Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Thanks to the timely arrival of Marshal Hawthorne, Silver had postponed all further blackmail attempts by agreeing to a morning mediation, although she'd been sorely tempted to fire every one of the blackguards right on the spot.

  But the final horror on this night of horrors, Silver groaned silently, would be to watch her nobleman-for-hire be unmasked by her very own butler.

  It was moments like these when Silver wondered if Celestia had fashioned a rag poppet in her likeness and was gleefully jabbing pins into its head.

  Racing to the door, Silver thrust her tray of glasses into her bemused butler's hands. "For heaven's sake, Benson, what's the matter with you?" she whispered, throwing open the door. She almost sobbed with relief to see Rafe still standing on the stoop. He managed to look unperturbed, as if nearly getting his nose smashed against a windowpane was an everyday occurrence.

  "My Lord Chumley, I am so sorry!" she greeted him, genuinely mortified. "Please do come in. I don't know what has gotten into my butler. Obviously, there's been a misunderstanding." She shot an ominous glance at her manservant. "Benson, apologize at once to his lordship."

  Benson drew himself up to his full six feet, seven inches. "With all due respect, Miss Nichols, this man is an impos—"

  "Benson!" Silver choked as Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, the couple by the register, turned curiously toward the commotion. "Lord Chumley is my guest. Kindly do as you're told."

  The butler's face mottled at her lady-of-the-house voice. However, years of serving, not to mention the tidy stipend she paid him, must have won out over his pride. With a coldness that would have endeared him only to penguins, he inclined his head. "My apologies to... Your Grace," he added disdainfully.

  Silver started. Your Grace? Wasn't that a duke's address?

  Rafe's smile was bland as he craned his head back to peer at her butler. "Odd's fish, m'dear," he said, fluttering a handkerchief beneath the servant's nose. "Wherever did you recruit your man? From one of your colonial lumber camps?"

  Benson's jaw grew rigid at the insult.

  "Of course not," Silver interceded, wishing Rafe was close enough for a good elbow jab. "Benson comes from a long and distinguished line of menservants. Why, his grandfather served in Lord Wellington's household."

  Rafe didn't look the least bit impressed. Silver suspected he didn't have a clue who Lord Wellington was. So much for her pipe dream that he would actually rehearse his role.

  As relieved as she was that he'd finally arrived as promised, the impression he was making was far from the desired effect. For some unfathomable reason, he'd selected a gold velvet coat, a chartreuse waistcoat, and matching green spats for his shoes. His cravat was a frilly, overly elaborate affair that no doubt would have smothered a shorter man, and the tawny, muttonchop whiskers he'd pasted to his jaws gave him a comical, rather than sophisticated, air.

  "Benson, kindly take that tray to the parlor," she said, deciding she would be wise to debrief her imposter once more.

  Benson nodded stiffly, giving Rafe one last, skin-flaying glance before turning with the champagne. Unfortunately, that gave Rafe enough space to step inside.

  "I say," he drawled, affecting a faint lisp, "what a smashing little cottage you have. All these colored windows and glittery... thingamabobs." He waved his handkerchief at the two thousand dollar crystal-and-sterling chandelier tinkling in the breeze from the open transom. "I wager that keeps your lumberjack of a manservant busy come polishing time, what? Oh, and dear me, look." Before Silver could block the smart aleck's escape, he'd ambled over to the priceless Chinese vase and the stunning arrangement of mountain laurels that dominated the register's table. "Posies!" he exclaimed, inhaling noisily.

  Pasting on a smile for the Trevelyans, Silver caught the troublemaker's arm. "Come along, my lord. I'll see to your cape."

  "Jolly good." He started to hum, waving his handkerchief in time to the off-key ditty, and Silver gritted her teeth, dragging him under the circular staircase.

  "Must you be such a trial?" she whispered, snatching that ridiculous linen from his hand. "You're late. Don't tell me you spent all this time at Signor Marzetti's, because clearly you did not. Where on earth did you get that waistcoat?"

  Rafe's lips twitched as he lovingly smoothed the brocade. "Rather festive, don't you think?"

  "You don't want to know what I think." She had the sneaking suspicion he'd been striving for the reaction she'd just given him. Mentally cursing herself, she stuffed his handkerchief and gloves into his top hat and tossed his cape over a hook. The last thing she wanted was to encourage his buffoonery.

  Drawing a calming breath, Silver opted for reason over ire. "Well, you're here now, and nothing can be done about that waistcoat. You should have told me you couldn't get an appointment with Signor Marzetti. I would have arranged for—"

  She realized Rafe wasn't listening. He was too busy gawking through his quizzing glass at the statue her love-struck father had commissioned for the alcove. The sterling maiden was supposed to represent Aphrodite, but Silver had never ventured close enough to admire its artistry. All its shameless, bare-chested glory made her blush.

  Rafe, on the other hand, was fairly smirking at the sculpture's pronounced places.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him toward less scandalous vistas. "Will you please pay attention?"

  His lazy golden lashes swept lower, lingering on her own modest décolletage. "I should be delighted."

  Her insides shriveled with embarrassment. Despite the caress in his gaze, it was hard to feel adequate compared with the Greek goddess of love. "We have little time to talk." She did her best to assume a businesslike whisper, despite the distraction of his nearness. His heat gusted over her bared shoulders like a sultry summer night, and his scent, an enticing aroma, filled her head like a sensual fog. "Sandalwood," she murmured.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  She started, realizing she'd spoken aloud. She'd been trying to guess the essence of his cologne. Good Lord. Thirty seconds alone with the man, and already she was babbling like a mooncalf!

  "Never mind. Because you're so late, I've had the devil of a time inventing reasons to keep Brady Buckholtz away from Celestia. He's the editor of the Times. He's no fool, so I suggest you get your story straight. I trust you have some plan in mind?"

  "Seduction does require forethought."

  Her toes curled. She couldn't immediately say why. Perhaps it was due to the smoky timbre of his voice. "Good. Then I shall distract Papa. Only—" Her stomach flipped at the prospect of her treachery. Honestly, she thought she'd overcome these annoying pangs of guilt. "Be discreet. Papa does have feelings, after all."

  "Oh, your papa won't feel a thing."

  She eyed him sharply. Was he being ironic? Or was he up to no good again? It was hard to believe he'd suddenly developed compassion for her papa. "I shall expect significant progress from you tonight," she reminded him.

  "My progress, dear Silver, is the one thing on which you can depend."

  He smiled, smiled in such a way that her entire body tingled, as if those full, firm lips had sipped the taste of hers. She heated from head to toe.

  "Kindly focus, sir." Folding her arms, she retreated a step, hoping to appear more miffed than ruffled. Her Aunt-Agatha glare, the one that used to make her shriek and dive under the quilts as a child, wasn't intimidating him in the least. But maybe she just wasn't doing it right.

  Or maybe, she admitted reluctantly, she liked his wicked innuendoes. Their verbal parries made her feel feminine, earthy, and... well, alive. How long had it been since she'd actually felt desire rather than revulsion for a man?

  Not since that awful night in the garden with Aaron.

  Still, she couldn't let Rafe know she was attracted to him. Theirs would be a disastrous affair, considering the reason she'd hired him.

  "I know this is just a lark to you," she whispered fervently, "just another performance. But my whole world will c
ome crumbling down if you don't pull off this role."

  Those pewter eyes held her spellbound. For a moment, she forgot that she'd sold her soul to this tawny-haired devil. She forgot that one poorly-timed lie, one spiteful wisecrack, and he could destroy every happiness she'd ever known. Instead, she let her trust be wooed by the reluctant nobility stirring in his gaze.

  "This is the point of no return," he said softly.

  His words sizzled along every repentant nerve. He was right, of course. She had an entire ballroom full of guests, all of whom had come to laugh at her father's choice in brides. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she reminded herself staunchly. Papa's life might be in danger from his arson-minded floozie.

  Still, to hire a specimen like Rafe for seduction, then surrender him to Celestia without first putting up the slightest fight...

  Silver's bottom lip jutted. Well, that pretty much said it all, didn't it? She was an idiot for letting her moral self get huffy. In the final analysis, Celestia was getting the better part of this bargain!

  "Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a conscience," she chided tartly.

  "Nothing so drastic." A smile teased the corner of his mouth. He'd become Rogue Romeo again, and no amount of whiskers, sashes, lace flounces, or other fripperies could detract from his sensuality. "But I trust I'll be a busy man in the nights to come. And I was noticing how much you seem to... admire me."

  "Admire you?" Good Lord. She wanted to crawl under a potted fern. Was she that transparent, or was he only fishing?

  "The very thought of Celestia in my arms makes you jealous," he drawled. "Admit it."

  Her cheeks were growing hotter by the second. "You, sir, suffer from delusions."

  "Come now, Silver." His voice lowered to a throbbing murmur. "I can see how your pulse speeds whenever I draw near. Your eyes dilate, your skin flushes..." He shifted, his lips parting above hers in the most hypnotic way. "You would much rather I lavished my kisses on you."

  She felt the truth of his words in a flash of moist heat, one that pooled in her private places and left them strangely yearning. To her mortification, she realized her pulse was racing faster than a thoroughbred stallion's. What was worse, her knees were trembling. But he couldn't know that, too, could he? Not beneath her gown?

  Swallowing, she stood her ground—albeit shakily. Raphael Jones was a practiced roué, she reminded herself. Men like him toyed with women the way cats toyed with mice. The realization was somewhat deflating.

  "You are, without a doubt, the most insufferable man I ever had the displeasure of knowing. Only in my worst nightmares would I succumb to a rake like you."

  "So you dream about me, too?"

  "Oh!" She wished she had some recourse other than glaring to put him in his place. "You know very well what I meant."

  "Indeed I do."

  The amusement in his eyes left little doubt he knew that she knew she was lying. Odious man. Raphael Jones and Celestia Cooper deserved one another.

  "Quit stalling," she said testily. "It's time you proved your worth. I've invested quite a bit in this evening's outcome, not the least of which, apparently, went to that waistcoat. After using my money to indulge yourself in such whims, I'll thank you to get on with the job—unless, of course, you're feeling unequal to your role?"

  He grinned. Actually grinned, damn him.

  A heartbeat later, she understood why.

  "And what role might that be, daughter?" her father called jovially from behind.

  Silver whirled, nearly strangling on her gulp of air. Through the blue haze that spewed through their cigars, she spied her father and Brady Buckholtz strolling out of the ballroom. The slender newsman, dressed in his habitual black, towered over her squat, ruddy-cheeked papa like a Puritan scarecrow.

  The description wasn't that far off the mark, either, Silver thought in gnawing dread. The man was so morally uptight that he supported the Temperance movement, a rare sentiment for a male in a mining town. His righteous intolerance was almost as off-putting as his refusal to advocate votes for women. Silver had never liked Buckholtz. What was more, they'd clashed publicly on more than one occasion, since she'd had the so-called temerity to make business decisions for her father's mines.

  Why, oh why, she groaned silently, had she let Papa talk her into inviting every member of his precious Roaring Fork Club?

  Hastily, she recounted her last few seconds of conversation. How much had Papa and Buckholtz heard? And why hadn't Rafe warned her they were approaching?

  She shot a dark look at her coconspirator. His insipid expression nearly made her groan again.

  "Papa!" she cried, hoping she sounded more enthusiastic than blameworthy as she ran out from under the staircase. "Goodness, you gave me such a start. Look who just arrived. It's Lord Chumley! My lord," she continued, breezing through the introductions in an attempt to change the subject, "I would like you to meet Brady Buckholtz, the editor of our very own Aspen Times. He has written quite extensively about your arrival and, I'm sure, hopes to learn more about your intentions—particularly when it comes to investing in the S&M Nichols Mining and Smelting Company."

  "I can speak for myself, my dear," Buckholtz said, barely glancing her way.

  Silver heated, clamping her mouth closed. She should have known better than to think that Buckholtz had paid enough attention to her to notice her culpability.

  Rafe darted her a discerning look.

  "So, Chumley," Buckholtz continued, tapping his ash over her mountain laurels, "I take it you've finally come to your senses by visiting Aspen. Denver's a waste of time, unless, of course, a man prefers to be a pauper. There's a fortune to be made right here in Aspen."

  Rafe arched a brow at the leaf that now had a smoldering hole in its center. "Sink me, my dear fellow. I already have a fortune. Five or six, to be precise."

  "To be precise?" Buckholtz repeated, his dry little smile conveying just how peerless he considered his grammatical expertise.

  "Just so," Rafe answered, assuming a mincing pose. "What the devil would I do with another one?"

  Papa chuckled. "He does have a point, Buckholtz."

  "As you would know, old chap," Rafe said with a bow.

  "Come now, Chumley." Buckholtz had all but snorted his disbelief. "You mean you can't think of a single blessed use for, say, another million pounds?"

  "Not a one."

  "Uh, Mr. Buckholtz," Silver interceded, worried that Rafe was digging his grave with his tongue. The newsman was constantly lording his moral and intellectual superiority over everyone else. If he hadn't been so quick with a .45, he would have been gunned down long before this. "Has Papa told you that Lord Chumley acquired his last million pounds through investments in Cornwall's copper mines? He is quite a savvy speculator."

  Buckholtz wouldn't be put off that easily. "I am much more interested in how his lordship lost his first million pounds. There was rumor of a young woman's involvement, was there not, Chumley? An Irish singer, to be exact?"

  "Come now, Brady." Papa was frowning, his worried glance shifting from the newsman to Rafe. "This here's a party, not an inquisition."

  "It is my rare privilege to be a newsman, sir," Buckholtz said haughtily. "My job does not end because the champagne begins to flow." He folded his arms across his chest. "Well, Chumley? What do you have to say for yourself?"

  "Odds fish." Rafe began swinging his quizzing glass around his jutting middle finger, a gesture that somehow didn't appear to be coincidental. "What a droll sense of humor you colonial newsies have."

  Buckholtz arched a bristling black brow. "Then you categorically deny you were bamboozled out of a million pounds by an Irish tramp?"

  Rafe chuckled. "My dear Mr. Buckshot—"

  "It's Buckholtz," the man corrected him tartly.

  "Er. Right. Buckhorn, then—"

  "I said Buckholtz," the newsman ground out.

  "Isn't that what I said?" Rafe blinked innocently. Raising his quizzing glass, he sta
red with one grossly magnified eyeball at Buckholtz. "As I was saying, my dear fellow, I quite understand your position. And I applaud you for speaking so boldly. Sink me if it isn't the only way a country yokel like yourself can come to understand the trials of class and wealth."

  Buckholtz stiffened. Silver ducked her head, stifling laughter. Here she'd been worried Rafe would be called to some alley and pumped full of bullets for the lies she'd paid him to speak. She should have known the wiseacre could fend for himself.

  "The trials of wealth?" Buckholtz bit out.

  Rafe gestured with a limp hand. "Money is monstrous tedious, old chap. It's always attracting tax collectors, solicitors, and long-lost kin of some sort or another. Why, just last month," he continued in that same lethargic drawl, "some dying old fellow named me his heir. Turned me into a duke. Bloody inconsiderate of him, if you ask me. Did I ask to be a duke? No, not once. The very idea." He gave a theatrical shudder. "Now everywhere I travel in your American West, lumberjacks and cowboys are calling me 'Grace.'"

  Papa's lips quirked, and his eyes twinkled above his lopsided grin.

  "You're a duke?" Buckholtz's brow creased in a mixture of confusion and suspicion. "That's not what the Denver newspapers reported."

  "That's because they got it wrong." Rafe tapped his glass on Buckholtz's shoulder. "That just goes to show, you can't believe everything you read in your provincial American papers, what?"

  Papa chuckled. It was a warm and hearty sound that sparked a flush in Buckholtz's darkening countenance. "Not to worry, Chumley," Papa interceded. "You won't find that kind of inattention to detail in the Aspen Times—will you, Brady?" Papa winked at Rafe.

  "So tell me, Your Grace," he continued, waving with his cigar for Rafe to accompany him to the ballroom, "if it's not another fortune you're after, why did you come to Aspen? It's a bit too early for sleighing and such."