Sounds like I'll have to shake Max's hand too.
"I've warned Papa time and again," Silver raved on, oblivious to his efforts to keep a straight face, "but Celestia has so thoroughly pulled the wool over his eyes, I fear he can't see how she'll fleece him in the end. He's a trusting soul. As such, he has no concept of the numbers of barracudas that swim in the backwaters of our society."
"And you do?"
She blew out her breath. "That is not the point. The point is, Celestia Cooper must be stopped from marrying my papa and breaking his heart!"
Rafe gazed into her luminous, worry-filled eyes and was sorely tempted to applaud. Brava. He couldn't remember a more convincing performance. Silver was turning out to be quite the little flimflammer, wasn't she? First, she'd lied to the good citizens of Leadville for him. Next, she'd tried to dazzle him with that "role of a lifetime" pitch. Now she was claiming she didn't want her daddy to marry because his happiness was her priority.
Hell, do I have sucker written all over my face?
Silver's only priority, Rafe decided, was her daddy's fortune, those very same millions she stood to inherit by her lonesome if she kept him from marrying the competition.
"So you figure you'll bait one mountebank with another, eh?" He gave her a mocking smile. "When it comes to defrauding frauds, you think I'm a sure bet?"
"Well... yes. Don't you?"
"Certainly. But then, I couldn't be successful if I didn't share your confidence in me."
Her brow furrowed at his irony. "In truth, Mr. Jones, I daresay you have enough confidence for both of us."
"You flatter me, Silver."
She gave him another withering look. "Perhaps it will also flatter you to know that you inspired my idea, Mr. Jones." She stressed the formality, much to his amusement. "Earlier tonight, when I watched you pretending to be Bartholomew Markham, I thought there might be some sort of dinner show planned. But no one seemed to know of any entertainment, except, of course, for my speech. When your friend arrived, I deduced a hoax was in progress.
"At first, I was indignant on behalf of my colleagues." A hint of eagerness crept into her voice. "Then I was struck by divine inspiration. According to the Rocky Mountain Sun, a British earl, Lord Wilber Stokes of Chumley, has been traveling through the gold-mining west."
She paused, unrolling her newspaper and handing it to him. "You'll find the article there, on page one. The Sun is crying foul, because Chumley isn't likely to bring his august presence—or his British sterling—to Aspen. Apparently Chumley considers hard-rock mining far too expensive, not to mention risky, for speculation. He's been quoted in the San Francisco and Denver newspapers as saying he won't fritter his fortune away."
Rafe raised an eyebrow. Come to think of it, he had heard the gossip surrounding Chumley's travels. Last night, in the gambling hall below his lodging, he'd overheard a one-eyed Texican and his incredibly dumb crony blathering about the earl's "crown jewels" and how they would have lived like kings on such "loot."
With a wry smile, Rafe stepped closer to the gaslights and skimmed Silver's newspaper article. If the Sun could be believed, Chumley was the typical British blue blood with all the personality of a tree stump.
As far as investing went, though, Rafe couldn't blame the Brit. Most silver speculation was perpetuated by confidence men. Mining companies hired these so-called promoters to seek out widows, war veterans, salesclerks, farmers—in short, anyone whose gullibility or greed made them easy marks.
One out of every ten of these mining companies actually paid dividends to their investors, and the dividends never came close to the shareholders' full investment. Even legitimate mines, like the ones owned by Silver's father, sometimes had trouble paying off their capital investors.
Mother Earth didn't let anyone gut her innards without putting up a good fight.
"With careful hinting," Silver continued, her enthusiasm sparking a charming blush, "I can see that rumors of Chumley's arrival reach the appropriate editors. They will spread the news that Chumley has had a change of heart. That he has, indeed, decided to investigate the financial opportunities in hard-rock mining.
"You, of course, will pose as Chumley when you reach Aspen. I am certain a handsome young man such as yourself, perpetuating the illusion of an English title and more wealth than he knows how to spend, will be just the sort of temptation to make Celestia show her true colors."
"And your father?" Rafe asked dryly. "How do you think he'll react if his fiancée proves fickle?"
"He's not likely to shoot you, if that's what you mean."
Rafe started. Actually, the risk of a showdown hadn't entered his mind. "That's certainly comforting."
"My father is a gentle man, Mr. Jones. He's incapable of the violent acts perpetrated by vigilante Miner's Juries that hold sway in the more lawless camps of this region. I daresay the news of Celestia's perfidy will give Papa a dreadful case of the blue devils, so much so, that he will retire to the mountains for a sulk.
"But it cannot be helped," she added briskly, as if to strengthen her own resolve. "Not if I am to save him from a much greater heartache later on. My papa is endowed with a cheerful constitution, and I have every confidence it will be restored to him in time."
Rafe shook his head, bemused again by the lengths to which Silver was going to humbug her father. Her father, for God's sake. If Rafe's soul hadn't already been blacker than a stormy night, he would have soiled it gladly to have a father, a real father, not a Scripture-quoting Simon Legree.
"So," he said. "When would you like Lord Chumley to make his grande entrance?"
"As soon as possible. I myself shall return to Aspen tomorrow to make arrangements for your arrival. You will have a room at the Windsor Hotel, and a package of information will await you so you can research your role. If questioned beforehand, you can always plead ignorance about silver mining, since Lord Chumley is universally considered to be unaware of its advantages.
"I'm sure I do not need to tell you, Mr. Jones," she added, "your discretion in this affair is crucial to our success. I am prepared to draft a bank statement that will allow you to obtain suitable clothing and transportation befitting an English lord, as well as two weeks of food and lodging. I should think fourteen days would be sufficient time for a man of your, uh, accomplishments to complete this mission."
Rafe smiled to himself. So she wanted to get rid of him in a hurry, did she?
"I'm humbled by your confidence in me, Miss Nichols," he said, sliding oh-so-casually closer. "But seduction does involve a certain degree of delicacy. And, of course, time."
She stiffened.
"If the lady in question is even the least bit unwilling, a great deal of expense must be incurred to woo her," he continued silkily. "She must have love trinkets and flowers, hats, jewels and gloves, lavish meals and entertainments, and, of course, one cannot overlook the importance of outfitting the assignation bower itself."
Silver cleared her throat. "Yes, well, I'm sure in Celestia's case, a bower won't be—"
"One should never underestimate the power of ambience in achieving the desired effect," Rafe chided, letting his left hand drop between them. "Your father is successful, well-respected, and pleasantly aged. That makes him a worthy opponent, wouldn't you agree?"
Silver glanced warily at his fingers, hovering so innocently beside her thigh. "Yes, but—"
"And he'll be a persistent rival too, since his heart is engaged. We can't be at all certain he will quit the war in a mere two weeks' time. No, I should think he will lay siege to love's door, employing every weapon at his disposal. This battle of suitors could rage a good six months or more."
"Six months!"
"Or more," he drawled, relishing the utter outrage on her face. Moments like these made all the tedious plotting and practicing for cons worthwhile.
Of course, Octavia was going to be a problem if he had to live in a hotel room for six months. Even when Fiona wasn't sick, she didn't like to share th
e limelight. Over the last twenty hours, Tavy had begun to claim the lion's share of Fred's attention. Why, the old scapegrace had even talked about adding Tavy to the act, as if Rafe would ever hear of such a thing. No, Tavy was going to Aspen with him.
As for Fred and Fiona... well, guilt held only so much sway over him. He might be able to milk a few extra thousand dollars out of this con for Fiona's sake, but he'd be damned if he'd cut her or Fred in any further. The less they knew about the pot of gold he'd stumbled into, the better.
"Six months is out of the question, Mr. Jones," Silver said, interrupting his scheming thoughts. "You have exactly one."
Damn.
"My dear Miss Nichols," he protested, positioning himself close enough to belie his next words, "one month is hardly enough time for a gentleman to steal a kiss, much less—"
"In one month's time, my father will be marrying that witch and accompanying her on a wedding tour to Niagara Falls!"
Silver escaped to the center of the balcony. Rafe hid his disappointment. Only one month to milk the golden cow, eh? He'd been hoping to stretch it to nine. He supposed he'd have to find some other scam to keep him and Tavy fed through the winter, especially if he couldn't teach her how to survive without him. She was so ridiculously trusting that in April, when he'd been caught in a mountain snowstorm and had to trade whiskey to the Utes for a blanket, she'd wandered into some squaw's tent and nearly lost her hide.
Tavy, little darling that she was, could be a liability at times.
He supposed until he decided what to do with her, he'd have to build himself a nice fat bank account at Silver's expense. Either that, or marry the girl.
He smiled at the notion. Now there was an amusing proposition: a wife with even fewer scruples than he had. He could just imagine the wedding party Satan would throw on their behalf.
"I'm afraid your situation is more dire than I thought," he told her gravely. "We shall have to march into the fray with all our guns blazing, so to speak. Of course you will be paying for my meals, clothes, and lodging, but in order to turn Celestia's head, I shall also need an allowance. Given our shortage of time, I'm afraid the amount will have to be significant. But your devotion to your father has touched me deeply. In consideration of your plight, I shall see how far I can stretch five hundred dollars per week."
"Per week?"
"Yes, of course. You, yourself, have cast me in the role of aristocrat. One cannot play the part on a shovel stiff's wage."
Her hands flew to her hips. "Now see here, Jones, I'll allow you two hundred dollars, and you'll be happy to have it."
"Four hundred."
Their eyes locked.
"Two-fifty," she countered.
"Three-fifty plus a horse and buggy."
She looked like she'd relish the act of barbecuing him. "Three hundred and the promise not to sic the sheriff on your sorry hide."
"Five hundred and the promise not to mail your father a most eye-opening letter." He smiled pleasantly.
"Y-you wouldn't dare!"
"Not for five hundred dollars," he lied soothingly. "After all, you did spare me from spending the night in jail."
"Your gratitude overwhelms me, Mr. Jones."
He inclined his head to hide his smirk.
"If I agree to your terms," she said in grudging tones, "what guarantee do I have that you'll perform the job to satisfaction?"
"Well..." Really, Silver. You should know better than to lead with a line like that. He rose leisurely. "I could give you my references."
"If you think I'd take the word of your scalawag of a partner—"
"Oh, no." He strolled to where she was so charmingly silhouetted by the flicker of gaslights. "Not Fred. Fred would be entirely unsuitable. He doesn't have firsthand knowledge of my performance in these... affairs."
She straightened her spine. "I'm sure I would think twice before believing the word of any acquaintance of yours, Mr. Jones."
"Why, then our relationship already shows great promise. I suspected you'd say that very thing. Knowing how one's partner thinks is important in a close-call scenario."
Silver's mouth grew uncomfortably dry as his voice dropped to a throbbing murmur. She would have liked to say their "scenario" was close enough, but she didn't want to give him that satisfaction. His bawdy innuendos had triggered too many of her old fears. She'd as good as hired the rounder now, so she'd have to get a grip on herself if she was to show him who was boss.
She fixed him with her best keep-your-distance glare. "None of which answers my original question."
"You speak truly."
He halted less than an arm's length away. She could actually feel his heat, smell his mountain-fresh cologne. A tendril of uneasiness coiled in her belly.
"Perhaps you would prefer a demonstration," he said.
"A-a demonstration?"
His hand reached out to catch a strand of hair, one of the prematurely gray ones that had always made her look so old and ugly. When he tucked it behind her ear, she felt the whisper of his knuckles against her cheek. She wanted to die of mortification. Surprisingly, however, the feeling came less from his touch than from her vision of herself as a frightful, windblown mess.
"Mr. Jones, I don't think..."
His eyelids drooped in the most hypnotic, pulse-stirring way.
Run! her head shrieked to her feet. Instead, she stood rooted and breathless, wrapped in the silken bonds of girlhood fantasies and dreams of romantic love. They'd only led to moonlight madness, foolish choices that had caused her indescribable pain, and yet still she stood before him, like a rabbit charmed by the fox who'd invited her to dinner.
"What would satisfy you, Miss Nichols?" he whispered, his thumb skimming her jawline until it dipped lower, pressing against the hammering vein in her throat. "Words of poetry? A bouquet of roses?" His lips inched nearer. "A kiss?"
That was it. The instinct for self-preservation took over where common sense had failed.
"I must ask you not to do that," she said, snatching his fingers from her cheek.
"But your guarantee. I couldn't have you thinking me unequal to my role."
She swallowed. Somehow, he'd managed to wrap his hand around hers. Now it was his prisoner, her palm embarrassingly moist beneath his thumb. "I... daresay I shall have to take your word in the matter."
"Are you quite certain? I would be only too happy to shoulder the burden of proof."
She tried not to notice how rapidly her insides were warming to his game. "That you thoroughly enjoy seduction, I have no doubt," she retorted, wishing the butterflies in her stomach would alight. "Save your bag of tricks for Celestia."
He chuckled, a rich rumble of sound that vibrated into her fingertips and danced down every nerve. "As you wish. But if you should ever change your mind..." He raised the back of her hand, and the moist touch of his lips sent goose bumps scuttling to her toes. "...I am, of course, at your command."
She rather doubted that, but when he released her, she was too relieved to debate him. God forbid her tongue should stumble over the words, somehow turning them into another proposition.
She ran her damp palms down her skirts in an effort to rally her composure. "Since we are agreed, Mr. Jones, you'll find your first payment and your instructions waiting for you at Aspen's Windsor Hotel. I'll send for you there."
"So thrive my soul."
She suspected he was quoting Romeo again. Apparently the man had a one-track mind. For the future, when they'd have to rendezvous secretly to discuss their conspiracy, she made a mental note never again to meet him on a balcony—or worse, in the moonlight.
"And now, if it's not too much to ask, sir, I'd like for you to leave."
"Ah, me. The lady grows weary of my company." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Very well." Sweeping low, he performed a flawless bow. "Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast..." He straightened, his hand pressed forlornly to his heart. "Ah, would I were sleep, and peace so sweet to rest."
&n
bsp; She blushed in spite of her strong counsel against it, and he gave her a naughty wink.
"I shall count the hours, Miss Nichols. Until then..." He reached for the tree. "Good-night."
As agile as any swashbuckler on a ship's rigging, he swung onto the limb. Pausing, he saluted her. Then he pivoted, swung to a lower branch, and plunged into the huddled shadows of the night.
Silver gulped a ragged breath.
She listened for his landing, her ears straining above the thunder of her pulse. When she heard nothing, not even his retreating footsteps, she crept closer to the railing and peered over the edge. A glint of gold caught her eye. It had been her first glimpse of him; now it was her last, before he vanished so completely into the darkness that she wondered if he hadn't hung a dark curtain below to make his exit more dramatic.
Her other thought, that he was an angel with a slipping halo, was too preposterous to believe—at least, in the literal sense.
She gazed down at her tingling fingertips, still warm and slightly tremulous from his touch. A dreamy smile curved her lips.
Celestia Cooper didn't stand a chance against that man.
Then a more disturbing notion struck.
Did any woman?
Chapter 4
Rafe was pleased with his night's work.
He'd avoided arrest, put off Fred, and won an audience in an heiress's boudoir. True, Silver had surprised him when she'd rejected his advances and hired him to warm another woman's bed, but he was confident they'd be sharing the same pillow by month's end.
If she had been a sweet young thing, with high ideals and a heart as pure as gold, one of his few remaining scruples might have balked at her seduction.
But Silver was the female equivalent of his own rotten core, so he didn't see any reason to deny himself the pleasure of wooing her. It wasn't as if she were headed for heaven, and his tainted soul stood in her way. Oh, no. When God had passed out the road maps to hell, Silver had been allowed to plot her own course. He was the one who'd been denied a choice in the matter.
Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Page 6
