Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "I daresay you're right. Sleighing would be devilish slow without a good snow." He laughed gaily. "Why, lookie there. I'm a poet!"

  "Byron is no doubt rolling in his grave," Buckholtz said.

  Unlike the newsman, Papa appeared charmed. "Say, Chumley, have you read Lewis Carroll?" he asked eagerly. "The Walrus and the Carpenter is a real ripsnorter." Screwing up his features like a scholar, he tucked his thumbs under his arms. "The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things, like shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings."

  "And why the sea is boiling hot," Rafe chimed in grandly, "and whether pigs have wings!"

  The two guffawed.

  Silver rolled her eyes.

  "Why, you're just like a regular old Yankee," Papa said. "Hardly snooty at all, which is more than I can say for that British butler my daughter hired."

  Buckholtz cleared his throat as he and Silver trailed behind Rafe. "Might I inquire, Your Grace, when you'll be divesting our fair city of your presence?" His irony was hard to mistake.

  Rafe shrugged. "Hard to say, old chap. I rather fancy what your clean mountain air does for a body."

  "You're not here for your health, then, are you, son?" Papa asked in concern. "I'd thought the journey from Denver a bit too rugged for a lunger."

  "Dear me, no." Rafe smirked over his shoulder at Silver. "I'm here to take a wife."

  She wheezed, nearly tripping over her skirts.

  "A wife, you say?" Papa sounded pleased. "So you're not married?"

  "Alas, there is no Duchess of Chumley to soothe my lonely heart."

  "One can't help but wonder why," Buckholtz interjected.

  Papa and Rafe ignored him. They'd skirted the dance floor and were now headed directly for Celestia's retinue of gawkers. The Queen of Con was comfortably plumped up on the cushions of a wicker chair so she might squint at the sweaty palms-—or was that the gold rings?—of the hopelessly naive.

  "If it's a bride you're after," Papa told Rafe, "you've come to the right place. America is the land of milk and honey. Why, I found my own true love right here in Aspen."

  Silver choked, stumbling to a halt. How could Papa? she thought, her chest constricting. How could he call anyone other than Mama his true love?

  Only Rafe seemed to notice her upset. His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was certain his keen pewter eyes saw right through the smile she tried to resurrect. She was forced to look away.

  "'Course," Papa continued heartily, nudging Rafe to direct his gaze back to Celestia, "that little beauty in the turquoise turban is already spoken for. But Aspen is a booming town, son. I think you'll find we've got a couple more gems to unearth around here."

  Oblivious to the knife that was twisting in Silver's chest, Papa blew his fiancée a kiss. Celestia pinkened like a bonbon. Clasping her well-corseted bosom, she made a great show of blowing back her answer, and Papa chortled, reaching up to catch it. It was more than Silver could bear.

  "Papa," she said tersely, "perhaps it's time you introduced Lord Chumley to your fiancée. I'm sure Celestia might be persuaded to tear herself away from her palm-reading long enough to... uh..." She tossed Rafe a withering glance. "Meet a duke."

  "Odds fish," he drawled, squinting through his quizzing glass at Celestia's outlandish attire. "A palm reader, is she?"

  "She sure is." Papa nodded proudly. "She talks to spirits, too. Why, we're planning on having a séance to talk to that pesky ghost," he continued over Silver's sputtered objections. "You know, the one that's been haunting our mine and driving all the shovel stiffs away."

  "A ghost, you say?" Rafe said, looking like he might laugh. "Lud, what rotten luck. Can't be good for business, what? My great grandmummy's castle was haunted once," he continued brightly. "The bugger kept driving her sheep away. It was deuced inconvenient; they kept drowning in the moat. Turns out, Sir Harry—that was our ghost—had it in for the critters. Choked to death on a leg o' lamb, you see. So he'd ring a cowbell to lure them over the drawbridge."

  Silver narrowed her eyes at her smart aleck. "Fortunately, there are no sheep in Silver's Mine."

  "But there is a bell," Papa added thoughtfully. "'Course, it's supposed to be a warning bell, but it's got all the men spooked 'cause it rings for no danged reason. Or at least, that's what we used to think. But maybe Nahele's been trying to warn us away. Do you suppose that's why he's resorting to more drastic measures, like snuffing out lanterns and dumping lunch pails into the abyss?"

  "Papa," Silver ground out, "Nahele is not roaming around our tunnels, upsetting lunch buckets. The very idea is preposterous."

  "Now, daughter, you can't be so sure. No one knows for certain what happens to the spirit after it leaves its fleshy abode. Cellie says we can ask Nahele anything we like during the séance, and I mean to ask him to stop harassing our stiffs. Besides," Papa added more ominously, "who knows what Nahele might do next if we keep ignoring him?"

  "A séance is a rather novel approach to avoiding a miners' strike," Buckholtz noted dryly.

  Silver scowled. So much for trying to keep that headline out of the paper.

  "Our miners are reasonable men," she told the newsman with long-suffering dignity. "I'm sure their, er, peculiar set of grievances can be logically explained. If the gentlemen are hearing strange noises, there could very well be a problem with the overhead timbers. With safety being our primary concern, of course, I shall direct our mining engineer to reinspect the timbering for buckling and cracking. I'm sure this will allay the Union's fears once and for all."

  "Dash it all." Rafe wore a hangdog expression. "Does that mean there won't be a séance? I was so looking forward to chatting with a real, live ghostie—"

  Silver furtively stomped on his foot.

  "And so you shall, my boy," Papa boomed, slapping Rafe on the shoulder. "Cellie will be delighted to have you there. I'll go tell her right away. In the meantime, daughter, why don't you show Chumley how we westerners hoof it? A polka is next on the program."

  He winked, then trundled off through the crowd, leaving Silver to curse him heartily under her breath.

  "Oh, jolly good," Rafe said gaily as a wheezing trombone bore out Papa's prediction. "I do so love a polka. Shall we dance, Miss Pennies?"

  She glowered at him, hoping to hide her momentary panic. The thought of Rafe, his hand spanning her waist, his thighs pumping rhythmically against hers, reminded her all too forcibly of that night in the garden. She hadn't danced with a man ever since. She wasn't sure she could ever bring herself to do so again, knowing, as she did now, that some men considered dancing an improper invitation—no matter how many times their partners said no.

  Fortunately, Buckholtz, of all people, came to her rescue.

  "Miss Pennies, indeed," he mocked Rafe. "How on earth could the lady refuse?" Curling his lip, he turned a chilly shoulder on him. "I believe I've seen and heard enough for my story, Miss Nichols. If you'll excuse me, I can show myself to your door."

  "Oh. Uh... yes. If you must," Silver stammered, unsure whether to be worried or relieved. "Good night then, Mr. Buckholtz."

  Rafe screwed up his features in mock dismay. "Dear me, such a fussbudget. Pray don't go running off yet," he boomed, grabbing two champagne glasses from a passing waiter. "We shall drink to your health, sir. I daresay, it would be the kindest thing we could do," he added as Buckholtz stalked away. "Any man that full of himself has got to be constipated."

  A smattering of giggles rippled through the couples eavesdropping around them. Silver hardly heard them above her heart. It was still hammering due to her near escape from the dance floor.

  "Really, Your Grace," she said quickly, grabbing one of Rafe's glasses as her next line of defense. Although he maintained a respectable distance, she was aware of his heat, as if it was magnetic, luring her nearer. "You mustn't provoke Buckholtz. He's a crack shot."

  His eyes laughed at her above the rim of his glass. "Why, Miss Pennies, I'm touched by your co
ncern."

  She scowled, but she refused to dignify his taunt by correcting him. "Yes, well, I wouldn't want Celestia to be deprived of the pleasure of your acquaintance. Perhaps it's time we joined her by the—"

  "I have a better idea," he whispered wickedly. He ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, presumably to catch a drop of champagne. "Would you like to hear it?"

  "Not particularly."

  His smirk only broadened. "Ah. Then you'd rather I showed you, hmm?"

  "Stop it," she hissed nervously, glancing around her for the dozen or more sycophants who, only an hour earlier, had been chomping at the bit to meet a "real live Aristo." Surely, at the very least, Mrs. Trevelyan should be bursting through the crowd, now that Brady Buckholtz wasn't standing here to bully her. "Your behavior is off-putting. Why didn't you stick to our original plan?"

  He hiked a brow. "Why didn't you tell me you had a British butler?"

  She winced to recall the disaster at the door. Earlier that day, she'd tried to give Benson the night off, but he'd purpled like an eggplant. Why he'd acted so insulted when he could have enjoyed an afternoon of boxing, like he usually did each Saturday behind the Pioneer Saloon, was a mystery.

  Then again, Benson had been acting oddly ever since word of Chumley's arrival had "leaked" into the papers. Why, just yesterday morning, while he'd supposedly been fetching the week's mail, she'd instead spied him conferring rather heatedly outside the bank with a man. The stranger had reminded her, of all people, of Aaron—but then, that would have been impossible, since Aaron was back in Pennsylvania.

  Still, the encounter had struck her oddly. She'd been a half block away when she'd hailed them, and the stranger, turning up his coat collar over his heavily bruised jaw, had hurried away.

  Honestly, Benson's fondness for pugilism was earning him the most unsavory-looking friends.

  And speaking of unsavory...

  She glared at Rafe. "Benson would not have been a problem," she whispered fiercely, "if you hadn't claimed to be a duke."

  "Never fear, darling. I have matters well in hand."

  "I am not your darling. Save the sugar-coated lines for Celestia. And speaking of Celestia," she added anxiously, "she is not the fool her costume would have you believe. Our agreement was for you to woo her, but even an addlepated gold digger wouldn't prefer your Chumley to my papa! You said you knew how to seduce a woman, but I've only seen evidence to the contrary."

  She realized too late that goading him hadn't been her wisest recourse. His eyes glinting with a predatory gleam, he prowled a step closer, lowering his head slowly, deliberately, until his breath teased her pearl earbobs.

  "If you truly believe my expertise lacking, Silver, then you'll have no qualms about walking with me in the garden."

  Garden was the operative word. It spawned goose bumps all the way from her pearl-trimmed bodice to the fingertips encased in her white evening gloves.

  "Out of the question. I won't have you weaseling out of the next waltz—with Celestia," she hastened to add.

  "Very well. I'll meet you in your boudoir in half an hour."

  Her hand shook, nearly spilling champagne down her indigo satin skirts and all over the ridiculous but sinfully tight gold velvet of his breeches. He wouldn't dare... would he? Surely not with Papa's bedroom down the hall!

  Still, she wished she'd been less fastidious about keeping dogs, especially great big menaces with thumb-long fangs.

  "I'll scream this house down around your ears if you ever set foot outside my bedroom door."

  "East wing or west wing?" he purred.

  "Ooh!"

  Rafe laughed inwardly to see how he was stretching his coconspirator's tether. It amazed him that she'd suffered his jibes this long. Either he was losing his touch, or she was more desperate than he'd imagined.

  The notion that her desperation might stem from an honest love of her father discomfited him. Certainly she'd worn her feelings for her mother on her sleeve. Rafe had been surprised—downright moved, in fact—to see how hurt she'd been when Max had proclaimed Celestia his true love. Even if the sentiment were true, announcing it in front of Silver had been inexcusable.

  As if it were yesterday, Rafe could recall how Jedidiah used to vilify his mother and how it would enrage him. He'd been too young, too weak, too responsible for her fall from grace to champion her effectively, and he'd never forgiven himself for those failings. Thus, when Max had implied his first wife was nothing more than a passing fancy, Rafe had known the pain Silver was feeling. She'd tried valiantly to hide it, of course, but he'd known. And he'd understood.

  It had been a disturbing lapse into sentiment.

  That's why Rafe was so determined to put himself at odds with Silver. He couldn't afford to start thinking of her as someone with hurts, fears, and insecurities—in short, someone who needed a champion. He wasn't any good at playing the knight in shining armor. Not in real life, anyway. Heroes didn't have unredeemable souls.

  Besides, he thought a tad righteously, he mustn't forget how Little Miss High Society had set him up. If it was a fool Silver wanted, it was a fool she was going to get. After all, he wasn't wearing chartreuse because he was fond of it.

  Unfortunately, Benson chose that moment to reappear and spoil Rafe's fun. Wearing a dire expression and splatters of chocolate sauce, the butler leaned toward his mistress's ear. Silver grew paler than the ocean gems that winked so enticingly from her bodice. Making her excuses, she hurried toward the kitchen.

  Too bad, Rafe mused, watching the blue-black sheen of her satin snake around her arresting, gloriously long legs. The first strains of the "Blue Danube" were just being struck.

  Left to his own devices, Rafe saw no sense in forcing himself to make Celestia's acquaintance. Too many other, wealthier marks were eager to make his. So, taking center stage opposite the musicians' gallery, he shamelessly held court, spinning ever more outlandish yarns about Chumley's western travels. He told himself he did all this showboating to annoy Silver.

  But the truth was, Rafe loved attention. He'd been starved for it as a child, and he'd never quite been able to appease that hunger. His father had hated him; Michael had resented him; his mother had been torn between her shame and her pity for him. He'd been so used to recriminations and ridicule that during his stage debut, when Fred had forced him to play Juliet in the balcony scene and thus spare Fiona her fear of heights, Rafe had accepted the ensuing barrage of vegetables as his just desserts.

  But then something miraculous had happened.

  Something that had dazzled his mind and enchanted his soul. His wig and veil had toppled over the railing, and the boos had turned to laughter. Fred, not realizing the sudden cause of mirth, had shaken his fist at the audience, shouting for "the blighters to respect the bard."

  But Rafe, caring little for Shakespeare, had flung off the rest of his costume and, in self-defense, had started batting cabbage heads back into the audience with a handy length of wood. The audience had roared; Fred had been upstaged; and Rafe had found his calling. That night, he'd fallen asleep during the chill of a Louisville winter, dreaming of the warm, heady sensation of applause.

  So, buoyed by the adulation of Silver's guests, Rafe vamped. He charmed. He improvised outrageous stories. And the richest, most powerful families in Colorado lavished praise upon him—him, a bastard by every definition of the term.

  Of course, Silver's snooty friends all thought he was the Duke of Chumley. But that realization did little to sour the sweetness of his glory. He'd long ago grown used to the idea that he would never be admired, much less loved, for playing the part of Raphael Jones.

  It was during the height of his self-aggrandizement that the musicians wheezed the final strains of the "Virginia Reel." When they struck up another polka, Rafe groaned to himself. Silver's moonstruck papa was clearing a path for Celestia all the way through Rafe's human wall of defense.

  Halting at Rafe's boot toes, Max beamed up at him, boyish and flushed fr
om his most recent dance. "Cellie's ready for another jig," he announced, squeezing his bride-to-be's hand. "You up to it, Chumley?"

  Rafe glanced furtively around the room, saw that Silver was smirking at him, and mentally cursed. Apparently Max's jig idea had been hers. Dredging up a sappy smile, he turned once more to face Max. "My dear fellow." He bowed in his best imitation of a complete idiot. "I wouldn't dream of depriving you of a jig with Madam Celery."

  Cellie tipped her pudgy chin to regard him. Despite her abundance of blue eye shadow, lip ointment, and rouge, she wasn't quite as garish as he'd first imagined. In fact, she was passably pleasant-looking—for a squat woman who sported peacock feathers, harem pants, and slippers whose toes curled up like a genie's.

  On her arms, she wore more silver bangles than he could count. He wondered fleetingly if each one was made of sterling. He wondered, too, if Max had gifted her with the obscenely large amethyst that nestled in the folds of her turban. The headdress listed slightly aft, and he couldn't help but be amused to glimpse the incorrigible blonde corkscrews that had slipped out, tangling in the silver hoops that dangled from her ears.

  Max was chuckling. "Madam Celery! Ain't that a hoot, Cellie? I told you this Chumley fella was a real ripsnorter."

  Cellie flashed an enigmatic smile. "The spirits said you would come, my dear." Her voice was a bit raspy, reminding Rafe of unbuttered toast. "We are so very pleased you're here."

  Rafe arched an eyebrow. So he'd pleased the spirits, eh? That must've been a first.

  "Wouldn't have missed it for the world, madam," he drawled. "Can't say I've met many live oracles."

  "Chumley talks to a ghost too," Max eagerly told his fiancée. "Says he goes by the name of Sir Harry. Ain't that right, Chumley?"

  "Alas, dear chap, I never did learn to talk to spirits. But I sure do like to drink 'em!" He gave a loud guffaw, and all his fawning new friends joined in. He grinned to see Silver's face darken. She was glaring daggers at him from Celestia's wicker lair.

  Then he found himself meeting Cellie's eyes, two gray orbs of startling clarity. They caught him by surprise. He hadn't expected them to be quite so... discerning.