Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "Will there be bloodshed?"

  Silence rolled like a tangible fog through the semi-darkness. Silver counted five, perhaps six heartbeats before the answer finally knelled: One rap.

  "For heaven's sake, who is it? Who is it!" Daisy wailed.

  "Is it Edward Trevelyan?" Cellie intoned.

  Two raps. The couple nearly sobbed with relief.

  "Very well," Cellie said. "Then we shall determine who among the remaining gentlemen it is."

  Forever feuding, Kilkarney and Penhalion locked eyes. So did Rafe and Fred. Silver swallowed, watching Papa watch Buckholtz. And adding to her uneasiness, she caught Cellie gazing narrowly at her.

  "Spirits," Cellie called, her voice rising in volume and power, "we seek the gentleman's last name. Kindly knock when I state the first letter. A," she said slowly. "B." Each syllable resonated with dramatic authority. "C—"

  "Oh for crying out loud," Buckholtz grumbled. "At this rate, we're going to be here all night."

  "You have no right to be flippant," Daisy flung back, "just because you know you're not in danger now!"

  "Not necessarily," Penhalion growled.

  A horrific crash drowned out the rest of his threat. Papa leaped to his feet. So did Rafe and Daisy.

  "It's the ghost!" Daisy shrieked, pointing at a renegade crab puff. It bounced from the armchair to the floor. Before everyone's astonished eyes, the remaining china inexplicably toppled, shattering into a dozen pieces. Slowly, spookily, the white ticking on the armchair began to rise.

  "Jesus everloving Christ," Buckholtz choked, his eyes bugging out to twice their normal size. The ghost gave a querulous chirp, and Buckholtz, heedless of chandeliers, stained glass, and human life, drew his .45.

  "No!" Rafe shouted, lunging for the newsman's arm. The Colt fired; plaster showered from the ceiling; Daisy wilted in a dead faint; and the ghost, barking in terror, streaked out from under the ticking and dashed beneath Silver's petticoats.

  Papa roared with mirth. Fred laughed so hard that his chair toppled backwards. The other men stood blinking at one another, uncertain of the joke, while a scarlet Buckholtz shook off a snickering Rafe.

  Cellie, meanwhile, stood scowling. "The spirits are not amused," she snapped, shooting daggerlike glares at her detractors. She tossed her pesky shawl over her shoulder, hiked her chin, then sailed from the room like a battleship in full steam.

  "Uh-oh." Papa was doing his best to sober up between guffaws. "Looks like the séance is over, folks."

  The gaslights flared. Benson appeared at the parlor door with a cocked .45. Several armed servants accompanied him. Without further encouragement, Buckholtz stalked from the house. Several minutes later, Benson's efficient, tight-lipped legions had reunited coats, gloves, and hats with their owners. Cellie's audience, some thoroughly spooked, some crying hoax, hastened for their modes of transportation. Papa ran to soothe his disgruntled necromancer.

  Silver sat imprisoned on her seat. Aside from the fact that unaccountable knockings, pronouncements of doom, and capricious gun-firings had left her in jitters, she now had a trembling furball wrapped around her ankle. Why Tavy had chosen her dress and her ankle for concealment when any number of nooks and crannies would have sufficed, was beyond Silver's comprehension.

  If she hadn't known better, she would have thought that Rafe had trained his pet to kiss females and sneak under their skirts. In any event, Silver suspected that she'd have trouble being ladylike, much less decorous, while she was yanking an otter out from under her unmentionables.

  Reluctant to flaunt her petticoats before the world, she glared at her smirking male audience. Unfortunately, Rafe and Fred—being Rafe and Fred—refused to take the hint and leave.

  "You wouldn't happen to know where Tavy ran off to, would you?" Rafe drawled, the old mischief dancing in his eyes.

  Despite her better sense, Silver softened beneath Rafe's grin. She hadn't realized how much she missed his smiles. Ever since Fiona's visit, he'd been battling a case of the blue devils.

  She tossed an aggravated glance at Fred, who was shaking the crystal ball, pretending to be fascinated. "Rafe, you know very well where Tavy is," she whispered back.

  He chuckled, dropping to one knee at her side. Her heart took a dizzying leap to see him in the traditional "marry-me" pose. It was all she could do to remember their audience.

  "I was deferring to your feminine sensibilities," Rafe murmured, covering her fist with his hand.

  "I... appreciate that." Disappointed by his response, in spite of her common-sense reminder that no man would ever propose to a woman in public, she managed to recall the problem at hand. "Rafe, what are we going to do? Tavy's terrified. She's attached herself to my shoe like a barnacle!"

  A roguish dimple flirted with the corner of his mouth. "Your shoe, eh?"

  She nodded.

  "Are you quite sure?"

  She blushed at his innuendo, her whole body singing with warmth. "Well..." The smile she gave him was a bit more shy than she would have liked. "More or less."

  "Then I suggest we remove her," he purred, shifting nearer. "A delicate operation, to be sure."

  His forehead nearly touched hers, and she shivered with delight. She thought he would kiss her. She hoped he would. In that moment, as his lips hovered so provocatively above hers, she didn't care one whit who might watch them. She'd surrendered. She was lost. He'd wrapped her in a sensual cocoon of enticement, of man-scents and magnetism. It was the delicious, scandalous paradise promised by Raphael Jones.

  And for the first time, after all the many times he'd opened the door on this forbidden Eden, she reveled in the sheer impropriety of walking in.

  Tavy, unfortunately, had other ideas. At the crisp click of servile heels on the floor, she peeked out from Silver's hem, blinked up at the butler radiating such tangible disapproval, and yipped, launching herself into Rafe's arms. Rafe chuckled and Silver sighed, watching his pet circle fretfully in the embrace she'd hoped so futilely would be hers.

  Benson began clearing his throat.

  "Yes. Benson," she interrupted irritably. It wasn't as if she couldn't feel him looming beside her like the lumberjack of doom. "What is it?"

  "You have a visitor, miss."

  His cheeky manner disturbed her, and she frowned, rising. "At this hour?"

  Benson remembered his manners long enough to incline his head. "The gentleman apologized for the inconvenience. He said he had merely intended to leave his card, but then he heard the gunshot. And he grew most alarmed. He mentioned you were old friends."

  This last declaration raised her hackles. What on earth was the matter with Benson, believing such a preposterous tale? No gentleman called on a lady at ten o'clock at night. Weren't butlers supposed to bounce such troublemakers out the door?

  Then he passed her an embossed calling card, one she recognized only too well. Her hand shook as she touched the gold leaf. She suspected her complexion had turned rather pasty, because Rafe, rising in concern, hastened to peer over her fist.

  The bald shock that twisted his features reverberated through every fiber of her being. In that instant, as their eyes locked, Silver didn't know whether to be distressed or elated. Although jealousy had flared in his gaze, a disconcerting dullness soon rolled in to snuff out his... what? Hope?

  Uneasily, she turned Aaron's card in her hand. Damn him. Why had he come here? She really didn't want to deal with her own ghosts tonight. She felt disadvantaged, her nerves still frazzled from the séance.

  On the other hand, if she didn't deal now in some satisfactory way with Aaron's demands, she'd have to deal with them tomorrow. Or the next day. And that would increase the risk of Papa getting involved and learning her darkest secret.

  Silver gritted her teeth. She'd just known Aaron would force some confrontation with her. She'd known it ever since she'd read the news clipping about his capital-raising venture. But she could face him, she told herself staunchly. She would face him.

  She
would do it so she could finally be free.

  "Very well, Benson." Silver squared her shoulders and drew a bolstering breath. "You may tell Mr. Townsend I'll meet him in the garden."

  Chapter 13

  Fred was practically choking on his cigar as Silver walked out the door. "Townsend?" he sputtered between coughs. "Aaron Townsend? That bastard's courting your heiress?"

  Rafe scowled. Frankly, he didn't see how anything Silver or Aaron Townsend did was any of Fred's business.

  "Butt out," Rafe snapped, lowering Tavy to the floor so she could feast on the crab puffs she'd been stalking before Buckholtz had turned village idiot.

  The veins on Fred's neck actually bulged. "What's the matter with you, letting Townsend get his hands on your woman?"

  "Silver isn't my woman."

  "She bloody well could be. Hell, the way she flapped her eyelashes at you, I could feel the breeze over here."

  Sure. Rafe smiled mirthlessly. For a kiss and a tumble, Silver is going to forget her rich Philadelphian. She's going to throw away her whole future as the wife of a congressman on a penniless ne 'er-do-well named Raphael Jones.

  "Leave it alone, Fred."

  "For Christ's sake, lad, are you going to let some tenderfoot steal your thunder?"

  "Dammit, Fred, I said—"

  "The same bastard who beat up Amy?"

  Rafe staggered. The blow had hit him hard. Hard enough to punch a hole through his spleen. "Jesus."

  "It's about bloody damned time you heard me. Now get your arse in that garden and take care of your woman before something—"

  Rafe didn't hear the rest. He was already bolting down the hall, his heart crashing in his ears. He didn't stop to question why he should believe Fred now, after vowing yesterday morning he never would again. Fear for Silver's safety coiled like a serpent around his throat. By the time he'd reached the back of the house and flung open the French doors, he could scarcely draw a breath.

  Mother of God, where are they?

  Twisted shadows marked the trees. Lush, summer foliage obscured his sight, shrouding each bend. Still, the night was his element. He plunged in. Letting his senses stretch, he followed the ribbon of cobblestones without really seeing. Silver was ahead somewhere; he tracked her less by scent and sound than by an elusive knowing that came from his gut.

  The path abruptly ended. Before him stretched Max's fish pond, the same pond he and Tavy visited every day for hunting lessons. In the lovers' dance of moon and shadow, he could clearly see the glimmer of ivory satin. Silver chatted in cozy proximity with her suitor as they strolled along the limestone footbridge that arched so quaintly from the pond's shore to the center island. They were headed toward the pavilion Max had constructed for oompah bands and garden parties. Silver's skirt fluttered in a gust of wind, brushing Townsend's boot, and Rafe suffered a stab of jealousy. Lithe and statuesque in her Empire gown, her hair adorned simply with a green velvet ribbon, she reminded Rafe of a Grecian goddess.

  Townsend, on the other hand, reminded Rafe of Dr. Jekyll.

  Sudden recognition lashed Rafe like a cat-o'-ninetails. That's the same easterner I collided with in Leadville! Had Townsend been fleeing the alley that night because he'd hurt Amy?

  Rafe's whole body vibrated with outrage. Never in his life had he killed a man, but in that moment, he would have done so, and gladly. The trouble was, he had Silver and her sensibilities to consider. If she were head-over-heels in love, how was he supposed to convince her Townsend was dangerous?

  Grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, Rafe forced himself to melt once more into shadow.

  The couple halted at the top of the bridge. Only fifty yards away, their conversation carried well enough over the water to make Rafe's blood boil.

  "The mountains become you, my dear," the easterner purred in a syrupy baritone. "The mountains, the moonlight... and white satin. I always knew you'd be a stunning bride, Silver."

  He reached for the delicate, rose-embroidered shawl that was slipping from her shoulders. She retreated a full step.

  "If that's your idea of a proposal, Aaron, then please don't."

  His hand hovered, a classic gesture of longing and chagrin. "I can't believe you mean that."

  "I'm afraid I do," she said firmly.

  His hand fell, and his head tilted. The bastard's timing was superb, Rafe mused darkly. Townsend should have been an actor.

  "Your mind has changed," Townsend lamented, believably distressed, "but surely your heart has not."

  Rafe rolled his eyes.

  "Contrary to popular belief, absence does not make the heart grow fonder, Aaron."

  Oh, brava, Silver.

  Townsend's smile was fleeting—and subtle in its threat. "Your mind isn't the only thing that's changed, Silver. You've grown... contentious. I must say, I don't find that nearly as appealing as your gown."

  "Then you'll agree that I've spared you a great deal of grief, Aaron, by declining your proposal."

  His chuckle raised the hairs on Rafe's neck. "Another debt which I owe you. And I do pay off my debts, Silver. Make no mistake."

  She squared her shoulders, but not before Rafe glimpsed their tremor. "So now we come to the crux of the matter. If you are seeking a loan—"

  "I did not come sixteen hundred miles to seek a loan, my dear. I've come for a wife. Once we are married, we can put all the Philadelphia unpleasantness behind us."

  "That 'Philadelphia unpleasantness,'" she retorted in a choked voice, "was the very thing that killed my love for you!"

  He didn't bother to pretend ignorance—or even insult.

  "As you say. You were naive then, Silver. Don't be stupid now. By all reports, you've become quite successful as a businesswoman, despite the liability of your father."

  She bristled. "My father was the one who struck the mother lode. On four separate occasions, as your 'reports' no doubt informed you."

  "And he thinks his richest mine is haunted. And he's marrying the crackpot whom he hired to exorcize the ghosts." Townsend's smile was disparaging. "I daresay he's to blame, too, for your lumber troubles. Your sawmill would produce twice as much lumber if you dynamited a trench for a flume and dammed up Crystal Creek.

  "But Max isn't your biggest handicap, my dear," he continued dryly. "You seek to open another mine, do you not? To raise the capital for a second smelter? Commendable goals. But they're limited. Because you are a woman, you are doomed never to reach the pinnacle of success you deserve—much less desire. You cannot vote. You cannot hold political office. No matter how rich you become, Washington will always be barred to you.

  "But it is not barred to me," he continued triumphantly, playing his ace. "I am a Townsend. I have the support of the Democratic party. And someday, when I am president, you will be First Lady. Think on that, Silver. Think on the possibilities for your sawmills and your mines. And then tell me if the thought of real power does not excite you."

  Rafe's gut churned, stirring up feelings of inadequacy. As much as he hated to admit it, Townsend's argument was valid. Brains, grit, and wealth could only take Silver so far—assuming, of course, that she wanted to play in the same league as the Vanderbilts and Morgans.

  He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  "You have grand dreams, Aaron," she said at last. "Mine are simpler ones: a husband who loves me, healthy children, a happy home. That is the pinnacle of success, as far as I'm concerned. And for this dream alone would I marry." She shook her head. "I could no more be your wife than you could be my husband. I'm sorry."

  Rafe had to stuff his delirious heart back inside his chest.

  Townsend, however, didn't take her refusal well. He clenched his fist on the railing. "I don't believe you've fully considered the advantages to my suit."

  "Aaron." Her sigh was a mixture of exasperation and compassion. "Please don't make this any harder. My heart belongs to another. Kindly drop the matter."

  She turned, trying to make her escape. As swift as a snak
e, Townsend's hand lashed out, grabbing her forearm. It was all the provocation Rafe needed.

  "I say, old chap," he called, his voice harsh with warning, "did you forget something?"

  Townsend started, scanning the shadows. "Forget something?"

  "Why yes, dear fellow. Your manners." Rafe swung himself over the railing. "Devilish inconvenient, you traveling all the way from Philadelphia without them."

  Silver secretly thanked God when she saw Rafe swoop down out of the night. With the moon glowing behind him, striking silver-white sparks from his hair, he looked like an avenging angel.

  Aaron, however, didn't share her awe. The tension eased from his shoulders, and a thin smile curved his lips.

  "Ah," he greeted Rafe with deceptive pleasantness. "What a heroic entrance. I daresay we should all applaud. I take it by your accent that tonight you're roleplaying none other than His Royal Grace, the so-called duke of Chumley?"

  To his credit, Rafe didn't bat an eye. Silver, on the other hand, nearly swallowed her tongue.

  "F-for heaven's sake, Aaron," she stammered, wishing to God she had one-tenth of Rafe's aplomb. "What has gotten into you? I won't stand for such rudeness. The duke is my guest—"

  "Your guest, you say?" The mockery in his stone-cold gaze pierced her like a stiletto. "Oh, my dear. I fear you and the gentleman have not been properly introduced. Pray allow me the honor. This is M'sieur Guy LeBecque, French ambassador to the fair city of St. Louis; Baxter Bancroft, president of the nonexistent First Depository Bank of San Francisco. Or perhaps, my dear fellow," he taunted baldly, turning to Rafe, "you prefer to be called by the less well-known but no less accurate moniker on your wanted poster: Raphael Jones."

  Silver reeled. Good Lord, Aaron knew everything? Everything about Rafe's shady past? But surely Rafe's public performances had been too flawless for suspicion. Why, even Marshal Hawthorne had yet to put two and two together...

  Benson. The realization hit her with the force of a cannonball. Benson had provided the clues that had tipped off Aaron! Why, that snake had been spying on her and Papa all along! That would explain Benson's sudden prosperity. And it would explain why Aaron was so well informed about her business plans.