"Well, that mystery's solved," Silver said with less asperity than she'd intended. Tavy was snuffling at Rafe's cheek and he, wonder of wonders, wasn't cooing about fish kisses. She wondered at his introspection, because he'd never allowed his Chumley facade to be anything less than groanworthy.
"There, there," Celestia crooned. She crossed to Rafe's side and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. "The spirits will find Octavia plenty of otters to play with. And you can visit her new den any time you choose."
Silver bristled at their obvious accord.
"That's right," Papa chimed in. "Why, she'll practically be our neighbor. Since me and Cellie'll have more rooms here than we can use, you and Silver won't have to go far to see her."
Silver started, eyeing her father sharply.
"That's deucedly decent of you, old fellow," Rafe said quickly. Other than the veiled look he shot Papa, his Chumley mask was firmly back in place. "But alas, I can't sell Chumley Manor. It's been our family home since the Crusades. Why, William the Conqueror dined there. And Robert of Locksley, too."
"Robert of Locksley?" Papa's eyes brightened. "You mean Robin Hood?"'
"Quite so." Rafe cuddled Tavy, lucky Tavy, against his chest. "Why, 'tis rumored we're distant cousins."
Silver rolled her eyes. They were distant cousins, all right. She took refuge in exasperation, preferring to be miffed by Rafe's Robin Hood hogwash rather than jealous of his otter. Besides, Papa was just gullible enough to believe Rafe's fabrication.
She started to help Papa save face, but Tavy distracted her. Poking her head out from under Rafe's elbow, the pup twitched her whiskers at the open inkwell. Visions of paw-stained contracts flashed before Silver's eyes, especially when Tavy stretched out tentative webbed toes. Hastily, Silver reached around Rafe for the stopper.
To her consternation, her breast brushed his arm.
"Doesn't your otter have an appointment with a photographer?" she snapped, backing hastily away. She tried not to notice how fast her heart was speeding or how taut her nipple had grown from that innocent contact.
Rafe's smile was pure wickedness. "Why, Miss Pennies, I do believe you're flustered. Was it something I did... or didn't do?"
"I'll be damned!"
Silver jumped at her father's expletive. He was behind the bombazine now, and her heart sank to her toes.
"Cellie, honey, look! Spiritkeepers!" He emerged with the gaping satchel and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "'Course, you're the expert," he added eagerly, holding out a fist-sized rock for her inspection, "but I think they're spiritkeepers."
"They are nearly spherical," she conceded, turning her own sample critically in her hands.
"And they don't have any fissures," Papa added, "so the spirits can't slip out."
"Hmm." Celestia passed her chubby, bejeweled fingers over Papa's rock. Her gaze strayed to Silver, who was blushing profusely. Then she passed her palm over the rock in her other hand. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Silver watched uncomfortably as the moons and stars on Celestia's blue tunic shuddered with her breath. She filled her lungs a second time, equally as deep and dramatic.
"The spirits," she intoned finally, "say these will do."
"Hot damn!" Papa was practically dancing a jig. "We can have our séance!"
Celestia's eyes were still closed. "It is most important," she continued in portentous tones, "that the message of the spirits be heard at sunset tomorrow."
Papa pivoted, his eyes round and mystified. "Why?"
Her lashes fluttered open, and she gave him a patient smile. "It's the full moon, dearest."
"Oh." He brightened again, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. "Daughter," he said, his grin a dazzling white crescent in his beard, "we're gonna get to the bottom of those groaning timbers and those missing lunch pails. The Union's gonna settle, and the men are gonna report back to work. And it's all because of you! Who woulda thought you had a slew of spiritkeepers right here, in your ore pouch?"
Silver's throat constricted. "Yes, well..." She caught Rafe's eye and burned hotter with shame. "They looked like country rocks to me."
"That's only 'cause your eye's not trained," Papa consoled her. "But if you can learn to spot a hunk of ore, you can learn to spot spiritkeepers—just like I did. Right, Cellie?"
Celestia gave her a warm and motherly smile. "I'm sure Silver can learn anything, once she puts her mind to it."
Silver forced herself to meet Celestia's gaze. Try as she might, she could spy no accusation there. Nor could she detect a trace of gloating. But surely Celestia was canny enough to have guessed why the missing spiritkeepers had materialized amidst her ore samples.
From the depths of the house, a chime faintly echoed.
Papa's brow furrowed. "Sounds like the doorbell. You don't reckon that's that photographer fella, do you, Chumley? I thought you told him to meet you at the Trevelyans' house."
"Quite so, old chap. And now that Tavy has to be re-combed and re-fluffed, I'm afraid we're running a bit behind schedule."
"Not to worry, my boy. I'll send a message right quick to Daisy." Papa kissed the back of Celestia's hand before he began dragging her out the door. "C'mon, Cellie, honey. We've got invitations to send, and candles to arrange.... Hey, how do spirits feel about snacks at their séances?"
Their footsteps faded down the hall. Silver swallowed, feeling more ashamed than relieved that she'd escaped her papa's suspicion. Hiding his rocks seemed like the most heinous act in the world now that she'd seen the childlike joy their discovery had given him.
"Curses," Rafe taunted gently. "Foiled again."
Silver's chin quivered. Mortified by the threat of her tears, she ducked her head, busily straightening the sheaves of paper on her desk. "I don't have the foggiest notion what you're talking about."
"Don't you?"
Tavy scampered onto the ledger, batting the pen out from under its pages. Aggravated by this play, Silver snatched the instrument away.
"If you're referring to the séance, well then, yes. Of course, I'm dismayed. I've been trying to stop it for weeks."
"By stealing spiritkeepers?"
She hated that her hands shook. Scowling, she slammed the papers back on the desk. "Yes. Yes. There, I've said it. Are you happy now?"
She flopped into her chair. If she could barely stomach herself after pilfering a few worthless rocks, how would she ever forgive herself once Rafe lured Celestia into a lovetrap?
"I thought... I didn't think," she corrected herself gloomily. "That's the real problem. I should have known Papa's séance idea was his befuddled attempt to save the mine. But honestly, Rafe, he's been so preoccupied with Cibola and Nahele's treasure, and then with Celestia and his wedding plans, that I didn't think he cared about anything else."
"You mean about anyone else?"
She winced. Leave it to her to hire an insightful coconspirator. "What gave me away?" she asked dryly.
"Oh, I don't know." His eyes were warm with understanding. "Maybe it's the way you dote on him."
She sighed, fingering the pen. She wondered if all playactors read between the lines so well.
"Contrary to what you might think, I hate lying to him."
"I know," he said softly. "But take heart. All isn't lost. For one thing, I don't think he suspects you."
"That's because he's too trusting. It will never cross his mind that I might have stolen from him. Or that I'm conspiring against Celestia."
She groaned, rubbing her hands over her face. That's what made her feel worst of all: her father trusted her when she was so blameworthy. "I just wish this whole stupid séance idea had never reached the newspapers. I could just strangle Brady Buckholtz for blowing it out of proportion—"
She hesitated, instinctively uneasy. Rafe had grown quiet, too quiet. Peering through her fingers, she caught him reading the newspaper clipping with Aunt Agatha's scrawled message. A cold splash of dread drenched her.
Oh, no.
She probably sh
ould have said something; she probably should have snatched the article away. Why it bothered her that Rafe had learned about her love affair with Aaron was more than she cared to ask in that moment. All she could do was sit frozen in distress, counting the heartbeats that lodged in her throat, until Rafe's eyes finally rose to hers.
For an eternity, she melted into the liquid pewter of his gaze. Deeper than the ocean itself, it was full of emotions she couldn't quite fathom. They flitted too quickly beneath the mirrorlike calm, betraying an intensity that stole her breath away. She had no language to describe the cryptic dance of thought and feeling, no clues to guide her to his deepest hope or fear. She ached to know more, to understand the glimpse of genuineness he'd shown her, but a fleet second later, only her reflection stared back from that placid surface.
The return of his nonchalance, so well-rehearsed yet so unreal, left her choking on frustration. Ever since that night in the parlor, she'd known there was more to Rafe than the cavalier he played. Why wouldn't he show her who he truly was? Why wouldn't he reveal the man behind the facade?
She never got the opportunity to ask. A brisk, measured stride sounded in the hall. Rafe resumed his Chumley mask, and Benson, another master of facades, halted before the open door. The butler's expression was bland as he bowed, but when he straightened to announce his purpose, his tone was disconcertingly smug.
"Pardon my intrusion, miss. But His Grace has a visitor downstairs. A Mrs. Fiona Fairgate, by name. She brought no calling card, but she claims to be his mother."
Chapter 10
Silver held her breath as the two men locked eyes. For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved. And no sound resonated through the room but the crumbling of her heart. Who was this Fiona Fairgate? The idea that Rafe's mother might actually be alive, and standing in her foyer, sickened Silver.
Her stomach roiling, she gazed at his frozen profile. Had Rafe lied to her that night in the parlor? Had he made up the whole poignant story of his mother's death to woo a naive woman who'd dared to sit beside him in her nightdress?
Rafe pasted on one of his inane smiles. If he hadn't turned so ashen, she might have thought the news of his caller hadn't troubled him in the least.
"My mother, you say?" His chuckle was a trifle high-pitched. "Lud, Bennie, old boy." He dismissed the butler's announcement with a limp wave of his handkerchief. "Mrs. Fairgate is lampooning you."
"Is she indeed, Your Grace?"
If Benson's sneer piqued him, Rafe did a masterful job of concealing it. "Just so. Mrs. Fairgate helped rear me after Mummy died. I daresay she considers me one of her own."
Benson didn't look impressed. He didn't even look convinced.
Silver wished she could be.
She cleared her throat. "Benson, show Mrs. Fairgate up here so she and the duke can enjoy a private reunion."
Benson marshaled blandness once more. "Very well, miss."
She suspected he'd left the matter unchallenged only because he relished the impending confrontation between Rafe and Fiona.
As Benson's footfalls receded in the hall, Silver rose. She couldn't fail to notice how carefully Rafe kept his back to her. His rigid pose and darkened countenance weren't reassuring. In fact, they triggered the old, dormant fears.
"You want to tell me who Mrs. Fairgate really is?" she asked quietly, somehow managing not to sound anxious or, worse, hurt.
He crossed to the window, his movements unusually stiff. "Like I told Benson," he said, his voice cool, clipped, and laced with a subtle warning, "she helped raise me."
Silver moistened her lips, his manner unnerving her more than she cared to admit. This wasn't a side of Rafe she'd ever seen. And while it was still nothing like the demon Aaron had unveiled that dreadful night five years ago, still... She'd been battling her fear of angry men ever since.
"So... Mrs. Fairgate's a relative of some kind?"
"No."
She winced. If words could lash, his would have. Still, she had every right to know. Wiping the palms of her hands on her skirts, she fought off the insidious urge to flee. "A... a friend of yours, then?"
He said nothing. An excruciatingly long silence passed. Silver suspected time would run out before his contrariness did.
"Rafe," she pleaded softly, "I need to know what we're up against before Benson returns."
His jaw twitched. She began to think her appeal had been wasted until finally he darted a glittering glance her way.
"She's an actress. And a professional huckster. You're already acquainted with her husband. From the Mining Exchange."
Silver frowned, momentarily baffled, until she recalled Rafe's fast-talking partner with the smelly cigar. "I take it her appearance here today wasn't part of your plan?"
His chest heaved. "No."
"Rafe..." She bit her lip. She was beginning to suspect Mrs. Fairgate's arrival bothered him for some reason besides its sheer inconvenience. If all he was trying to do was repair the damage to some humbuggery he'd been plotting, wouldn't he have launched into a spiel of excuses by now?
"Rafe," she tried again, more gently this time, "if you didn't ask her to come here, then why would someone who presumably cares about you risk jeopardizing your—"
"I'll get rid of her. Don't worry."
Cynicism, like acid, had dripped from each word.
She glanced uncomfortably at Tavy. The pup had inched closer to Rafe, her whiskers quivering anxiously. When he paid her no mind, she scrambled up on the window seat, one tiny paw raised to his thigh. Rafe acted like stone. If he felt that sweet gesture of concern, it didn't move him. Silver felt unaccountably upset for his pet. It wasn't like Rafe to ignore his precious otter. It wasn't like him to turn so blasted cold that icicles practically hung in the air between them.
But then, what did she really know about Raphael Jones?
"I-I wasn't worried," she stammered, for some reason wanting to cry. "Not about the plan, I mean. I was just... uh, concerned about..." you.
God. It was true. She blinked back the traitorous sting. What if this Fairgate woman had undermined Rafe's story elsewhere in town? Silver reasoned she could protect him from Benson. She could even protect him from Papa. But what about the Trevelyans? And Marshal Hawthorne?
For the first time since hiring him to ruin Celestia, Silver shamefully faced how selfish she'd been. Rafe was taking an enormous personal risk on her behalf. And even though she was paying him quite handsomely for it, she couldn't help but feel like dung on his bootheel. He might be skilled at chicanery and frauds, but he wasn't invulnerable to a jury! Why hadn't she ever considered his danger? What if he were arrested for some past misdeed and... and she never saw him again?
Benson's return was heralded by another measured stride, one like a veritable death knell. Towering on the threshold in all his somber black, he reminded Silver of the Grim Reaper. The only difference between doom and Benson, she thought nervously, was that Benson didn't cackle.
"Mrs. Fiona Fairgate," he announced triumphantly.
Silver tossed him a withering glare. But her attention was claimed almost instantly by the woman who stepped into the room. Fiona was older than Silver had anticipated, perhaps sixty, a circumstance that she attributed to the acceptable, though somewhat dated, hat upon Fiona's too yellow hair.
The actress was heavily busted, if not quite as broad of hip, and Silver suspected these attributes had made her wildly popular among male audiences of her day. Any hint of the burlesque show was absent from her attire, however. Fiona's hair had been neatly rolled into a French knot, and her striped, pewter-blue traveling suit, though dusty, was not noticeably threadbare. With her cameo-studded collar, snow white gloves, gray parasol, and smartly laced boots, she made for a passable matron of society.
But the thing that indelibly marked Fiona as a woman of lower class, Silver thought despairingly, was her face paint. Fiona's powder only accentuated the crevices around her sagging features and, unfortunately, contrasted a bit too vividly with her
heavily rouged cheeks, cherry lips, and the vibrant blue streaks above her eyes. Silver suspected that Benson had been quick to notice the tawdry effect and had drawn a similar conclusion.
Mustering an air of cordiality, Silver stepped briskly forward. "Mrs. Fairgate," she said with cool aplomb, acutely aware that this woman was somehow hurting Rafe—and that Benson, eager to watch, was loitering on the threshold. "I am Silver Nichols. It's a pleasure to receive you in my home."
Worried green eyes, no less canny for their upset, flickered her way. Then Fiona pasted on a tight little smile, bobbing her head in greeting. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Nichols," she said in a British—unmistakably highbrow British—accent.
Silver silently blessed the woman for that attempt at concession. Perhaps she hadn't come with the intention of hurting Rafe, after all. But intending to or not, her appearance had all but verified Rafe's masquerade for the ever-suspicious Benson. Now Silver had to figure out some way to convince the butler he'd reached the wrong conclusion.
And how the devil was she supposed to do that?
For the first time in her life, Silver thanked God her father disliked Benson. Perhaps Papa's good-natured antagonism, coupled with his growing fondness for "Chumley," would keep him from listening to accusations against Rafe.
Silver took some consolation in that thought. "That will be all, Benson."
The man tensed, his dark eyes narrowing. She might have been unsettled by the blatant hostility in his gaze if his behavior hadn't annoyed her so much. She glared imperiously at him. A tense moment passed, but he did, eventually, back down. Apparently Benson still valued his job enough not to defy her openly.
However, he did neglect to close the door behind him.
Damn his arrogant hide. Silver pressed her lips together. Her esteemed British butler was getting a bit too high-handed for her peace of mind. She knew he hadn't been happy for some time in Papa's employ, but his contempt seemed to be growing in direct correlation to the new watches and rings he'd been sporting.
Why, just the other day, he'd had the nerve to pass an envelope to one of his back-alley acquaintances at the servants' entrance. Cook had complained vociferously about the incident, because the one-eyed stranger had stolen her apple pie. Silver suspected Benson was placing bets—that his gambling had given him a false sense of prosperity and he was looking for a reason to quit.
Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Page 19