Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1)

Scoundrel For Hire

The Velvet Lies Series

Book One

by

Adrienne deWolfe

Bestselling, Award-winning Author

SCOUNDREL FOR HIRE

Reviews & Accolades

"Wickedly funny! This book sizzles with a scoundrel you won't mind losing your heart to."

~Christina Dodd, New York Times Best-Seller

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-427-1

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Prologue

Whitley County, Kentucky

December, 1866

The cemetery was windswept and barren, a landscape of ice.

In all his fourteen years, Raphael Jones had never seen anything bleaker, not even during the war, when Jedidiah had burned furniture to keep the family warm. The year that the Confederates had cut Federal supply lines, Rafe had believed there could never be a worse Christmas.

Then Mama had died.

The ground was so frozen that the gravediggers had used axes to hack at the earth. Their torches sputtered and hissed in the snow that whooshed down from Kentucky's Cumberland Mountains. Standing alone to watch, Rafe had braved the sting of that storm, his limbs warmed by the rage that still seethed through his veins. The only part of him that could never be thawed was his heart. Finally, stripped of his last ounce of hope, he'd been forced to accept the raw truth: God didn't care about him or his prayers.

Rafe's four-year-old sister stood beside him. One mittened hand holding his, the other clutching Mama's prayer book, Sera gazed dreamily toward the icicles on the oak guarding Mama's grave. She was too young to understand. Perhaps that was why she hadn't cried during the memorial service, not even after Jedidiah had barked, "Not another word, Seraphina. Not another word about ghosts, you hear me?"

"Not ghosts, Papa," she'd piped up in childish innocence. "Angels. Beautiful angels with golden wings. Mama's dancing with them by the tree. Can't you see?"

But Jedidiah Jones hadn't seen. Preacher Jones never saw anything unless it was blasphemous. Angels might not be, but Sera certainly had been with her talk of her dead mother's ghost. At least, that's what Jedidiah had raged at the child before he'd climbed the pulpit to face the mourners who'd been shivering with impatience for his eulogy to end, so they could hurry home to their cheerful fires and Christmas hams.

Rafe knew he should be used to his adoptive father's ways, but today, Jedidiah's lack of compassion had made Rafe sick. As cold as it was, Rafe had bundled up Sera and six-year-old Gabriel and shepherded them outside. They'd hurried past the black-plumed horses of the hearse, to the frozen mound that marked their mother's final resting place. Here, he'd thought, his kid brother and little sister could say good-bye the way they wanted to, without Jedidiah's scorn.

Unfortunately, Rafe was no longer sure he'd done the right thing. Beneath her ribboned baby cap, muff, and cape, Sera was shivering, even though he'd wrapped his scarf around her shoulders. Gabriel, when he wasn't coughing, was stomping his boots in his hated knickerbockers and ribbed wool stockings.

"Gabriel, you should take Sera inside now," Rafe said, his voice thick from unshed tears. "It's getting dark, and you look cold."

"I'm not cold," Gabriel said quickly, belying the evidence on his too pale face. Despite the radiance that never left his eyes, Gabriel wasn't a healthy child. Jedidiah always said that radiance came from Gabriel's fevers. Mama used to say it was the mark of a servant of God. Personally, Rafe thought that gleam came from mischief, since Gabriel was happiest sneaking frogs into the house or tying Sera's shoelaces in knots.

"Rafe?" Sera was tugging on his hand. "Do we have to go inside? I want to stay out here with Mama and the angels."