That Despicable Rogue. Virginia Heath
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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.
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