Virginia Heath - That Despicable Rogue

Hannah’s application would be one of the few that he would see.

Hannah sailed out of the room without looking back. If she was going to make it onto the post in the morning she had much to do. Firstly she had a letter of application to write. Then she had references to forge. And at some point this evening she would also have to pack up her meagre possessions ready for the trip.

Fortunately her wardrobe was so dire already that she did not have to purchase new clothes to resemble a servant. Her existing clothes were drab and plain enough already. She probably did look a little too young to be a housekeeper, but she could scrape her hair into an unbecoming bun and perhaps affect some sort of disguise that would make her appear more suitable.

By hook or by crook she would be Ross Jameson’s new housekeeper. It was her only real hope of getting some of her life back.

* * *

Ross folded his arms over his bare chest and stared at Francesca. What he had seen in her all those months ago he could not fathom. She was a selfish, self-centred, mean-spirited and manipulative wench with far too much to say for herself.

‘You need to leave now—and this time I want you to leave the master key you charmed from the doorman.’ For emphasis he stuck out his palm and waited.

‘Oooh, Ross, we both know that you don’t mean that,’ she cooed as she lay back against his pillows and began to unlace the front of her low bodice. ‘Come to bed and I will make you forget all your anger.’

Once upon a time he would have happily taken her up on the offer. Despite her intrinsic character flaws, Francesca had always been a good tumble. He had, of course, paid dearly for that privilege—but the harpy could keep the jewellery and the fripperies he had given her. It was the least he could do, he supposed, but facts were facts.

‘I think that you are forgetting one tiny detail, Francesca, and it is one that I cannot overlook. Our arrangement was supposed to be exclusive for its duration.’ And Ross knew she had been dallying elsewhere these last few weeks.

‘I would never have strayed if you had taken more of an interest in me.’ Her rouged lips pouted and she slowly pulled her bodice open.

Two very large, very round breasts stared back at him in open invitation. She did have a point, he supposed. He had lost interest in her. In the last few months he had been so busy with his work that he had scarcely had time for her. However, that did not give her carte blanche to seek entertainment from another benefactor before they had formally ended their arrangement. That was just basic good manners.

‘I have it on good authority from Lord Marlow himself that he is more than happy to support you going forward,’ Ross explained calmly. ‘It will, I am reliably informed, suit you very well too—seeing as you have been inviting him over this last fortnight for a bit of a trial run. I do not actually have the time for a mistress at the moment, so let’s just let bygones be bygones and leave it at that.’

Francesca bristled and stuffed her exuberant breasts back into her dress. ‘You will come back to my door begging for it. You wait and see.’

The fact that he had not done so in over two months did not appear to have registered.

‘Well, in the meantime I think you had better hand over that key and give it back to the doorman. I would prefer it if you did not turn up to my lodgings unannounced in the future. You gave me quite a scare.’

She had as well. One minute he had been enjoying a deep and dreamless sleep and the next he had felt her hand clamp around his privates. But then again Francesca had never been particularly subtle.

With a huff she fished the key out of her reticule and slapped it into his open palm, but she made no attempt to rise from her semi-reclining position on his bed.

‘Are you sure you don’t fancy one last ride, Rossy-Wossy? For old times’ sake?’ Francesca gave him her best come-hither smoulder and began to inch her frothy skirts slowly up her open legs.

‘Here we are, mum.’ The bedroom door crashed open and Reggie filled the frame with his enormous bulk. ‘Your appointment is here, Ross,’ he said, smiling, oblivious to the fact that he had not knocked and had brought a complete stranger into Ross’s bedchamber without any warning whatsoever.

With a long-suffering sigh Ross walked towards the door. ‘Thank you, Reggie. But do you remember I told you that visitors should be seated in the parlour and given a cup of tea?’

Reggie nodded his enormous mousy head and looked contrite. ‘I remember, Ross. Sorry...’ He turned towards the wide-eyed woman next to him and used one of his meaty arms to manhandle her out through the doorway. ‘I have to sit you in the parlour and make you tea, mum.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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