Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (7 page)

She blew out her breath. Maybe she'd be less squeamish if Papa's love weren't at stake.

Her bottom lip quivering at the thought, she swept past the moonlit balcony and the French doors she'd opened to counteract the blast of piped-in heat from the hotel furnace.

Damn Celestia Cooper's greedy soul. Papa should have been at the meeting tonight. Silver had
needed
Papa at the meeting, if not for protection, then at least for moral support. When she'd accepted her speaking engagement two months ago, her business mind hadn't allowed her to consider the fact that she might be ogled like a common tart. But that's exactly what had happened, triggering the insidious old fears. Why couldn't she seem to escape them after all these years? No one had wanted to listen to her discourse on mineral high-grading, thanks to the diamond mine furor, and the few members of her audience who had paid her any attention had stared glassily at her breasts. She'd battled a queasy feeling the entire time she'd been on stage.

Looking back on those nerve-rattling twenty minutes, she liked to think she'd handled the front-row lechers with aplomb; even so, she couldn't quite shake the sensation that she was still being... well, watched.

Shivering, she gripped her newspaper tighter and did her best to put such nonsense from her mind.

Needless to say, the only saving grace of the Mining Exchange fiasco had been the plot she'd concocted against Celestia. That fraudulent Mr. Markham had given her the idea—an unscrupulous idea, to be certain, but one that was no less ripe with potential. Celestia had proven she lacked a conscience. She'd made a lifelong career out of duping hardworking, God-fearing people. To Silver's way of thinking, it was time to fight fire with fire.

She winced.
Now that was an abominable pun.

Still, there was no denying Celestia could use a taste of her own medicine. The woman probably deserved a whole lot worse—a jail term, for starters—but she'd been too clever for the prosecutors. With the law predisposed to be lenient to females, Silver knew the only way she'd be able to protect her father was to stoop to Celestia's level.

Well, not exactly to Celestia's level, Silver corrected herself, taking another brisk turn around the room. She could never physically hurt someone or damage their property. She wasn't above teaching Celestia Cooper a lesson, though. In fact, she felt morally obligated to. Hadn't God shown her the way by crossing her path with that Markham imposter? If meeting a scoundrel-for-hire wasn't the result of divine providence, Silver didn't know what was.

Sighing, she halted beside the bed.

Even so, her plan was not without its risks. A hundred or more things could go wrong, all of them at a moment's notice. With her father's fortune, his happiness, even his safety at stake, dare she take a professional swindler into her confidence?

This was the question that plagued her more than any other as she stood by her bedside, worrying her bottom lip. Every now and then her gaze strayed indecisively to the contents of her carpetbags, strewn across her quilt in preparation for packing.

She still had time to abandon her scheme for a less imaginative one, she reluctantly reminded herself. She doubted a man of her would-be conspirator's character would rise with the sun, so she could slip out of the hotel, avoid the office address she'd so impetuously given him, and book herself a seat on the morning stage. No one would be the wiser. No harm would be done.

Except, of course, that Celestia would have used the day to her advantage, worming her way further into Papa's affections, while Silver had wasted her time conversing with morally deficient men.

Exasperated by the sheer unfairness of it all, she stalked out onto the balcony for relief from the furnace's carbony smell. A chilly breeze riffled a rowan, whose weighty branches bowed low over the railing as if to invite her to sample the fragrance of its blossoms. She shivered irritably instead. Aside from the occasional wildflower bouquet, which she allowed her servants to decorate the parlor with, she'd always found nature to be a nuisance, something to overcome in the struggle to unearth ore or to freight modern conveniences across the mountains to her father's mansion.

Frowning up at the sky, she recalled how little she liked the moon, too. Out here, it made the dance of light and shadow enigmatic, a lover's shroud for stolen intimacies. The notion conjured more uncomfortable memories. Trying to shake them off, she focused on the clouds instead.

There'd been a time in her life when she'd waxed romantic about the allure of celestial bodies, but she was older now and sadly wiser. She'd learned not to succumb to the enchantment of the moon after it had tricked her into trusting Aaron.

Satisfied that the sky wasn't going to unleash itself and keep her from a mud-free getaway at dawn, she started to turn, intent on packing her bags and abandoning her scheme, when something glinted, catching her eye. It had come from the rowan's quivering maze of leaves and flowers. Curious, she stepped nearer. A pair of silvery eyes stared back at her from the canopy's shifting, velvet shadows.

"But soft," her voyeur purred in a liquid southern drawl, "What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."

Dumbstruck, Silver blinked for a full heartbeat before she could rally her wits enough to confirm that a man, not an angel, was perched in her tree quoting Shakespeare. His hair, she decided, was what had made her doubt her senses. Ivory-gold, perhaps amber, it gleamed with a pale luminescence above a high, intelligent brow. As much as she liked to think herself unmoved by masculine beauty, she couldn't help but gawk at his chiseled cheekbones, clefted chin, and lips so sinfully sensual that she didn't know whether to be alarmed or mesmerized when they smiled. Surely a face such as his had inspired the masterworks of Michelangelo.

Nonsense, Silver. You've been associating with grizzled, unkempt miners for too long.

With supreme effort, she recovered the use of her wit and her tongue. "You've mistaken your balcony, Romeo. No ladylove waits for you here. Perhaps you should try the plum tree next door."

He chuckled, a sensual melody that played over her senses with all the golden resonance of a cello. "Fair Juliet mistakes me, I fear. Did you not ask me to meet you alone? To discuss an arrangement?"

Silver started. This time his swallowtail coat, white bow tie, and watchfob registered on her brain. Then came his cologne, a tantalizing whiff of sandalwood and pine. An electrifying jolt smoked down her nerves. He was the imposter!

"B-but how is that possible?" she stammered. "I mean, your hair. And your whiskers!"

"Stage makeup, my dear Miss Nichols. Theatrical whiskers and a wig. You're not disappointed that I'm not an overfed graybeard, are you?"

She swallowed. Good heavens, no. Or rather, yes! Lord, what was the matter with her? The man was a liar and a thief. Judging by his mouthwatering good looks, he was probably a rake as well. She'd become far too acquainted with the dangers of rakes to linger in the moonlight with one.

"I must ask you to leave my tree at once," she said firmly.

"Forgive me." He looked far more contrite than he sounded. "I've shocked you. But I assure you, Miss Nichols, you have nothing to fear from me. After all, you were kind enough not to sic the marshal on me. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

She moistened her lips. She had everything to fear from him, she realized uneasily, and precisely for the reason he'd mentioned. "Y-you followed me here?"

"At your invitation."

"I invited you to my office, not my boudoir!"

"Ah, my mistake." He smirked. "Perhaps I should indeed leave your tree."

To her consternation, he swung down beside her, his broad shoulders all but blotting out her view of the French doors. Escape through the bedroom was impossible now.

"Do you know what time it is?" she hissed, backing as far from him as the railing would allow.

"Yes, before noon. That was a condition of your summons, was it not?"

"You know very well I was asking you to make a proper morning call."

"Do I?"

A tiny tremor, half thrill, half fear, tiptoed down her spine. The balcony hadn't been designed to accommodate petticoats, tree limbs, and a six-foot-tall rogue. One sweeping gesture from his arms, and she'd be pushed over the edge... or pulled hard against him in a steamy embrace. Her stomach somersaulted at the thought.

"I am quite certain I never conveyed more than an intention to do business with you, sir."

"There are all manner of businesses, Miss Nichols. But very few are done alone between a woman and a man."

She flushed, realizing the error she'd made in being so vague. Still, only a cad would dare to suggest her motives had been anything other than ladylike.

And just what did you expect, Silver, given what you already knew about the man?

She winced inwardly.

No wonder she'd felt like she was being watched. The reprobate had apparently stalked her, having the absolute gall to crouch in her tree for a good half hour or more. Undoubtedly he'd been using the time to confirm she was alone and unprotected.

She waited for the old apprehension to seize her at this thought. Strangely, it didn't. The knowledge that he'd been watching her so long actually helped to calm her. That, and his passive demeanor. If harming her had been his intention, he could easily have carried out any number of dastardly deeds. Besides, he'd said so himself: he owed her a debt.

Straightening her spine, she tried to make her stare more withering than wary. "My dear Mister..." She blew out her breath. How did one upbraid a man whose identity one didn't know? "Might I have the courtesy of your name?"

Something like cynicism marred the refined roguery of his smile.

"By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am," he taunted softly. "My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself."

How odd.
She knitted her brows. She could almost have sworn he'd been mocking himself, rather than her, with that piece of Shakespeare.

"Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title," she quoted.

Appreciation flickered over his features. "You know your Shakespeare, Miss Nichols."

"A bit. So, as I suspected, you are an actor."

"At the moment." His irony wasn't lost on her. "Raphael Jones is my name."

She caught her breath. A scoundrel with an angel's name? Should she consider his arrival another stroke of divine providence?

"I'm... not so sure this is an opportune time for us to talk, Mr. Jones. I was preparing to pack my bags."

"I see," he said gravely. "Then I shall be happy to await your convenience."

She felt the heat slowly build in her cheeks. He'd quite literally meant that he'd wait for her to clear the bed.

"How very considerate you are," she said dryly, glad she'd had the presence of mind to litter her quilt with shoes and toiletries.

Despite his scandalous lack of decorum, she couldn't quite dismiss the notion that Raphael Jones might be a gift from heaven. He'd appeared in the nick of time, saving her from abandoning what was, admittedly, a desperate scheme. Everyone always said God moved in mysterious ways. Maybe He was giving her a sign.

"What do you want here, Mr. Jones?"

"Why, to be of service to you, of course."

"Then you should be aware that you and I have very different ideas of what your, er,
service
should be."

"Perhaps."

He eased his exquisitely sleek length backwards, putting more space between them. She breathed a sigh of relief—until Jones propped his derriere on the railing and carelessly spread his thighs. She gaped to see how precious little the gaslights left to her imagination.

"So tell me, Miss Nichols. What's on your mind?"

Mortified, she yanked her gaze back up to his eyes. They were pearly gray, mocking, and far more perceptive than any man's had a right to be.

"I, uh, was going to, uh, make you a proposi—"
Oh!
She bit off an oath. "I mean a deal," she amended hastily. When he hiked a brow, she balled her fists. "I meant a business deal."

"Do tell."

"I am sorely tempted not to. Would it be too much to ask you to behave like a decent gentleman?"

"Certainly you may ask."

Odious man.
She added impertinence to his growing list of sins.

Still, if anyone could star in the script she'd been writing in her head, Raphael Jones could. His audacity was one of his greatest—albeit vexing—qualifications. His lack of whiskers made him look younger than she'd first thought, but he'd proven his ability to pass for an older man of means. Besides, there was no denying that what he lacked in maturity he made up for in a scintillating sexuality...

He cleared his throat. She squirmed to be caught red-handed.

Silver, for heaven's sake, keep your eyes above his belt! Remember what happened the last time you were so bold?

Repressing a tremor, she squared her shoulders and folded her arms. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Not ever.

"Mr. Jones," she began again in her most businesslike voice, "let us understand one another. On no account do I condone your behavior at the Mining Exchange. But I find myself in the indelicate position of needing to hire someone with your, er, particular dramatic flair. In order to determine your appropriateness for the role, therefore, I must ask you certain questions."