That Despicable Rogue. Virginia Heath
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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.’
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