Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "And a splendid speech it will be. I have every confidence in you, daughter."

  Wounded to her core, Silver could only stare at the man she'd worshipped for twenty-three years. Her papa had been her knight in shining armor, the only bright spot in a childhood made dreary by "Aunt Hagatha," as Papa was fond of calling her, and a maternal grandfather who didn't know the meaning of affection.

  Only after Maximillian Nichols had struck the mother lode that he'd named in her honor had Silver been permanently reunited with her papa. She'd vowed then they would make up for all the time they'd lost. Didn't he understand how much their weekend meant to her?

  "But I had other plans for us too," she said, petulance creeping into her voice. "I bought tickets for the new Shakespearean production at that fabulous Tabor Opera House. And I was hoping we could eat dinner at Charley's Restaurant and then take a stroll afterward to look at the constellations just like we used to do before—" her chin jutted, quivering the tiniest bit "—before she came along."

  "Now, daughter." Papa's face was growing redder the longer his packs weighed him down. "You know I'm a Grand Anvil Chorus kind of a fella. Give me a mug of beer and a cheek to pinch, and I couldn't be happier.

  "'Sides," he patted her arm consolingly, "you don't need me in Leadville like Cellie needs me here. You know all the things that can go wrong when you're digging underground. Cellie says Nahele won't give up his treasure without a fight. That's why the men keep hearing moaning."

  So that's what Cellie says, eh? Well, what would Cellie know?

  Silver blew out her breath. Anyone with a modicum of scientific knowledge would understand that settling timbers groan. The miners were hearing the shifting beams above their heads, not the moaning of ghosts. How dare that pestilential nuisance spread rumors that Silver's Mine was haunted?

  Obviously Celestia didn't have the slightest concept of what a strike would do to production—not to mention the fortune she was plotting to marry. The hardrock stiffs were already grumbling about their three-dollar wage, saying the miners at the Comstock Lode were getting paid four dollars a day.

  Of course, the miners in Nevada were also working under unbearable conditions, Silver thought a tad righteously. She, on the other hand, had done her very best to protect her men from the gruesome accidents and tragic deaths that had made the Comstock infamous.

  But that was another matter entirely. Damn Celestia Cooper. The woman knew very well how much this day—this outing—meant to Silver. The quack also knew how hard Silver was trying to get rid of her. Celestia had concocted the whole ghost melodrama, of course, so Silver couldn't get Papa alone long enough to bend his ear with the mounting evidence against her.

  And in the polite vernacular, that meant war.

  "Papa, I am deeply concerned about this dig you're undertaking." No doubt Celestia is using it as an excuse to poke around our richest vein.

  However, Silver knew better than to point this fact out. Papa would get that glazed look in his eye, nod politely, and not hear a blessed word she said. Over the last six months, he'd resisted every reasonable entreaty to unburden himself of his fiancée. Maximillian Nichols was the kind of man who saw a rose long after the bloom had withered. His refusal to recognize failings in any person, place, or thing was one of his most endearing—and most vexing—characteristics.

  And right now, Silver was vexed.

  "In light of recent information I've received," she continued briskly, "I'm not sure you would be safe underground."

  Already looking longingly toward the door, Papa swiveled his head back toward her. She was gratified to know she could still capture enough of his attention to keep him from walking out of her life.

  "Safe?" he echoed, the miner in him no doubt pricking up his ears.

  "Yes, Papa. Whether or not there really is a king's ransom worth of buried treasure—"

  "Oh, but there is, daughter. Cellie stakes her reputation on it."

  Silver swallowed a less than gracious retort. Papa was obsessed with Nahele's treasure because he hoped it would lead to the so-called City of Gold. Recently, treasure seemed to be the only thing he cared about. That and Celestia, of course.

  "Yes, well—" Silver cleared her throat "—I must strongly advise you to rethink your plan to dynamite anything."

  "What do you mean?"

  Silver squared her shoulders, ignoring a momentary pang of remorse. What she knew about Celestia's past was going to hurt him. "Papa," she began again, choosing her words as judiciously as her own hurt would allow, "Celestia is not the best companion you could have on a mining expedition. The danger to yourself and to others would be prohibitive."

  "Well..." His brows knitted. "It's true she isn't as knowledgeable about mining safety as you are but—"

  "Papa—" Silver struggled with her impatience. Would he never open his eyes? "Celestia is an arsonist."

  He blinked owl-like at her.

  In the eternity of silence that dragged by, guilt had plenty of time to needle her. She blushed. She fidgeted. She decided she should never have been so blunt. God forgive me, why did I have to bludgeon him with the news? Now look at him. My dearest papa, and I've broken his heart—

  "Arsonist?" he interrupted her thoughts, still looking bemused.

  "Er, yes." She cleared her throat. "There was a church. In Kentucky. The preacher raised a public outcry about Celestia's fortune-telling. He called her a witch, and when the marshal tried to run her out of town—"

  Papa began laughing so hard that his mound of a belly actually jiggled.

  Silver's ears burned. "What's so funny?"

  "You, thinking Cellie would set fire to a church."

  "You mean you knew?"

  "Sure. Cellie told me weeks ago. She was all torn up about it, too. That church burning down was a terrible thing, but it wasn't Cellie's fault."

  "Papa! You can't possibly know that—"

  "Sure I can. I know Cellie." He grinned, a flash of pure impishness in his beard. "Well, gotta go, love. These packs aren't getting any lighter, if you know what I mean. Have a safe trip to Leadville. And hurry home so you can tell me all about it."

  "Papa, wait—"

  "Now, don't you worry, daughter. I won't let Cellie play with any dynamite." His chuckle floated back to her from the hall. "At least, not the kind of dynamite you're thinking of."

  The parlor doors slid closed behind him.

  "Ooh!" Silver stomped her foot. She wasn't sure which upset her more, the fact that her bomb had exploded and still missed its mark, or that her father had chosen Celestia's company over hers. Angry, humiliated, and close to tears, she thought about canceling her speech to spite Celestia. After all, the woman had torched a church. Maybe she was dangerous, really dangerous, not just eccentric and conniving.

  Silver, don't be a goose, Common Sense counseled sternly. Go to Leadville. The better you get at managing your father's affairs, the more he'll value you over someone as useless to him as Celestia.

  Besides, Papa's safe. Even with all those lanterns, fuses, and sticks of dynamite gathered outside the shaft, Celestia won't harm him. He wouldn't be any good to her if he's dead.

  No, of course he wouldn't be, Silver thought grimly. First, he'd have to marry her. Then he'd have to add her name to his will....

  She caught her breath. Fear slammed into her gut so hard and fast that she felt nauseous. Gripping the table edge, she tried desperately to ward off dread. But it wasn't any use. The seed of suspicion had already been sown.

  Dear God, I have to stop that wedding. More than ever, I have to find a way.

  Chapter 2

  Rafe wanted to leave this high-society shindig.

  In fact, he thought, gazing irritably around him at the Grand Hotel's assemblage of tuxedoed tenderfoots, he wanted to leave Leadville. Only three summers had passed since his last visit here, and already "Cloud City" had lost all resemblance to its wilderness heritage.

  The lawless mining town he'd watched spring up b
eside his beloved Mt. Massive was now a provincial little city. Civilization had taken such firm root here that a huckster could hardly ply his trade anymore without some damned policeman blowing the whistle. Temperance was even becoming fashionable, thanks to the hoity-toity petticoats they'd imported from back east. Rafe couldn't remember being stuck in a more demoralizing place—except, perhaps, for his hometown of Blue Thunder.

  He grimaced into his fake gray mustache and beard.

  Now where had that ugly memory come from? Blue Thunder, Kentucky, more than any other Christian paradise, was the embodiment of hell to him. Only an imbecile would have wasted enough brain space to hold on to the memory. He couldn't imagine why he had, much less why he'd let it surface to plague him now, when he needed all his mental faculties to pull off this con—unless, of course, the reason had something to do with Fred and Fiona.

  He made another face. Unfortunately, the bloated windbag who'd been bending his ear didn't take the cue to scurry off.

  After ten blissful years of calling the shots in his cons, Rafe had had the misfortune of crossing paths last night with Fred and Fiona. Much to his dismay, his train had been re-routed to Leadville due to a spring snowfall-turned-avalanche, and he'd been forced to disembark. Fred had been standing on the platform, hawking handbills for his theater troupe's latest comedy of errors.

  With nothing else to do but stand on the depot's porch, Rafe had made the mistake of inquiring after Fiona; Fred had started blubbering like a baby; and Rafe had apparently been robbed of his last shred of common sense. Why else would he risk recognition by his old nemesis, Sheriff "Rooster" Crow, by helping Fred swindle the members of the Leadville Mining Exchange?

  Rafe tossed a dour look at the Windbag, who seemed to think stories about hydraulic mining, in which whole hillsides washed away, made riveting conversation. Pompous ass. Clearly he'd been too busy raking in gold dust to worry about the waterways he was making unfit for travel or drink. Robber barons like the Windbag were marks Rafe delighted in fleecing, when Sheriff Crow wasn't stalking the premises. On occasion, as the inspiration presented itself, Rafe became rather like a nineteenth-century Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to save Mother Nature—a hobby Fred deplored, since it smacked of sentimentality.

  Rafe scowled as his thoughts drifted back to his former employer, a man whom he'd once naively hoped might become his second father. Playing on that youthful aspiration, Fred had begged him to visit Fiona at the wagon. And Rafe had gone, dragging his feet all the way. The old reprobate had duped him one too many times into performing with the troupe after Rafe had gotten the itch to strike out on his own.

  But Fiona was sick. Really sick. If Rafe hadn't seen her with his own eyes, he might not have believed it. And Fred... well, never had he seen Fred so convincingly lost. The Brit had filled Fiona's wagon with bouquets of wildflowers, a tender gesture completely alien to the man, and then, confiding in broken whispers that Fiona only had six months to live, he had vowed before Rafe and God Himself that he would find a way to make his "Fee" well again.

  Unfortunately for their sakes, Rafe thought gloomily, consumption didn't have a cure. He'd watched his mother succumb to the lung plague. Six years later, Sera's letter had found him in Texas, bringing news of Gabriel's decline. The boy had battled bravely, postponing his rendezvous with Saint Peter until Rafe could say a personal good-bye.

  Of course, on the afternoon that Rafe had dared to show his face at the house, Michael and Jedidiah had barred the door so Gabriel's soul wouldn't be contaminated. Rafe had threatened to beat them both senseless until ten-year-old Sera had sneaked Gabriel out the window and around to the front porch. Weak but exuberant, the boy had fallen into Rafe's arms, begging to be taken back to Texas so he could live out his days as a cowboy. Content with Rafe's promise, Gabriel had died that night in his sleep.

  Rafe's throat constricted at the memory.

  Needless to say, Rafe was all for finding a cure for consumption. But cheating death of Fiona's soul would take doctors, medicine, an extended vacation in a hot, dry climate, and money. Lots of money. Fred, as usual, had none.

  That's why Rafe, against his better judgment, was risking Sheriff Crow's recognition to help Fred humbug the silver barons of Leadville. The rest of his reasoning, he owed to his own embarrassingly low finances. Keeping Octavia housed and fed was costing him a damned sight more than any female had a right to cost. If Tavy hadn't practically become his whole world, he would have dumped her back in the mountains where he'd found her.

  Twitching his nose in a futile attempt to stop his mustache from itching, Rafe finally yielded to the need to scratch, swallowed an oath to find the glue still wet, and prayed he hadn't shifted the irritant off-center.

  Damn Fred anyway. He should have burst through the ballroom doors fifteen minutes ago. His penchant for missed cues was going to jinx this hoax, because Fiona or no Fiona, Rafe had an eight o'clock stage to catch.

  Three summers ago, a bit too drunk to think straight, he'd blustered his way into this very hotel—and the bed of Sheriff Crow's wife. At the time, he'd believed the woman's claim that she was a widow; the good sheriff, of course, had been unsympathetic to his alibi. Needless to say, Rafe would have been breaking rocks at the state penitentiary if it hadn't been for Mrs. Crow's finesse with a lock pick. And since he wasn't particularly interested in mounting another escape from the Leadville Jail, he preferred not to raise suspicions now.

  That's why he was feeling a bit uncomfortable after his encounter with the resident robber "baroness." He might have been flattered by the woman's appraisal if her smile hadn't frozen the moment they'd been introduced. She'd arched a brow over eyes as startlingly blue as sapphires.

  Something about him, Rafe mused, had caused unmistakable disapproval in Miss Silver Nichols. At the time, he'd been relatively certain he hadn't knocked his theatrical whiskers askew, so he couldn't help but wonder what had put her off. Surely it hadn't been anything he'd said, unless, of course, she was the overly virtuous kind who took offense to a man's simple hello. Or maybe she didn't favor East Coast dudes. He prided himself as a mimic, and he knew he'd gotten the Philadelphia accent down pat.

  Half-intrigued, half-irritated, he glanced around the richly paneled, plushly carpeted room until he spied its lone female occupant. She stood beneath the center chandelier, holding court. Three plump stockbrokers gathered around her, each of them a good thirty years older, and three inches shorter, than Silver. In fact, they looked rather like lapdogs panting in the presence of royalty, despite her conservative dress: a high-necked gown of lilac silk.

  Every now and then, Her Royal Highness would incline her perfectly chignoned head, which was a fascination in itself, since her otherwise coal black hair bore a streak of silver. Surely her twenty-odd years didn't make her old enough for the distinguishing mark at her left temple. On the other hand, her youth lent her none of the giggling silliness he'd come to associate with females under twenty-five. There was a sophistication about Silver Nichols that most overindulged women didn't exude until their fortieth year. It was her sophistication, Rafe decided, coupled with those eyes and that hair, that made Silver striking. Her nose was too long, her forehead too high, and her chin too angular for him to classify her as beautiful.

  Still, beautiful or not, he was puzzled to see Silver at an all-male business function. He was even more puzzled to see no obviously preferred beau staking out his territory by her side. Her daddy reputedly had more money than the Rockies had snow, so it seemed to Rafe that eligible bachelors should be standing in line, begging for her company.

  As if to comment on his notions of propriety, she laughed. The low, vibrant peal was as mellifluous as a golden bell, making it hard to mistake in the din of rough male voices. He wondered what the lapdogs had told her, and if, by chance, her gesture toward his side of the room had anything to do with him.

  Then the flash of red fire caught his eye. The ring on her left hand must be worth a king's ransom, but it
hinted of rubies, not diamonds. How strange that an heiress her age wasn't even betrothed. Was she risking spinsterhood because she liked playing queen without a king? Or did she have some hideously huge but well-hidden flaw that no fortune could compensate for?

  Rate's curiosity climbed another notch. He was just trying to imagine what feminine flaw could possibly keep him from courting an heiress, when suddenly the double doors banged open. Fred, puffing madly on a cigar, swept across the threshold in a top hat, tuxedo, and spats. No wonder the old humbugger was late. He'd probably spent all afternoon rummaging through the prop wagon to dig up his evening wear.

  "Gentlemen," the master conniver crowed. He thumped his cane to command the crowd's attention.

  A hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned to Fred. He plucked off his gloves with a grandiose gesture that was impeccable in its timing.

  "Is there a man among you who has an interest in diamonds?"

  A ripple of gasps swept through the men. Rafe groaned aloud. Damn Fred and his improvisations. They'd agreed to bait the brokers with gold, not diamonds.

  "I have here in my coat pocket," Fred continued in his resonant bass, sounding more like a medicine show pitchman than a western financier, "one thousand shares of my client's diamond mine, secreted away in the Gore Mountains by Rabbit Ears Pass. Not since the legendary strike of Central City has Colorado seen a mother lode of such overwhelming proportions."

  Only through sheer force of habit was Rafe able to keep his expression from betraying his feelings. A diamond mine, for God's sake! How the hell was he supposed to pretend expertise on something he knew so precious little about? He had half a mind to lead the rush when Fred's change of plan backfired and twenty outraged stockbrokers beat the tar out of him.

  At that inopportune moment, Rafe made the mistake of looking at Silver. Her gemstone gaze cut straight through the tobacco smoke to drill a hole to his soul's rotten core. The sensation wasn't reassuring to an imposter who risked exposure with each passing heartbeat. Biting off an oath, he dragged his gaze back to Fred and racked his brain for facts about diamonds.