Книга - That Despicable Rogue

That Despicable Rogue
Virginia Heath


A lady’s mission of revenge…Lady Hannah Steers has three reasons to loathe and despise Ross Jameson. He’s a scandalous libertine, he stole her home, and he was responsible for the death of her brother!Determined to expose Ross for the rogue he is, Hannah dons a disguise and infiltrates his home as his new housekeeper. Unfortunately, this scoundrel proves himself to be the epitome of temptation and, instead of building a case against him, Hannah finds herself in a position she never expected…falling head over heels in love with him!









‘I am more of a lady than you will ever be a gentleman! At least I have enough decency to know that it is quite wrong to make advances to the staff.’


Ross had the audacity to smile. ‘Stop acting so shocked. I suspect that you are not truly as prim and proper as you would have me believe.’

Something about the way his eyes devoured her after those words made Hannah blush involuntarily, as if he could see through the fabric of the garment.

‘Perhaps I should keep a very close eye on you—just to check that you are not up to no good. Would you like that, Prim?’

One hand curled around her waist possessively, then made a slow journey down the curve of her hip. Hannah had never been handled so…intimately. The twin emotions of outrage and excitement at being desired by this shameless man warred within her. How many times had she dreamed about such things in her lonely bed?

His eyes held such forbidden promise…


Author Note (#ulink_5a30fce0-a79e-509c-8834-4dfe788f3c85)

My husband is fond of analogies. One of my favourites is a story about two brothers. One is a successful doctor and the other a low-life drunk with no job. Their father is a cruel and violent man. One day the brothers are both asked the same question: Why have you turned out the way you are? Despite the vast difference in their lives, both brothers give exactly the same answer: ‘It’s hardly a surprise when you have a father like mine!’

It is an extreme example, I know, but the past shapes us all. That is a fact. Sometimes it makes us into better people, and other times it holds us back and stops us living life to the full.

In my novel That Despicable Rogue I have created two people who are shaped by their pasts. Ross Jameson has dragged himself out of the gutter and done everything possible to make sure he never has to go there again. Lady Hannah Steers has had her life destroyed by the past and feels that she has no future.

Once I’d created these two people and introduced them to each other they pretty much wrote their own story for me. At times I had no idea what they were going to do next! I hope that you enjoy their trials and tribulations as they seek their happy ending. An ending, incidentally, that they never told me about until it actually happened!




That Despicable

Rogue

Virginia Heath







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace the insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep…

That Despicable Rogueis Virginia Heath’s wonderful debut for Mills & Boon Historical Romance!

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk).


For Greg,

for encouraging me to follow my dreams and write.

For Katie,

who first read what I had written.

And for Alex,

who fortified me with tea and kept me sane.


Contents

Cover (#u177c5c6f-cbdb-5585-a7ec-d86f6d7219bc)

Introduction (#u3048abd0-50d3-5a42-9b32-a12c53c64a91)

Author Note (#u5829267c-8db3-5226-a5ef-1cd897a08fe2)

Title Page (#u1957fcce-5549-50c1-a1ba-eefe2f1f5e10)

About the Author (#uf6910cbb-5daa-5619-9180-2e667614675d)

Dedication (#u4894b344-5942-5d30-a4ad-7a4a24ea4e49)

Prologue (#u3e130381-f19b-5fc8-86e3-51716e13fae8)

Chapter One (#u8e41bc08-83b0-58bf-a992-35e2269ce047)

Chapter Two (#ud05c8021-63c1-5c60-9eed-56d038af2622)

Chapter Three (#uac17bdc8-51b2-580d-882c-8c1c33139ed4)

Chapter Four (#ub0b92087-740d-5867-99dd-dcd21d63f2d6)

Chapter Five (#u9c6040e5-3950-5086-bb13-a2f76afeac5f)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#ulink_d2853128-7de4-56da-83be-e4153c0e3c4c)

White’s, May 1818

The crowd gathered around the card table signalled one of two things—either somebody was about to win a substantial sum or somebody was about to lose the shirt off his back. The spectacle drew Ross Jameson like a moth to a flame. At the card table sat the Earl of Runcorn, eyes wide and sweating profusely, as Viscount Denham idly gathered up the ridiculously large pile of banknotes he had just won from the middle.

Ross wandered to his friend Carstairs, knowing that he would clarify the situation perfectly. ‘What’s afoot?’ he murmured as he took a sip of his drink.

John Carstairs copied the motion, his eyes never leaving the drama at the table. ‘Denham has just cleaned Runcorn out. There is over a thousand pounds on that table.’

Ross was not surprised. Runcorn had been on the path of self-destruction for years and Viscount Denham did enjoy parting a fool from his money.

Denham stood and smiled smugly at his opponent. ‘It has been a pleasure, Runcorn.’

The beaten man blinked rapidly, obviously in a state, and then reached into his jacket pocket with the air of a man about to do something completely stupid. He pulled out a large, official-looking document and practically threw it into the middle of the table.

‘The deeds to Barchester Hall,’ he announced with desperate zeal. ‘It is unentailed and surrounded by excellent parkland and fine pasture—I will wager all I have lost against the house.’

The assembled crowd sucked in a collective breath.

‘What sort of man comes to a card game with the deeds to his house?’ Carstairs hissed under his breath.

‘The sort who is fool enough to lose it,’ Ross answered calmly. Runcorn was not the first man to gamble away the family silver, and doubtless he would not be the last.

The rest of the crowd were anxiously waiting for Denham to respond to the challenge. This was exactly the sort of thing that they lived for—the prospect of seeing one of their own ruined.

Denham had still not sat down again, but he was regarding Runcorn with open curiosity—to Ross it was obvious he was rejoicing in his own good fortune.

True to form, Denham was going to make the fool suffer. ‘I seriously doubt that the property is worth much more than three thousand,’ he said dismissively, ‘but I am a reasonable man. Under the circumstances I will—’

Ross cut him off before he could finish. ‘I will take the wager, Runcorn.’ He tossed an enormous bundle of banknotes onto the table. ‘Five thousand against your house.’

The crowd gasped audibly at this interesting and totally unexpected turn of events. Excited words were exchanged and one or two men pointed out that Ross’s challenge was poor form. This was Denham’s game—he at least should claim first refusal. But such a vulgar upstart as Jameson would not understand the proper way things were done in polite society. Others simply marvelled at his apparent generosity. Five thousand against some old heap of bricks was well over the odds.

Ross ignored them. Instead he watched Runcorn eye the cash greedily and knew exactly what the blithering idiot was thinking—he could cover his losses and pay some debts with such a healthy purse. Gamblers like Runcorn could never see past the pathetic hope that their luck was about to change.

‘Done!’ Runcorn exclaimed excitedly, his gaze never leaving the money.

Ross watched Denham’s pale eyes narrow briefly before he reluctantly stood aside to allow him to sit in the chair he had just vacated. ‘What are we playing?’ Ross asked casually, although he knew already that it was piquet.

Poor Runcorn really did not stand a chance. Many considered piquet less of a risk than hazard, but in truth it was much easier to cheat if one was so inclined. With hazard, chance and luck might scupper even the best player, but piquet was predictable for somebody with Ross’s brain. He motioned for the cards to be dealt and took another sip of his drink before slowly picking up his hand.

The cards he had were good, so he discarded them and picked up five duds. It would not do to trounce the fellow completely from the outset.

Runcorn easily won the first rubber and visibly sagged in relief. The man really was a terrible player; it was no wonder Denham had cleared him out. He wore his emotions on his sleeve. For the second deal Ross purposely played clumsily, and made it appear as if his final winning trick was a fluke. The third hand he played dead straight and won, but he threw the fourth for the sake of entertainment. The crowd and the atmosphere made it fun.

Runcorn was far too careless, and nerves made him sloppy. He was so grateful for each point that he lost track of the cards dealt and obviously had no concept of what was left on the table—a rash and stupid way to play such an easily rigged game. Hell, if he were so inclined as to feed in a few additional face cards, he doubted the man would realise. However, he just wanted to beat Runcorn—not meet him on Hampstead Heath at dawn.

As the penultimate hand was being dealt Ross caught John’s eye. His friend made a show of checking his timepiece—an unsubtle reminder that they were due elsewhere—and Ross stopped toying with his prey. He played every card with calculation and took every trick. By the end of the partie Runcorn had begun to panic. Large beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face and dampened the high, pointed collar of his fashionable shirt.

That detail also spoke volumes about the man, Ross mused. It was well known that the Earl of Runcorn had run up huge debts with every reputable tradesman in London—and some very disreputable. He had long been spending above his means, but instead of curbing this recklessness Runcorn chose to affect a façade of wealth that did not fool anyone—least of all Ross. He made it his business to track fellows like that, so it was difficult to feel sorry for him.

The final hand was dealt in silence as the onlookers tried to conceal their glee. At best, Runcorn needed thirty points to beat him. Such a feat was possible for a skilled player, with a keen awareness of the game. Unfortunately that was not Runcorn. He lacked both skill and awareness. In fact he lacked any prospect of basic common sense as well, but—as with so many of his ilk—he had no concept of his failings.

Ross decided to lull the hapless earl into a false sense of security. Runcorn won the first two tricks because Ross let him, and lost the third badly because of his own stupidity. In desperation he played his one good card too soon. As a result he won the fourth trick, but had nothing higher than a jack left in his arsenal for the rest of the game.

As Ross held two kings and a queen Runcorn’s defeat was not only inevitable but decisive. His face took on a white, then an increasingly green tinge as Ross’s points rose past the number where he stood even the slightest chance of recouping his losses. When his final card was trumped by the King of Hearts, Runcorn buried his head in his hands as applause broke out around them.

Ross quietly picked up his five thousand, and the folded deeds, and put them safely into his inside pocket. Now would definitely be a prudent time to make a hasty exit.

Quietly, Viscount Denham came up behind him and whispered in barely audible tones, ‘I see your luck continues to hold, Jameson.’

Ross nodded curtly. He had just ruined a man; he did not need to gloat. Nor did he need to spend one more second in Denham’s company that he did not have to. The man made his flesh crawl.

At that moment the Earl of Runcorn lurched to his feet, unaware of the fact that he had knocked his chair over in the process. ‘Well...well played, sir,’ he stammered—out of ingrained politeness rather than respect, Ross assumed—and then he turned to the assembled crowd and inclined his head. ‘If you gentlemen will all excuse me for a minute?’

Ross watched him stumble towards the door and his eyes flicked back towards his friend in unspoken communication. John nodded in understanding and slipped out of the crowd to follow Runcorn. He would know what to do.

‘I wonder, Jameson,’ Denham said silkily, ‘is it the thrill of the game that draws you or is it merely the pleasure of thwarting me that you continually seek?’

The sound of a single shot ringing out prevented Ross from having to answer.

Everybody rushed towards the door that led out to the marbled hallway of the gentlemen’s club. Before he even reached the hallway Ross had a premonition of what he would see, but he followed regardless. John, of course, was already there, and his shocked expression told the onlookers everything they needed to know.

An eerie silence settled over them as they took in the gruesome scene. The alabaster walls of White’s were decorated with violent splatters of Runcorn’s blood, which had already started to trickle in their journey downwards. A growing pool of crimson oozed slowly across the black and white marble floor around the body while the pistol he had used to blow his own brains out was still smoking in the earl’s twitching hand.

Denham turned to Ross with a malicious gleam in his eye. ‘Well, that should certainly give the newspapers something to print tomorrow.’


Chapter One (#ulink_c2ac8b03-6229-55ce-9a48-76aa619727da)

Just over one year later...

Lady 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 should 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.’

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 (#ulink_94397bc2-bd7e-5278-a377-2be85763f808)

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.

‘How much longer?’ the big man asked, without taking his eyes off the scenery rushing by. Poor Reggie was sometimes like a child, with the attention span of a puppy. He had asked the same question at least twenty times already and the journey from London was less than an hour.

‘We should be there in a few minutes, Reggie,’ he said, smiling. ‘When was the last time you visited the countryside?’

The big man screwed up his face as he gave the question some thought. ‘I can’t say I remember—but I’m sure that I have been.’

That sentence, in a nutshell, summed Reggie up. His memory was shot—thanks to far too many years in the boxing ring—so sometimes he recalled things and sometimes he didn’t.

‘Will there be food when we get there? I’m starving, Ross.’

Reggie’s entire life revolved around food, and he could get quite unreasonable when there wasn’t any, so Ross nodded. This appeared to placate the big man, who continued to watch the road as if his life depended on it. One of Ross’s first jobs upon arrival, he knew, would be to make sure that Reggie knew exactly where everything was and how far he could wander.

Aside from the fact that the sight of him would probably scare the locals, Reggie panicked when he was lost or confused, and when he panicked he could be difficult to handle. Ross would also have to make sure that the rest of his motley crew of staff were made aware of Reggie’s particular needs and peculiarities. He didn’t particularly want any of them to be frightened either.

Just thinking about the prospect of having staff made him smile. Apart from Reggie, he had never had a servant before—and Reggie hardly counted as one of those. Ross gave him things to do because it made him happy to do them. In reality, he was far too clumsy to do more than fetch and carry effectively, and Ross was used to doing things for himself anyway.

But now he had a gamekeeper, a gardener, a rotund and jolly cook and a sour-faced housekeeper. In truth, he was not entirely convinced that the housekeeper would turn up. She had certainly not appeared to be particularly enamoured of him. He had only given the frog-eyed woman the job because she had shown a modicum of kindness to Reggie. He had a sneaking suspicion that even if she did turn up he and she would part company quite quickly.

‘I can see a house!’ exclaimed Reggie.

‘That has to be Barchester Hall, then—we should arrive any minute now.’

Ross could not quite contain his own excitement. He was going to live in a proper house for the first time in his life, and as soon as it was in a fit state he would bring his mother and sister to live there with him. He had not told them about it yet. He was looking forward to seeing the looks on their faces when they entered such a grand house.

He owed them the security and safety of a proper home, where he would be able to keep a watchful eye on them. They had not lived together as a family in years. Ross had always taken care of them, but his business had demanded his full attention and he had neglected to find them all a home until he had accidentally found himself in possession of one. Even then he had not considered actually living in it, and still would not have unless his sister had declared an interest in leaving the quaint and quiet village he had moved them to in order to spend the season in London. And his mother was happy for that to happen. He still could not believe that.

After everything that had happened—all the years when they had both done their best to keep Sarah safe—his mother was now willingly going to let her loose in London again. The place was still filled with crooks, thieves and wealthy perverts who preyed on the vulnerable. His sister was a young woman, and despite her belief that she was all grown up she would need his protection now more than ever if she was to get through the season unscathed.

She was such a pretty thing. She always had been. He would never forgive himself if she was placed in danger again. The very thought made him feel sick to his stomach.

Therefore Barchester Hall was the perfect compromise. It was close enough to London for them to visit the place freely, but far enough away to keep his family out of harm’s way. If everything went as Ross hoped it would he would finally be able to wave goodbye to the necessity of being in the city for every waking hour, and to the guilt he felt at not being around for his family to oversee their safety personally. Now there would be no more excuses. He could keep a very close eye on his sister or—more importantly—on anybody who came near her.

* * *

Hannah saw the shiny black carriage approach and assembled the small staff on the poorly maintained gravel drive, ready to meet their new master. As it came closer into view she saw his huge bodyguard, Reggie. He was smiling, with his face pressed up against the window. Two of the maids sniggered at the sight and she shot them a pointed look before the carriage came to a stop. Regardless of the peculiarity of the situation, they had no right to be so rude. Both girls coloured under her stern glare and looked down at their feet, and Hannah made a mental note to speak to them both later. Discipline had clearly been in short supply for far too long.

Reggie had the carriage door open before the tiger could get to it, and bounded out onto the drive and stared up at the house in awe.

‘Blimey, it’s big!’ he exclaimed over his shoulder, just as Jameson poked his head out of the carriage and regarded the assembled group with amusement.

Hannah ignored the rising bile in her throat as she dipped into a reluctant curtsy and then stepped forward to greet him. ‘Mr Jameson—welcome to Barchester Hall.’ She could not quite bring herself to say welcome home. It was not his home, and if she had her way it never would be.

He looked her up and down and grinned. ‘You came, then? I was not sure that you would. Especially after...’ He left the rest of the sentence hanging awkwardly.

Hannah nodded in tight acknowledgement and then introduced him to the staff she had only met herself yesterday. He greeted all six of them with surprising good cheer and did a very good job of charming them all—including Cook. But Hannah had expected no less. Swindlers had to be charming. Manipulation was their stock in trade.

When she had dismissed the servants he sidled up next to her before she could escape into the house. ‘Might I have a word, Mrs Preston?’

Hannah turned towards him and he gently took her arm and steered her away from the carriage. His big, overly familiar hand was warm, and it made her extremely conscious of their close proximity.

‘I should probably tell you about Reggie now,’ he confided in a hushed tone, a little too close to her face, ‘because he is going to take a bit of getting used to.’

When they were well out of earshot he stopped walking and faced her.

‘He’s a good-natured sort, and keen to help, but he does not have the sense that you or I take for granted. Until he gets his bearings I would appreciate it if you could keep an eye out for him. Make sure he doesn’t stray too far from the house and give him plenty of little jobs to do. Nothing that involves common sense, of course, because he certainly does not possess any—but he loves to help. Even if he is not being particularly useful I like to make him think he is. Could you also alert the rest of the staff to my wishes? Sometimes people can be cruel to people like Reggie. Let them know that I will not tolerate that in this house.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Hannah had certainly not been expecting this to be the first order that she took from her new employer. Despite his black heart he obviously had a soft spot for his poor servant. It was a great shame that he did not have the same concern for all the people whose lives he had ruined—of which she was sure there were many.

‘I am going to take Reggie for a tour of the house first—after I have fed him, of course,’ he said with a smile. ‘Perhaps we can have a chat this afternoon about my plans? I believe that we have a great deal to do, Mrs Preston.’

His po-faced housekeeper smiled tightly and then scurried off. She really was a most humourless woman, he thought as he watched her disappear back into the house. All the other servants appeared to be quite friendly, but Mrs Preston reminded him of an icicle—cold, hard and sharp. He hoped that the woman was at least good at her job; it might well be her only redeeming quality.

Well, that was not strictly true, he realised. Ross had always had a talent for spotting potential in things—especially things that were attractive in a woman. Behind the ugly glasses was quite a pretty face. With a little effort he suspected that she might scrub up quite well. There might even be a reasonable figure under that shapeless sludge-coloured dress as well. It was difficult to tell.

Her letter of application had stated that she was a widow, although she did seem a little young to be one. But he knew only too well that life could be hard, and that some people dealt with its harshness by becoming bitter. Perhaps her attitude would soften towards him in time. And, then again, perhaps not. He had not exactly made the best first impression on her. She probably saw him as a lecher—or worse. The shock on her face at the sight of Francesca reclining on his bed had been quite impressive. But in his experience people thought exactly what they wanted to—regardless.

‘Come on, Reggie,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Let me show you around.’


Chapter Three (#ulink_f1ce03f8-ebff-5141-abeb-6210a55d7329)

Several hours later Ross left Reggie washing pots happily with Cook and went off in search of his prim housekeeper. He found her hovering not far from the kitchen, notebook already in hand, and he ushered her into the large study and sat opposite her at the enormous desk he had brought with him from London.

‘I think I should be brutally frank, Mrs Preston, and let you know now that I have absolutely no idea how to manage a house or staff. I am not completely sure, if I am honest, exactly what a housekeeper does. In that regard, I was hoping that you could let me know what exactly I need to attend to first.’

Ross watched her blink at his admission, but her face did not soften. Instead she pinned him with her scary frog stare, then tilted her head to one side.

The motion dislodged a curling tendril of golden hair from her lace cap, which she stuffed back in ruthlessly. The fact that it was such a lovely shade of blonde surprised him. He had not even considered that she might have hair. Not that he had thought her hairless, of course, but he had assumed that it would be nondescript and colourless—much as his housekeeper appeared to be. But now that he knew that she had such luscious-coloured locks he could not help wondering why she covered it all up in that dreadful mob cap.

Out of habit he smiled flirtatiously at her. Usually that garnered a faint blush at the very least. Mrs Prim-and-Proper Preston, though, was clearly made of granite, and she pursed her lips slightly in disgust at the overture. Then she launched into another lecture.

‘The role of a housekeeper is to ensure the good running of all things domestic. I will need a budget to buy the necessary day-to-day supplies, such as candles, then there are costs such as staff wages, linens, brandy and wine, et cetera. Obviously all expenditure will be logged properly by myself, in the household accounts ledger. Occasionally, as you are not married, I will have to consult with you about menus and such things—usually a housekeeper would go to the mistress of the house for that. Unless there is a mistress I need to be apprised of?’

He could tell by the insolent raising of her eyebrow that that comment was meant to allude to Francesca or a similar type of woman. He did not care for her opinions on his morality.

‘No mistress at the moment,’ he replied with a wolfish smile. ‘Married or otherwise. But I am always open to the possibility.’

He watched her lips thin and stifled a smile. He was actually enjoying irritating her. Something about disapproving people always brought out the worst in him, and as a self-defence mechanism he preferred to find humour in that disapproval rather than allow it to bother him. Mrs Preston was as prickly as a cactus. So far he knew that she disapproved of fornication and flirting, so he had plenty of ammunition already to use to rile her and he had only known her for a few hours.

‘I think we should start by deciding upon the new household budget, sir,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘What figure did you have in mind?’

Ross did not have a clue. ‘My solicitor advised me on costs when the property deed was stamped, but as I have never owned or lived in a grand house with a full staff before I shall have to defer to your expertise.’

The housekeeper blinked, and allowed herself the merest huff of exasperation before answering. ‘That depends on how much you are willing to spend, sir. At the moment the budget really only pays the servants’ wages and provides the basics. Some houses are run on a tight budget, and some of the grandest houses require vast sums of money—especially if the owner does a great deal of entertaining.’

‘Mrs Preston, I work with numbers. Would you be so kind as to clarify, in pound notes, exactly what you mean by “tight” and “vast”?’

Her sandy eyebrows drew together as she considered this, and she chewed her bottom lip for several seconds. ‘Realistically, with new servant costs included, the minimum yearly budget would have to be around five hundred pounds, sir. But that would mean that I’d have to be particularly thrifty. I suppose we could reduce that if we closed up part of the house in winter and reduced fuel costs. We could also purchase the cheaper cuts of meat.’

Ross screwed his face up in disgust. ‘We do not need to be “thrifty”, Mrs Preston. Give me a figure that will not leave me cold and chewing on gristle.’

She smiled ever so slightly at that, but quickly covered it. Underneath all that frost she might possess a sense of humour at least. Of course it might have been wind. The expression had been so fleeting he could not be sure.

‘A sensible budget of around eight hundred pounds a year is probably more than enough—assuming that you do not want an army of servants, sir?’

‘Heavens, no! There is only me—and in a few months my mother and sister will be coming to live here. I have no need of an army.’

Hannah could not hide her surprise. ‘You have a mother and a sister?’ She had not discovered that titbit in all her research.

He regarded her with amusement. ‘Of course I have a mother. Did you assume that I had been created by some other miraculous method?’

‘Not at all, sir,’ she said hastily, ‘but I had not considered the possibility that you had a family.’

A look of pleased affection crossed his features. ‘I do—although they drive me to distraction and nag me incessantly. At the moment they both live in a lovely quiet village in Kent, but my sister is twenty and she is begging me to bring her to town for the season. Why? I have no idea. But for the sake of peace I will do it. I thought I would surprise them with this house when it is finished. I think my mother might actually be lost for words for the first time in her life.’

His admission made her curious. ‘Why do they live in Kent?’

The moment the question popped out she regretted it. Servants were not meant to ask personal questions.

However, he did not appear to mind and answered happily. ‘My business requires me to be in London, mostly at the docks, but that is not a particularly...safe place to live. This house is a good compromise. It is only an hour away from town, but far enough away not to be too close to all the dirt and danger.’

Danger? That was an interesting word for him to use, and it said a great deal about him, in Hannah’s humble opinion. He must regularly mix with some shady characters indeed if he feared for the safety of his family in the city. Hannah had certainly never felt unsafe there. From what she remembered, Mayfair had been a charming place.

‘One of your main duties will be to get this house shipshape, Mrs Preston. Many of the bedrooms are in a shocking state, and the whole place looks as if it needs a touch of paint. I take it that you have had a good look around the house? Tell me, what things do you think need doing first?’

His question startled Hannah, so she answered honestly, forgetting to be demure as a good servant should be. ‘The main family rooms need to be sorted out first and foremost. The morning room and the dining room are looking very shabby.’

She had been shocked at just how shabby they had become in her absence. George had certainly run the house into the ground after he had banished her to Yorkshire.

‘I agree,’ he said, smiling. ‘And I hate this room as well.’ He waved his hand dismissively at the oppressive panelled walls.

Hannah had always loathed how dark the stained wood made this room. Even so, his criticism of it irritated.

‘I think the panelling adds a certain gravitas to the study,’ she countered, and watched his dark eyebrows draw together as he considered her words.

‘But it is so dingy in here,’ he finally ventured. ‘It is far too depressing to work in.’

‘What sort of work is it that you do?’ she asked politely, wondering how he would answer. He would hardly admit to swindling people, robbing them blind and driving them to suicide.

‘I make money,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I know that is considered a bad thing to confess in this day and age, but it is the truth. I make investments. I speculate—buy and sell. Whatever looks as if it has the potential for a solid profit I will dabble in. I was not born into money, Mrs Preston, so I appreciate its value and its power. And as I spend a great deal of my time poring over ledgers and papers I need a pleasant and light place to work in. This room, quite frankly, is not pleasant. Those ugly paintings need to come down for a start.’

He pointed to the ostentatious family portraits that her father had had painted and scowled.

‘I presume that they are all long-dead members of the Runcorn dynasty?’ They were—her brother, her father, grandfather and great-grandfather stared down at them haughtily from the walls. None of them had been particularly handsome men, she acknowledged. And it was difficult to remember any of them with any great affection.

‘They look like a bunch of pompous arses,’ he said disdainfully.

He took her expression of shock as outrage at his use of bad language, but he was unapologetic.

‘Come on, Mrs Prim and Proper—surely you have heard the word arse before?’

Something about the way she bristled amused Ross. She was so easy to rile he decided there and then to do it often. If nothing else, it would make the days go quicker. He would start this very moment, by peppering his speech with a bit more colourful language and seeing how long it took her to bite back.

‘Make a note to get all this blasted panelling painted a nice cheerful colour, and get those pompous arses shifted to the attic as soon as possible,’ he said dismissively, and watched her scratch his instructions down in obvious irritation.

When she had finished she peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. ‘What colours do you consider “cheerful”, sir? Do you want something light and subtle? Like a pale primrose-yellow? Or would you feel more at home with something bolder—like bordello-red?’

Her blue eyes glared at him defiantly. The woman had spirit. Ross quite admired her cheek, but pretended to ponder. ‘Hmm...perhaps we should save the red for my bedchamber, where it can be properly appreciated? I quite like the idea of pale yellow—but not for in here.’

She could picture the perfect place. ‘The morning room would look lovely in pale yellow. It faces the gardens and catches the early-morning sun—’ Stopping herself abruptly, Hannah stared at her notes. She was being much too presumptuous for a servant.

‘Would you paint it pale yellow?’ he asked, with an obvious interest that she found strangely flattering. The man was actually asking for her opinion on something.

‘I would paint all the dark wood white and mix solid walls of primrose-yellow with some printed wallpapers. Flowers or vines or some such pattern—something that brings the garden into the room.’

Her favourite room would look stunning in such a sunny shade.

For several seconds he just stared at her, and then his face split into a devastating grin that made her pulse flutter in a most disconcerting way. ‘I do believe that you have an eye for decorating, Mrs Prim. That is exactly how the morning room should look. But I want no spindly little chairs. I was not built for puny furniture—I want something more robust. Manly. And comfortable.’

‘There is a lovely big sofa in the drawing room. If we had it reupholstered and found a pair of big wing chairs to go with it I think that might do quite well,’ she answered wistfully as she imagined it, caught up in the vision.

She had always dreamed of changing the interior of the hall but had never, ever been consulted. She caught him watching her. Far from appearing annoyed at her presumptuousness, he looked impressed.

‘Another good idea. Jot it down. I think I will put you in charge of picking out all the colours henceforth.’

This was a great responsibility he was delegating to her and one that she would relish. Hannah forgot herself, and grinned at his unexpected generosity. ‘Shall I make a note of the bordello-red for your bedchamber too?’ she asked cheekily, forgetting herself, and then blushed as his eyes twinkled flirtatiously.

What on earth was she thinking? He really was dangerously charming—and manipulative. Already he had briefly made her forget how much she disliked him.

‘I am keen to get this house shipshape by the end of the summer.’

‘But it is already May! Surely you cannot seriously expect it all to be done in such a short time?’

‘I have quite set my mind to it—and when I set my mind to something, Mrs Prim, I usually get it. And I can be very persuasive.’

He winked at her saucily. In her entire life nobody had ever winked at her, and she felt her lips purse in consternation. If she had not been pretending to be a servant she would have given him a proper set-down. As it was, she had to settle for stony, disapproving silence.

‘You can go through all the catalogues and then show me a selection of the most suitable wallpapers. I shall have to trust you to make a great deal of decisions in my absence, Mrs Prim. In the meantime, I will sort out your household accounts.’

She could tell by the way his eyes drifted to a pile of papers stacked haphazardly on the desk that his attention was already elsewhere, so she inclined her head and went to walk away.

‘By the way, sir,’ she said as an afterthought, ‘my name is Mrs Preston—not Mrs Prim.’

A slow smile crept over his face. ‘I am well aware of that, madam.’


Chapter Four (#ulink_2e3d08d6-9d7d-5316-8492-e96b7b4cad2f)

Ross was awoken by the spring sunshine streaming through his bedchamber window and decided that he needed to add thicker curtains to his growing list of things to buy. At the best of times he was not a morning person, but the sun in the countryside was definitely more invasive than it was in the city. It had a piercing quality that could not be ignored, no matter how hard he tried to.

To make matters worse, he could hear too many noises outside in the hallway again. In the fortnight during which he had intermittently lived at Barchester Hall, the sounds of Mrs Prim and her battalion of maids had woken him on a number of occasions, with their rattling buckets and clattering brooms.

Irritated, he threw the bedcovers back, dragged himself out of bed and trudged heavily towards the door. Clearly, if he was ever going to get some rest, it was time he made them understand that he really did not like being awake this early.

‘What is all this blasted noise?’ he barked as he threw open the door.

Two young maids and his prickly housekeeper dropped the linens they were carrying and stared at him open-mouthed. Only then did he remember that he was only wearing his drawers. Now that he no longer lived in bachelor lodgings he should probably purchase a dressing gown, he realised as the two maids giggled shyly behind their hands at the sight of his bare chest. Out of habit, he grinned wolfishly at them, well aware that he looked pretty good in his birthday suit. The maids happily grinned back.

‘Mr Jameson!’

He could not help but notice that Mrs Prim-and-Proper was not giggling at the spectacle. She turned towards the two maids angrily, her face glowing beetroot-red, and pointed at the pile of sheets on the floor.

‘Take those downstairs at once.’

They nodded in unison and scurried away, leaving Ross alone with the woman on the landing. To rile her, he braced his arms on the doorframe above his head and smiled innocently while she did her level best not to meet his eyes. Those same eyes kept flicking to his bare chest, though, he noticed, and he was prepared to bet money that she liked what she saw.

‘Good morning, Mrs Prim. How are you today?’ he asked cheerfully, still braced against the door to show his biceps off to their best effect.

‘Mr Jameson.’

She was all pink, outraged and flustered, and the spectacle made him smile.

‘It is not proper for you to wander around so freely in your underclothes.’

‘Is it not?’ Ross responded as he idly scratched his stomach and watched her eyes lock on to that spot. ‘I do apologise. But seeing as I was rudely awoken by all the noise you were making I do think that I should be excused. I am never fully compos mentis at the crack of dawn.’

Immediately, her gaze shot back to his face and she stared at him accusingly over the rim of her glasses. She did that a lot, he realised—and always over the rims of her thick lenses, never through them. If she did not need the awful spectacles for distance he had no idea why she would wear them. They were an abomination on her face.

‘Mr Jameson, this house is, as you have rightly pointed out, in a shabby and neglected state. We are presently doing our best to clean out the bedchambers, ready for the tradesmen to begin their renovations. That requires the maids to work in them. Already it is past midday—not the crack of dawn, as you claim—and we waste several hours every day waiting for you to be awake. Perhaps if you kept more regular hours then you would not be so tired in the mornings.’

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 successful 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 (#ulink_d09ee349-0e3d-5995-9fbd-2ef6ce5b2a6a)

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 of 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.

His canny comment left her momentarily speechless. Her mouth opened to issue a denial, and then closed as she realised that she had been caught red-handed. ‘Yes—I suppose they are,’ she finally whispered, certain that the game was up. But he was still smiling... Then an idea struck. ‘I did not think you would employ me if you realised how young I actually am.’

His dark head tilted to one side and his mouth curved slightly in amusement. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘Most housekeepers are well into their fortieth or fiftieth years. I am not yet thirty.’ If she was going to keep her position she had to tell him some of the truth. It was not as if he did not have concrete evidence of the fact staring back at him.

‘Is that why you wear the ugly cap as well?’ he asked, glancing at the top of her head. ‘Because if it is you should probably take that off too.’

Hannah reached up guiltily and pulled the mob cap off and placed it on the table. Then she stood primly facing him, with her hands folded in front of her. He was still wearing her aunt’s reading glasses and was peering at her over the top of them with a friendly smile on his face. He should have looked ridiculous—instead he appeared handsome. Her stupid heart gave a little flutter as he regarded her thoughtfully for a few moments.

‘You are very good at your job, Prim, so you have nothing to worry about. Already this house is beginning to look significantly better, and I should probably thank you for that. I have been very remiss in not doing so sooner. You have done a splendid job of organising the staff and the tradesmen—so much so that I am more than happy to let you get on with it despite your obvious lack of years.

‘I quite admire your tenacity. You saw an opportunity and you seized it. I cannot be angry at that—I have done it a time or two myself, in fact. You have proved yourself to be more than capable of running this house, despite your lack of age. Not to mention your obvious talent for choosing the correct colours and furniture for each of the rooms. It is a relief to be able to delegate that task to you and trust in the outcome. You seem to instinctively know what is best for this place—far better than I do. I am quite clueless, really. I could not ask for a more competent housekeeper, and already I feel that I would be lost without you.’

He could have dismissed her on the spot, she realised. He had caught her out in a blatant lie—and yet he had instantly forgiven her for it, as if he understood and accepted her reasons for lying. Bizarrely, she felt he almost respected her for being enterprising in order to get the job. And he had praised her work. It was such a lovely compliment that Hannah blossomed—she could actually feel her shoulders rise and her mouth curve upwards at the unexpected flattery.

He was an unusual man. He had noticed all the effort she was putting into the house. He valued her opinions. Trusted them. All at once she felt ashamed. She was truly enjoying the opportunity to turn the house she had always loved into the home that she had always dreamed of. A place where she could finally live free of the shackles that had always bound her. A place where she was going to be the mistress—free from any master to spoil it for her. And now she was able to make that transformation unhindered. Using his money, lies and deception.

As guilt curdled in her chest she steeled herself against it with some pertinent facts. This man used lies and deception all the time. It was about time he had a taste of his own medicine. And wouldn’t that just serve him right?

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said awkwardly, without meeting his eyes. ‘It is good to know that my work is appreciated.’

‘I also appreciate your kindness towards Reggie. He speaks very highly of you.’

Hannah beamed at that. ‘That is no bother. Reggie has been a great help to me and to Cook.’

Despite his clumsiness and outwardly menacing appearance, Reggie was the sweetest and most trusting man. Already she felt great affection for him.

‘Is Reggie a relation?’ she asked tentatively, in the hope of changing the subject and assuaging the sudden bout of unexpected guilt that kept niggling. She had begun to wonder exactly what the man’s place in the household was.

‘Not really,’ he answered as he took off the thick spectacles and tossed them on her desk. ‘I sort of inherited him.’

‘How does one inherit a person?’

‘I bought a building and Reggie came with it. That is probably the best way of explaining it.’ He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall casually, clearly content with this limited explanation.

‘And now Reggie has a seat at your table and one of the best bedrooms in the house? You must think me very gullible, sir.’

A devastating grin split his face and made her all fluttery inside again. She grinned in return, despite her better judgement, her lips curving of their own accord, as if he were a puppeteer and she just a marionette.

‘I can assure you that I am telling the truth—Reggie did come with a building that I bought and I have been stuck with him ever since.’

‘I do not believe you.’ Hannah folded her own arms cheekily. ‘I will have to ask Reggie for the truth.’

‘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.





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