Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (20 page)

"I say," Rafe drawled, raising his quizzing glass and refusing to move out of her way. "What a smashing chapeau. I do believe you and Madam Cellie could be setting the millinery fashion for ghost-chasing all over the Colonies."

Despite his affected manner, Silver heard the rumble of sensuality in his voice, felt the provocative throb of his heat. They stood boot toe to boot toe, and only she could see the wicked invitation behind the lashes veiling his gaze. She hated that her heart quickened in response... and that her palms grew moist.

"Ghost-chasing?" she repeated sharply. She hoped to appear more stern than flustered, despite the quickened flutter of lace at her throat.

He smiled his rogue's smile, letting only one dimple crease the corner of his mouth. "Why, yes. Tally-ho, and all that. We've been chomping at the bit, waiting for you to rise and shine and finish your beauty ministrations, my dear. But the devil take me if it wasn't worth the wait. Don't you agree, Max?"

"Sure do!"

"Cellie even packed a picnic lunch," Rafe crooned.

Silver started. The indignation she'd been feeling because he'd left acorns in her room, then had ensconced his mistress in her guest wing, had come back full force, only to be melted away in an even hotter blast of ire when she heard him speak the name of her nemesis.

"Cellie?" she bit out, too upset for the moment to consider that she was actually jealous, not angry.

"Over here, dear," Cellie called absently.

It was then that Silver looked beyond Rafe and spied Celestia, dressed in full mining gear and a peach turban, sitting on the porch steps and staring into a teacup. Celestia waved a distracted hand, all the while mumbling to a young man who listened eagerly to her predictions about the sweetheart he would someday marry. A camera and tripod were balanced across his lap.

"Papa," Silver asked suspiciously, watching him cross the porch to kiss his fiancée's cheek, "you
are
accompanying me to the Union meeting this morning, aren't you?"

He started guiltily, and she bit her tongue on an oath.

"Papa! We're supposed to meet with the Union in half an hour."

"Uh, right. The Union. I was sort of hoping you could stall them, daughter."

"Stall
them?" She gritted her teeth. "Papa, please don't tell me you forgot about the negotiations."

"'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?"