Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (24 page)

"How old were you?" she whispered.

His jaw tensed, and she instantly regretted her question.

"I didn't mean to pry, Rafe, I just—"

"Fourteen."

She swallowed. She hadn't expected him to answer.

"I was eight," she offered tentatively.

"Your father told me."

"He... did?"

He nodded, and she bit her lip. Had Papa left
anything
about her to Rafe's imagination?

"What else did he tell you? About Mama, I mean?" she added hastily, afraid that Aaron's name would somehow roll off Rafe's tongue. She reminded herself for at least the thousandth time that her fear was groundless. After all, the truth of that matter would never reach Papa's ears. Not unless Aaron himself had an attack of conscience.

She prayed to God he never would.

"Max doesn't talk about her much," Rafe said, his tone tender with sympathy.

"Oh." She wondered if she sounded as deflated as she felt. She hated to think Papa never grieved for Mama. She hated to think... well, that anything her maternal grandfather had ever said about Papa's fickle heart was true.

"Why don't you tell me about her?" Rafe murmured.

She blushed. He hadn't moved a muscle, and yet she felt closer to him than ever before. She wondered if it was the heat of him, so subtly alluring, so seductively tangible. Or was it the comfort their newfound comradery gave her? She really wanted to believe he cared about her hurt, the way she cared about his.

She raised her uncertain gaze to his. "I don't remember much. She was... Mama. And I loved her."

His thoughts were unreadable in those moon-silvered eyes, but she sensed poignancy in his silence.

"I never understood why God took her away." She felt compelled to keep speaking, to touch him with words in a way she dared not touch him with her hand. "I tried to convince myself she was needed in heaven. I liked to think she was an angel, because she was so beautiful. And because she laughed a lot. Not like Aunt Agatha."

He nodded. She wondered if he was thinking of his own mother, or if Papa had told him some harrowing tale of Aunt "Hagatha."

"Papa wasn't home when the accident happened," Silver continued, the creep of grief turning her hoarse. "But Grandfather blamed him. I remember how he came to take me away. Papa was so much like a child himself, you see..."

She averted her eyes, recalling the bitter accusations her mother's wealthy father had made, claiming that Papa was irresponsible, that he was unfit to raise a child. Even though Mama had been wholly responsible for hitching the gig and driving out in icy weather, Grandfather had reasoned she would never have been tempted to such foolishness if Papa hadn't won the conveyance through Poker. On that horrible day, as Grandfather had dragged Silver out the door, screaming for Papa, he had vowed that Papa would never ruin Silver the way he'd ruined her mama.

"Grandfather never approved of Papa," Silver said thickly. "He didn't like the fact that Papa's parents had been German immigrants. Grandfather convinced himself that Papa was worthless, that he'd never amount to anything, and that he had seduced Mama for her dowry."

Silver caught her breath, groaning inwardly as the truth slipped out. She hadn't meant to unlock
that
particular skeleton from the family closet!
Even she wasn't supposed to know she'd been conceived out of wedlock. She'd stumbled across the truth when she'd learned how to add.

She hastened to defend her parents' marriage. "I don't think Mama could have been very happy under Grandfather's roof. I think she fell in love with Papa because he was spontaneous and carefree, a far cry from her overbearing father."

It had taken Silver years to understand why her mother's family had hated Papa. In retrospect, she was amazed that Grandfather had allowed Papa to visit her on holidays.

But until she had understood Grandfather's prejudice, she had blamed herself for Papa's absence. At the age of eight, she hadn't known that a wealthy grandfather could influence a judge and prevent an impoverished father from living with his child. For the longest time, she had believed Papa had left her behind with her authoritarian grandfather and her dour, spinster aunt not because Papa had been determined to strike it rich and fight fire with fire but because she'd displeased him in some way.

Not until her fourteenth year, when Grandfather had died and Aunt Agatha had become her sole guardian, had Papa confessed he'd been afraid to cross his powerful father-in-law. That had been the summer of 1872, and shortly afterward, Grandfather's ill-advised attorney had invested Aunt Agatha's inheritance, costing her everything but the boardinghouse.

With Papa's savings consumed by the search for gold, even he had understood that his was no life for a fourteen-year-old daughter. He had told her she'd be better off cooking three meals a day to help care for her aunt's boarders than rubbing elbows with the hustlers, hookers, and thieves that preyed on mining camps.

So, once again, she and Papa had been separated.

"Aunt Agatha used to tell me my mother, her younger sister, had been an incorrigible and wayward child." Silver plucked at her gown as the hurtful memories threatened her composure. "I think Aunt Agatha hated Papa even more than Grandfather did, that she was jealous of Mama and Papa, because she'd never had many beaux. She told me once she thought it was her God-given duty to cure me of my parents' legacy."

"And did she?" Rafe asked softly.

Silver's cheeks warmed. She recalled a time, a time so long ago that now it felt like another life, when she had been lonely and rebellious, when she had thought to defy her well-meaning but annoyingly prudish aunt by sneaking out of windows and meeting sweet-talking beaux in the moonlight.

She'd met Aaron numerous times that way, and he'd stolen a kiss or two. It had seemed so romantic. She had thought herself hopelessly in love with the young ironworks heir, and she'd believed he loved her, too—until the night he'd pinned her against the garden wall. Until the night he'd said it was time to call her bluff, that he was tired of all her cockteasing...

"Silver?"

Rafe's gentle touch on her arm startled her, and she leaped to her feet, pressing her palms to her flaming face.

"Y-yes," she gasped, doing her best to fight off the frisson of panic that galloped up her spine. "I was cured."

She spun hastily away, and when she crossed to the window, Rafe frowned. What had he done this time to spook her?

For a long moment he studied her, assessing every word, every gesture she'd made since sailing through the parlor doors. When she'd sat beside him on the bench, he'd thought he had finally moved her. He'd thought he was making progress, that she was beginning to trust him, and all because his damned feelings had been genuine. More genuine than he cared to feel.

Who would have thought that he and Silver had so much in common: a mother who'd risked scandal for love. A legacy that was... well, less than favorable. The only difference, he supposed, was that Max had done right by Silver's mother. His father, on the other hand, had disappeared like a thief in the night.

Rafe grimaced to recall something so useless and hurtful.

Was that his problem, then? That he couldn't stop himself from empathizing with Silver because he, too, had suffered the disapproval of the dictator who'd raised him? Rafe hoped so, because sentiment he could ignore. His pesky conscience was another matter. Why the hell had he sat there, a mere hair's breadth from her lips, and made not a single, solitary attempt to kiss her? Wasn't seduction his game? Wasn't he playing to win?

He scowled.
Jones, you're getting soft. What are you doing here, if it isn't to woo the girl's trust, take her money, and get out before she gets wise to your lack of progress with Cellie?

His gut roiled as he posed the question, but he pretended not to notice. Despite the uncanny way Silver had of helping his conscience rear its ugly head, she was a mark, like any other—only richer. He'd be a fool to waste this chance.

Fortunately, all wasn't lost. She still stood by the window, worrying her full, moist lip and gazing up at the moon as if she thought she might decipher some mystical knowledge from the clouds wreathing its face.

And as any professional rake knew, the moon was a handy tool for seduction.

He moved toward her, but her voice, so full of trepidation, made his feet falter beside the settee.

"Do you... believe in ghosts?"

"Ghosts?" His brow furrowed. He liked to think he understood women, but that question had come like a bolt out of the blue. He'd been hoping to capitalize on their newfound bond of childhood despair. What had happened to all her angst about Mama?

He chose his answer carefully. "I've never had occasion to."

She fingered a hunter green tassel hanging from the draperies. Was it his imagination, or did her hand tremble as it wrapped around the knot?

"I have to ask you something, and... I need to know you'll answer truthfully."

Truthfully?
He'd never wooed a woman with the truth before. He'd never found the unvarnished facts about himself terribly appealing. Why should a woman?

More curious than cautious, however, he decided to see where this train of thought derailed. "All right," he purred in his most melodic baritone. "What do you want to know?"

If she noticed the sultry transformation in his voice, she didn't mark it.

"The night of the engagement party, did you, uh, carry out your threat to... um, visit my bedroom?"

He hid a smug smile. Had she wanted him to?

"No."

She looked truly agitated now. "Are you sure?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I think I'd remember," he murmured.

She swallowed audibly. He had stopped a foot or two away; still, when she turned to face him, he swore he could hear her heartbeat. Certainly, he could see its wild cadence in the fluttering of her gown. He battled a rising sense of guilt. As much as he'd like to believe he saw longing in her eyes, he had to concede that fear, not lust, stared back at him.

"Rafe, please," she choked, "please tell me you've been sneaking into my bedroom at night and leaving acorns. And broken bird eggs. And... and some sort of shriveled seed pod."

He frowned, genuinely concerned by her upset—another lamentable lapse into sentiment. Even if he took into consideration the ghostly wash of the moon, she looked much too pale.

Yet when he reached to comfort her, she backed into the draperies as if his arm were a striking snake. He froze in midgesture, his skin crawling to think he could inspire such terror in anything, much less a woman.

"Silver." Somehow he managed to force gentleness out of the vise that squeezed his throat. "Honey, I swear, I have never meant to frighten you. And I've never been inside your bedroom, except that one time when I heard you scream. Because of Tavy. Remember?"

She closed her eyes and nodded. Her haggard features couldn't quite conceal her struggle for composure, and he watched the rare show uncomfortably, wondering at the clash of raw emotions.

"I-I'm sorry." She pasted on a weak smile. "It's this nightmare I keep having. It has me a bit jumpy, I suppose."

He frowned. Nightmare be damned. This was Silver Nichols, his cool-as-ice princess, the same woman who negotiated their business deal the way a barracuda negotiated a coral reef. "What's this really about, Silver?"

She tore her gaze away. For a long moment, she faced the window, staring glassily toward the fountain and hedgerows in the sculpted garden beyond. The muffled
tick, tick, ticking
of the hall clock knelled in the silence between them.

Finally, she moistened her lips.

"I think... I'm being haunted."

"Haunted," he repeated dubiously. He supposed he didn't have to tell her how ridiculous that sounded.

However, he knew better than to try dragging the truth from her. If she were anything like him, and she was proving to be very much so, she'd fight like a badger to keep her secrets hidden. "And why would you think that?"

"If I tell you, you'll think I'm hysterical."

"I'm more likely to think you're your father's daughter."

She blew out her breath, as if to imply that notion was even more disturbing. But when she folded her arms across her breasts, uneasiness, not exasperation, creased her profile.

"Swear you won't laugh."

"I swear."

She didn't look convinced. In fact, she looked like she regretted telling him what she had. Finally, she dropped her arms and sighed.

"I suppose I can't expect you not to laugh. If you'd told
me
you were being haunted, I would have laughed. Uproariously. But you see, it's not funny when it's happening before your very eyes and... and there's no logical explanation."

He watched the old, businesslike Silver trying to break through the fear. He was glad. The shrinking, inconsolable Silver threw him off his game, making him feel... well, inadequate.

"Go on."

She fidgeted, avoiding his eyes. "I started having the nightmares about three months ago, shortly after Papa ordered the new tunnel blasted in Silver's Mine. Shortly after he told me he was marrying Celestia."