"'Course I didn't forget, daughter. But I figured it would be best if you held down the fort while Cellie and me met with the engineers to inspect the timbering for poltergeists. Brady sent his photographer along to help."
Silver felt the blood drain from her face. "You invited the Times photographer to... to document poltergeists?"
Papa beamed. "Actually, it was Chumley's idea. And a damned fine one too, if you ask me."
"Indeed?" She glared at Rafe.
He winked back. "Not to worry," he said in a rascally undertone. "No matter how fast Brady's boy is with his shutter, he isn't likely to catch a ghost. Seems like we can use his photographs to our advantage."
Silver choked back her protest, especially about the "we" and "us" Rafe had so casually interjected, as if counting himself among those who had a vested interest in her mine.
As much as she hated to admit it, Rafe's strategy had merit. If the publicity stunt went according to plan, she would have a newspaper photographer and his pictures to refute the miners' claims.
Still, Rafe didn't have to look so smug. It made her think he had more up his sleeve than the salvation of her mine, which was probably a safe bet, she mused, wrinkling her nose. She stepped aside, letting a pair of hired hands huff across her threshold with a battered traveling trunk and a sealed barrel smelling unmistakably of fish.
Rafe accompanied her onto the porch. "I say, Max," he called in boisterous good spirits, "now that we have these two lovelies together in such fine ghost-chasing chapeaus, why don't we have their photographs made?"
Papa's blue eyes sparked eagerly. Silver cringed. She could almost read his mind: his daughter and his fiancée at long last calling a truce over hats.
"You mean a 'Before They Ventured into the Haunted Pit' sort of photo?"
"Papa." For the photographer's benefit, Silver forced a smile. "I am not at liberty to dally this morning. If you insist on going to the mine, then I am needed posthaste at our lawyer's office."
"Oh." Papa's face fell. "Well, I suppose that's true."
Silver hated to see his hopes dashed; she hated even more to see Celestia, all a-flurry and disturbingly convincing, wrap her arms around his waist.
"We'll get a photograph of me and Silver at the wedding," Celestia crooned, resting her cheek on Papa's shoulder. She darted a sidelong glance at Rafe. "We haven't so very long to wait now."
Rafe smirked. For once, Silver was relieved to see him do so. Maybe all wasn't lost yet, she thought grudgingly. Celestia appeared to be casting sheep's eyes at him, despite his abysmal fashion sense. Perhaps his dressing like an Easter egg had actually endeared him to the woman, whose own peculiar wardrobe seemed to be borrowed from The Arabian Nights' Entertainments.
Silver gave her coconspirator a brief, albeit reluctant, smile. After all, he was planning on having a picnic that afternoon with Celestia. Acorns and wards notwithstanding, Silver reminded herself sternly, she was paying him to woo Celestia.
"A pity you have to rush off, Miss Pennies," he purred as she sought to breeze past him. "I do so look forward to our getting better acquainted. Perhaps later this evening, now that a mere stone's throw keeps us apart?"
Unable to ignore the glint in his gaze, her stride faltered and her pulse leaped. She suspected he was thinking more of acorns than stones.
"Yes, well..." She did her best to sound prim, hoping he wouldn't notice the flush stealing up her cheeks. "I'm sure we have a great deal to discuss, Your Grace, not the least of which are your living arrangements."
Swishing past him, she nodded to Papa, then snapped open her parasol. She huddled under its tasseled shade less as a defense against the sun than as protection from Rafe's sultry stare. She could feel the heat of his gaze through every flounce of satin, every scrap of muslin lace, as she hurried along the path to the carriage house. The sensation drove her feet faster.
Somehow, before this day was over, she promised herself, she would hire a locksmith to install a bolt on her bedroom door.
* * *
Unfortunately, Silver had little time to think about locksmiths and bolts until well after sunset, when every merchant had closed shop for the day. The meeting with the Miners Union had been unbearably long, and little progress had been made toward a resolution. Mr. Kilkarney, the head of the Union's Irish faction, had demanded to know how she could deny the existence of ghosts when the Aspen Times had reported that her father was holding a séance.
By the time Papa and Celestia had arrived with the engineer, Union leaders were in such an uproar, that the survey results couldn't appease them. One thing had led to another, and Papa, who'd never been good at prevaricating, had blurted an invitation to Kilkarney and the others to attend the spook powwow—not his words precisely, but close enough, Silver mused darkly.
No sooner had she left the Union meeting than the manager of her sawmill had demanded an audience. He'd had dire news about production shortages, and he hadn't been encouraging when she'd announced that she needed additional timber to brace the innards of Silver's Mine. The oak forest she'd purchased in the valley was growing sparse. At this rate, her sawmill would be idle by Christmas, and that wouldn't bode well for the families who relied on her lumber-works for jobs.
Silver sighed, wearily climbing the steps to her porch. If only the earth wasn't so blasted heavy! Solid rock took its toll on wood no matter how well-braced a cavern was. She'd have to speak with Papa about purchasing additional woodlands.
Pausing in the foyer, Silver was relieved when Benson appeared, stepping out of the parlor to greet her. At least fate had deigned to be kind once today: her butler hadn't walked off the job—yet.
"Good evening, Benson. I trust the frog-legs matter has been settled?"
"For the present, miss. Your father has gone to speak with a mountainman."
"A... er, mountainman?" she repeated dubiously.
"Yes. To set traps. Apparently when frog legs aren't in season, Tavy, as I believe they call her, makes due with crayfish."
"Oh." Silver's brows knitted. An odd woman, this Tavy. "Perhaps I should see her. Is the, uh, duke in?"
Benson's nose flared in disdain. "Not to my knowledge."
Silver blew out her breath. Well, so much for calling Rafe to task before dinner.
In his absence, she supposed she could confront this troublesome Octavia. She'd like nothing more than to order the creature to pack her bags, but then Silver had no way of knowing how much Rafe had told her. What if Octavia knew about the plot to seduce Celestia?
Damn Rafe anyway.
Silver tried to tell herself her outrage had everything to do with Rafe's audacity and nothing to do with the twinge of disappointment she'd felt upon learning he'd attracted a mistress. Just how did he think he could seduce Celestia and entertain a lover all at the same time? Truly, the man's opinion of his virility was a bit... intriguing.
Her face flamed at the thought.
Intriguing? Honestly, Silver, what is the matter with you? Raphael Jones is a rogue and a rake, and God knows, you've suffered from that particular combination before. Get your mind off that track before the train runs you down.
"Thank you, Benson." Nodding in dismissal, she headed for the stairs. Obviously, the Octavia matter would have to be handled with delicacy. As appealing as the prospect was, barging into the guest suite and tossing the woman out of the house on her ear probably wouldn't be her wisest course.
Pausing on the landing, Silver clutched her parasol to her chest, telling herself the brisk climb, not the prospect of confronting Rafe alone again, at night, was the cause of her hammering heart. A hot bath would relax her and help her strategize, she decided. Besides, as long as Rafe was out of the house, she'd be safe in the indulgence.
She glanced toward the guest wing, and her bottom lip jutted.
She just wished she didn't feel so deflated, knowing that he planned to rendezvous with some other woman later that night.
* * *
Rafe whistled as
he approached the long walkway leading to Silver's porch. Twirling his walking stick, he allowed himself a smug smile as he caught his reflection in the polished brass of the knob. Yes, he was quite the devil, wasn't he? Jedidiah Jones was probably rolling in his grave, a fact that only heightened Rafe's pleasure as he recalled his last twenty-four hours.
He'd earned nearly twenty-five thousand dollars after only two hours of poker, all of which he'd come by legitimately, thanks to Max's generosity with his whiskey. Liquor made bettors reckless, especially wealthy bettors.
Of course, his pretense that he'd been drunk and stupid had gone a long way toward earning the trust of Max's millionaire cronies. They'd been planning on fleecing him, and he'd turned the tables with a sharp wit and a modicum of patience. In one sitting, Rafe had stuffed more money in his pockets than he'd ever laid claim to in his life. Feeling that wad of banknotes in his trousers had been the closest he'd ever come to a spiritual experience. Hell, he could quit this scam now and live comfortably for the next five years.
Of course, he couldn't live in luxury for more than two. And he did have a score to settle with Miss Silver Nichols.
Rafe sighed lustily. He supposed he could suffer himself to stay a while longer in Aspen—as long as he kept his wits about him. According to the Windsor Hotel's desk clerk, he'd received several visitors since he'd acquired new lodgings: Mrs. Trevelyan, a Sun reporter, Signor Marzetti, and a one-eyed Texican. Apparently they'd all asked questions about him. The reporter had even stooped to poking around Rafe's former suite before the chambermaid could tidy it. If he hadn't been so amused, he might have been annoyed. Apparently all of Aspen was starved for gossip about the duke.
He rapped his walking stick on Silver's door.
"Howdy do, Bennie," he greeted jovially after the butler came to scowl at him. Max had confided that Benson abhorred being called "Bennie." Benson also abhorred disorder, creepy-crawly things, and anything that shed its skin or fur. If Rafe didn't have so much respect for snakes and spiders, he would have ordered up a whole barrel of them to be dumped on the butler's hoity-toity shoes.
"You've returned," the Brit observed contemptuously.
"Quite so," Rafe taunted, sweeping past the servant. "I say, is that a wrinkle on your sleeve?"
Benson's gaze snapped to his arm.
"Dear me, and look. A piece of fluff." Rafe knocked an imaginary speck from the man's shoulder. "Don't tell me you've been frolicking with the scullery maids, old boy."
Blazing brown eyes locked with Rafe's. He laughed guilelessly.
"Well, we'll just keep it our little secret, eh, Bennie? How's Miss Tavy? Did she eat all her frogs?"
A muscle twitched along Benson's jawline. "Your otter, sir, has feasted on her frogs, leaving a barbarous mess to be cleaned."
"Jolly good." Rafe paused with his foot on the stairwell's bottom step. "I say, Bennie," he called over his shoulder, "don't forget to put fresh sand in Tavy's scat box. I daresay she'll be making rollicking good use of it, if she hasn't already."
Snickering at his vision of Benson crouching on his hands and knees to scoop up misfired otter droppings, Rafe began his climb to the second story.
Yes, he was quite pleased with himself today. He'd arranged for fifteen thousand dollars to be transferred to Leadville and deposited in a bank account in Fiona's name—not Fred's. Fred would only do something selfish or stupid with it, like trying to salt a diamond mine. Fifteen grand should be enough to buy Fiona her medicine and let her and Fred retire in style. If it wasn't, then the old scam artist was herself being scammed.
For the first time in ages, Rafe felt a lightness. He recognized it as relief. Ten years ago, he'd walked out on his foster parents' show, and they'd forever held his feet to the fire, claiming he'd cost them untold ticket sales over the years. Frankly, he couldn't imagine being worth more than ten grand, no matter how riveting his Romeo was, but in any event, he'd settled the debt, throwing in another five grand because... well, because he loved the old rascals.
His throat constricted at the thought.
Today was indeed the day to repay old debts. Ten years ago, on this very day, Gabriel had died. Sera had taken it badly, being only ten. She'd wanted Rafe to stay in Blue Thunder, to fill the shoes of the brother she'd lost. Rafe couldn't do that, of course. Even if he'd been ready to forgive Michael and Jedidiah for every cruelty they'd ever inflicted, their hatred of him still poisoned any hope of a truce.
So under a midsummer moon, in the freshly turned earth beside Gabriel's grave, he'd had to tell Sera he was leaving again. She'd thrown herself at him, little fists flailing, until he'd been able to wrap his arms around her and let her sob out her heart. He'd felt useless, so he'd promised to take care of her. He'd vowed on Gabriel's grave that she would always be able to find him, no matter where he traveled.
Michael and Jedidiah, of course, would have forbidden her to receive his letters, so Rafe had made a secret pact with their backyard neighbor, "Aunt" Claudia Ann Collier, to sneak his correspondence to Sera. Claudia loved mischief, and she'd never made any bones about disliking Jedidiah, so she'd been eager to help. Thus, Rafe had been faithfully writing to Sera, by way of Aunt Claudia, once a month ever since.
If Aspen's 'Express Mail' lived up to its name, Rafe mused, Sera would learn about his latest adventures, slightly censored, of course, by the end of next week. He just knew she'd love the part about him smuggling an orphaned baby otter into the mansion of an heiress.
Rafe grinned to himself, but he couldn't quite ignore the catch in his chest. He missed Sera. He regretted not being able to watch her grow up. Judging by her letters, he suspected he and she were a lot alike, a fact that probably didn't endear her to Michael, who'd become her guardian upon Jedidiah's death two years ago.
Damn that holier-than-thou bastard. Jedidiah Jones was finally rotting in his grave, but nothing had changed. He'd passed the torch to Michael.
Rafe scowled as he reached the top of the stairs.
The only things he had to tie him to his sister were a couple dozen letters, and they weren't enough. But until Sera married, or turned twenty-five, Rafe knew he'd be facing Michael's shotgun if he ever dared return to Blue Thunder to see her.
His lips twisted bitterly. He wondered what Michael would say if he knew Rafe had just deposited twenty-five thousand dollars in legitimate earnings in a bank. By Sera's accounts, Michael's medical practice was barely keeping a roof over their heads. If not for Aunt Claudia—she'd paid off Jedidiah's debts, including his mortgage—Michael and Sera would be walking the streets. Michael certainly deserved such a comeuppance, but not Sera.
Rafe sighed. Maybe he should go back to the bank tomorrow and arrange for another ten thousand dollars to be sent to Michael for their kid sister's sake...
The sight of his open bedroom door interrupted Rafe's reverie. He frowned. He specifically remembered closing it that morning before walking down the stairs. He'd learned this habit the hard way. Tavy was a master of unlatching her cage, and besides, he didn't have the heart to keep her cooped up like some circus sideshow. Had Jimmy gone to play with her, then forgotten to lock the door?
In ten brisk strides, Rafe traveled the length of the hall and pushed inside his ornately furnished room. The usual otter chaos greeted him: the toppled washstand, a gnawed shaving brush, scattered cigars, a broken vase. Yellow pollen had been tracked in ambling circles to the next mischief site: the white dinner shirt that Silver's housekeeper had pressed for him. It had been liberally trampled beneath the rainbowed glass of the room's vaulted, southern window. The goosedown pillows from his four-poster bed had been scattered across the burgundy and green weave of his Turkish carpet, and a couple of feather tufts stuck out of the carpet's fibers. In the next glance, he confirmed his worst suspicions: Tavy wasn't huddled in her cage or crouched in her scat box.
"Damn," he muttered. Closing the door behind him, he hoped against hope that she was still hiding somewhere in the room. "Tavy?" he called, hurryi
ng to the bed. He flipped up the quilt and peered under the mattress. No bright, adoring eyes blinked back at him.
He looked under the maple armoire, beneath the brimming copper bathtub, even inside his well-battered traveling trunk. No Tavy. How the hell was he supposed to find her in a house this size? He cursed again, more vehemently this time. He thought he'd put the fear of God in Jimmy about doors, locks, and otters.
Then a more sobering thought struck him. One that made his gut clench. Had that sonuvabitch Benson sneaked in here out of spite? Had he turned her loose in the streets to be struck by some runaway wagon... or mauled by some stray dog?
Rafe's heart crawled into his throat as the gory images flashed through his mind.
"So help me God, Benson," he growled, forgetting his accent as he ran down the hall, "if I find out it was you who set Tavy free, there'll be hell to—"
A muffled shriek cut him off. Sliding to a halt by the main stairwell, he gazed toward the bedroom door at the far end of the family's wing. He knew the room was Silver's. He'd taken special pains to learn this information. He planned on using it to his advantage one night very soon.
Silver screamed again—or was that an oath this time? He strained his ears and heard the muted sound of otter chirping, followed by a rather lusty splash. His lips quirked, and he raced to the rescue.
Tavy, apparently, had been found.
Chapter 8
Silver heard the pounding of boots in the hallway; she heard the rattling of peg lamps and the trembling of brass hinges before the door crashed open, and a very heroic Rafe burst across her threshold.
"Silver!"
She had a breathlessly long heartbeat to stare. For a moment, she forgot her dishabille. Her consternation. The Thing that had fled the bloomers she'd tossed across her bed and that was now rollicking in her bath.
It was as if time started crawling the instant Rafe charged through her door. His sun-gilded features were flushed and anxious; his gray eyes were black with concern. From beneath rakish curls, he gazed wildly about him, as if seeking the cause of her shriek. Despite his lavender waistcoat, he looked every inch the champion, looming larger than life against the backdrop of rose-patterned wallpaper and rainbowed window sashes. His clenched fists and pugnacious pose told her things she hadn't guessed about Raphael Jones: that he was a scrapper, certainly. That he'd survived the ugly side of life, more than likely.
Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Page 14