed little chuckle—already won over by this strange conundrum of a woman.

The fact that she had shown such kindness to the big oaf made Ross soften towards her immediately. She was not all bad if she could do that—most people wouldn’t. Reggie usually terrified them. Perhaps she was simply nervous. Or shy?

‘You have excellent references, Mrs Preston,’ he said eventually, while taking the cup that Reggie proffered. ‘Can you tell me what type of household you last worked in?’

Hannah tried to relax and formulate a sensible answer that sounded a tad more friendly. ‘Nair House was not a grand residence, Mr Jameson, but I oversaw a staff of ten,’ she lied.

It would not do to claim that she had vast experience of running a stately pile like Barchester Hall—such a falsity would be easily exposed—but she did want to give the impression that she was capable.

‘I oversaw everything from menu planning and budgeting to dealing with disputes amongst the servants.’

Hannah schooled her features into a neutral mask to cover her disgust at being with him. She had heard that Jameson was a shocking libertine, but she had not expected to be confronted with such overwhelming evidence of his debauchery straight away. The sight of the rumpled bedclothes and that overpainted woman wantonly sprawled across them, skirts raised suggestively to her knees, had been bad enough—but then her eyes had encountered their first sight of Ross Jameson, and that had been frankly outrageous.

He was a huge bear of a man—showing far more exposed skin than a gentleman would deem proper. Of course a gentleman would not have the body of a farm labourer either. Jameson was solid and muscled—a sure sign of his coarse upbringing. Men of class were more willowy and less...sturdy. He probably looked ridiculous stuffed into a tailored coat. She supposed that less discerning women would describe his rumpled black hair and twinkling green eyes as handsome, but he used those good looks to his advantage. He appeared to Hannah exactly what he was—a charming, dangerous and duplicitous rogue. She certainly would not trust him as far as she could throw him—which, she conceded, was not likely to be very far.

It was also obvious that his minion—Reggie?—was severely lacking in intelligence...although she supposed that he had not been employed for his ability to think strategically. He had a wide, square jaw and a nose that had been so badly broken he looked as if it had simply melted into his face. But she had already realised that behind that frightening façade he was a bit slow and was desperately seeking approval. Poor fellow. It was obvious he just needed looking after. However, she was certain his main duties were to protect his nefarious master and to threaten or maim anybody who did not fall into line. How the authorities allowed Jameson to live freely within society was indeed a mystery.

‘Would you tell me a little about your house?’ Hannah asked, aware that she had not made the best first impression and keen to make amends. Everything hinged upon her getting this job.

‘Barchester Hall is situated around twelve miles from London,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I am afraid that at the moment it is a bit of a wreck. Externally, the house is solid, and the grounds are lovely, but it has been shockingly mismanaged by the previous owner for many years and that shows.’

His glib condemnation of her brother and the home she loved so much rankled, but she managed to hide her anger. She could not properly gauge his expression through Aunt Beatrice’s reading glasses, and the thick lenses were beginning to give her an awful headache.

‘Obviously I need to make some urgent renovations. The whole interior needs remodelling, furniture and things will need to be bought to replace what is there currently, and I will need to recruit enough decent staff to run the place. Do you have experience of recruiting servants, Mrs Preston?’

Hannah nodded. This was one thing that she could talk about without lying. When she had lived at Barchester Hall they had had great difficulty retaining staff. This had been largely due to the fact that her brother had had a tendency not to pay their wages on time, if at all, and she’d constantly had to replace the never-ending line of servants who had refused to stay.

‘Yes, indeed. I have had to recruit many suitable servants and I am well aware of the sorts of things that entice the best servants to work at a house.’ Wages were their main priority. That she knew for a fact.

‘You look a little young to be a housekeeper.’

‘I am thirty-five, sir.’ Hannah smiled tightly and hoped that she looked drab enough to be that age. The brown day dress was the most awful thing she possessed, and the lace cap, which she had bought as an afterthought yesterday, covered her wheat-coloured curls. ‘I can assure you that I am eminently suitable for the position.’

‘Hmm...’ He had picked up one of her references and was reading it.

Hannah could feel her one chance slipping away. She opened her mouth to speak but Jameson spoke again before she could say anything.

‘I think that I have heard—and seen—everything I need to. Reggie is already smitten with you. That is good enough for me.’ He turned to Hannah with a friendly smile. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Preston—the position is yours. I will expect you at Barchester Hall next weekend. Please leave me the details of your lodgings so that I can send you the necessary formalities.’

He stood up and shook her hand vigorously and then walked her towards the door at a brisk pace.

Bemused, Hannah could do little but smile at her unexpected good fortune—although she was unsure exactly how it had come about. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she managed to mutter before she found herself standing alone again on the street as the door closed firmly behind her.

Not quite believing her luck, and just in case he retracted his offer, she decided not to tempt fate. She scribbled the inn’s address on a piece of paper and popped it through the letter box before hurrying to the nearest waiting hackney. Finally, after seven long years, she was going home.

Chapter Two

Hannah arrived at Barchester Hall late on Sunday and was immediately engulfed in Cook’s warm embrace.

‘My goodness, my lady, you look well. You have barely changed in all these years.’

Hannah hoped that she had. It would be disastrous if one of the locals recognised her. She was overwhelmed with emotion. Happiness at finally seeing the house she had always loved warred with the humiliation and sadness that had led to her departure from it all those years ago.

‘Oh, Cook—I have missed you.’ Hannah happily sank into a chair around the large oak table and accepted the reviving tea that was thrust into her hand.

‘The place has not been the same without you, my lady. Your brother never should have sent you away. We could have weathered the storm and restored your reputation. I just know we could have. When I think of how abominably you were treated—why, it makes my blood boil.’ Cook dashed her sleeve across her eyes to wipe away more tears. ‘If you had been here perhaps we would not be in this mess.’

Never a truer word had been spoken. There was no way Hannah would have allowed this shocking decline if she had been here. She would have been able to guide George and help him to make better decisions. She would have taken control of the accounts and managed the funds better—if George had relinquished them, of course, which was highly improbable in reality. George had never, ever listened to a single word she had said. He had probably forgotten she even existed the very same day he had put her on that coach headed to York.

‘Never mind. I am here again now,’ she responded happily, keen to change the subject away from her banishment. ‘And I have no intention of ever leaving again. But if my deception is going to work you really must stop calling me “my lady”. From now on I am Mrs Preston.’

The two women caught up on years of gossip over the course of several cups of tea. By the time Hannah finally hauled herself into her new bed she was feeling decidedly uneasy. She had not realised how dire things at Barchester Hall had become. There was a rag-tag group of four young maids and two very fresh-faced footmen. None of the old staff remained, apart from Cook. That was fortunate. The fewer people who knew her true identity the better—however, the village was still filled with familiar faces so she would have to avoid it at all costs. That would be a challenge, but not impossible.

It had grown too late for her to take a proper tour of the house, but Cook had painted a very grim picture as they had wandered around the ground floor. The gardens were decidedly unkempt and the pastures were long empty. All the tenants were now gone—largely because her brother had neglected the upkeep of their cottages and had then doubled their rents as a way to get more money.

George had also sold most of their valuable antiques, one by one, in a desperate attempt to keep the wolves from the door. However, any money he had raised had not been invested in the house but used to pay off his ever-rising gambling debts. Hannah had Jameson to thank for that. Now all that was left was a hotchpotch of old and dilapidated furniture that was barely fit for purpose and the shell of a once great house in bad need of some care.

The situation was dire. The way George had neglected the house was criminal and, had he still been alive, Hannah would have given him a piece of her mind—not that he would have listened.

Nobody apart from Cook and those few scattered maids and footmen had lived in the house since George’s death, so the decline had continued unabated. A sad fact that was hardly their fault. None of them had known what was going to happen. Everybody had assumed that the house would be sold by its new owner, and the servants had received no clear direction. Then, out of the blue, Jameson had turned up a month ago and declared that he intended to live in it after all. Since then, as Cook had acknowledged, there had been some improvement.

He had already procured labourers to fix the leaking roof, and hired a head gardener and a gamekeeper who were both due to start work within the week to fix the grounds. The fact that he had also employed her as his housekeeper suggested that he meant business.

Her biggest concern was how she would react around him without giving herself away. How, exactly, did one conceal so much hatred and disgust? When she had first met him she had wanted to slap his face. She still did. Her brother had always admonished her for her sharp words and forthright opinions. Now she was to all intents and purposes a servant, so she would have to watch her wayward tongue with Jameson or risk the sack.

With any luck they would have little to do with one another. Masters tended to stay well away from the help unless absolutely necessary. Surely she could manage under those circumstances? Especially as she was certain that it would not take long to find conclusive evidence of his crimes and take her rightful place as mistress of the house.

* * *

Ross tried to get some much-needed blood into his long legs by stretching them. This was no easy feat in the confines of the carriage, with Reggie taking up most of the space.