Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (35 page)

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 snake, 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.

She quailed as another thought occurred: Benson might also have learned she'd hired Rafe to ruin Celestia!

She bit her lip, uncertain now what role she should play. When she glanced at Rafe for guidance, though, it was clear he didn't need her help. Wisecracking scrapper that he was, he held his ground with a smile as derisive as Aaron's.

"Your reputation precedes you too, my dear Townsend. Why, with all your threats and arm-twisting, I feared you might thrash Miss Nichols within an inch of her life, rather like you did that poor chorus girl back in Leadville. What, were you looking to add another murder to your own list of warrants?"

Silver gasped.

Aaron stiffened. Carefully, deliberately, he squared off with Rafe.

"If I were you, Jones," he warned softly, "I would mind my tongue. You are upsetting my fiancée."

"Fiancée?"
Rafe snorted. "If you are referring to Miss Nichols, then I would have to say she speaks quite well for herself, as I so recently had the pleasure of overhearing."