Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (9 page)

As far as investing went, though, Rafe couldn't blame the Brit. Most silver speculation was perpetuated by confidence men. Mining companies hired these so-called promoters to seek out widows, war veterans, salesclerks, farmers—in short, anyone whose gullibility or greed made them easy marks.

One out of every ten of these mining companies actually paid dividends to their investors, and the dividends never came close to the shareholders' full investment. Even legitimate mines, like the ones owned by Silver's father, sometimes had trouble paying off their capital investors.

Mother Earth didn't let anyone gut her innards without putting up a good fight.

"With careful hinting," Silver continued, her enthusiasm sparking a charming blush, "I can see that rumors of Chumley's arrival reach the appropriate editors. They will spread the news that Chumley has had a change of heart. That he has, indeed, decided to investigate the financial opportunities in hard-rock mining.

"You, of course, will pose as Chumley when you reach Aspen. I am certain a handsome young man such as yourself, perpetuating the illusion of an English title
and
more wealth than he knows how to spend, will be just the sort of temptation to make Celestia show her true colors."

"And your father?" Rafe asked dryly. "How do you think he'll react if his fiancée proves fickle?"

"He's not likely to shoot you, if that's what you mean."

Rafe started. Actually, the risk of a showdown hadn't entered his mind. "That's certainly comforting."

"My father is a gentle man, Mr. Jones. He's incapable of the violent acts perpetrated by vigilante Miner's Juries that hold sway in the more lawless camps of this region. I daresay the news of Celestia's perfidy will give Papa a dreadful case of the blue devils, so much so, that he will retire to the mountains for a sulk.

"But it cannot be helped," she added briskly, as if to strengthen her own resolve. "Not if I am to save him from a much greater heartache later on. My papa is endowed with a cheerful constitution, and I have every confidence it will be restored to him in time."

Rafe shook his head, bemused again by the lengths to which Silver was going to humbug her father. Her
father,
for God's sake. If Rafe's soul hadn't already been blacker than a stormy night, he would have soiled it gladly to have a father, a
real
father, not a Scripture-quoting Simon Legree.

"So," he said. "When would you like Lord Chumley to make his
grande entrance?"

"As soon as possible. I myself shall return to Aspen tomorrow to make arrangements for your arrival. You will have a room at the Windsor Hotel, and a package of information will await you so you can research your role. If questioned beforehand, you can always plead ignorance about silver mining, since Lord Chumley is universally considered to be unaware of its advantages.

"I'm sure I do not need to tell you, Mr. Jones," she added, "your discretion in this affair is crucial to our success. I am prepared to draft a bank statement that will allow you to obtain suitable clothing and transportation befitting an English lord, as well as two weeks of food and lodging. I should think fourteen days would be sufficient time for a man of your, uh, accomplishments to complete this mission."

Rafe smiled to himself. So she wanted to get rid of him in a hurry, did she?

"I'm humbled by your confidence in me, Miss Nichols," he said, sliding oh-so-casually closer. "But seduction does involve a certain degree of delicacy. And, of course, time."

She stiffened.

"If the lady in question is even the least bit unwilling, a great deal of expense must be incurred to woo her," he continued silkily. "She must have love trinkets and flowers, hats, jewels and gloves, lavish meals and entertainments, and, of course, one cannot overlook the importance of outfitting the assignation bower itself."

Silver cleared her throat. "Yes, well, I'm sure in Celestia's case, a bower won't be—"

"One should never underestimate the power of ambience in achieving the desired effect," Rafe chided, letting his left hand drop between them. "Your father is successful, well-respected, and pleasantly aged. That makes him a worthy opponent, wouldn't you agree?"

Silver glanced warily at his fingers, hovering so innocently beside her thigh. "Yes, but—"

"And he'll be a persistent rival too, since his heart is engaged. We can't be at all certain he will quit the war in a mere two weeks' time. No, I should think he will lay siege to love's door, employing every weapon at his disposal. This battle of suitors could rage a good six months or more."

"Six months!"

"Or more," he drawled, relishing the utter outrage on her face. Moments like these made all the tedious plotting and practicing for cons worthwhile.

Of course, Octavia was going to be a problem if he had to live in a hotel room for six months. Even when Fiona wasn't sick, she didn't like to share the limelight. Over the last twenty hours, Tavy had begun to claim the lion's share of Fred's attention. Why, the old scapegrace had even talked about adding Tavy to the act, as if Rafe would ever hear of such a thing. No, Tavy was going to Aspen with him.

As for Fred and Fiona... well, guilt held only so much sway over him. He might be able to milk a few extra thousand dollars out of this con for Fiona's sake, but he'd be damned if he'd cut her or Fred in any further. The less they knew about the pot of gold he'd stumbled into, the better.

"Six months is out of the question, Mr. Jones," Silver said, interrupting his scheming thoughts. "You have exactly one."

Damn.

"My dear Miss Nichols," he protested, positioning himself close enough to belie his next words, "one month is hardly enough time for a gentleman to steal a kiss, much less—"

"In one month's time, my father will be marrying that witch and accompanying her on a wedding tour to Niagara Falls!"

Silver escaped to the center of the balcony. Rafe hid his disappointment. Only one month to milk the golden cow, eh? He'd been hoping to stretch it to nine. He supposed he'd have to find some other scam to keep him and Tavy fed through the winter, especially if he couldn't teach her how to survive without him. She was so ridiculously trusting that in April, when he'd been caught in a mountain snowstorm and had to trade whiskey to the Utes for a blanket, she'd wandered into some squaw's tent and nearly lost her hide.

Tavy, little darling that she was, could be a liability at times.

He supposed until he decided what to do with her, he'd have to build himself a nice fat bank account at Silver's expense. Either that, or marry the girl.

He smiled at the notion. Now
there
was an amusing proposition: a wife with even fewer scruples than he had. He could just imagine the wedding party Satan would throw on their behalf.

"I'm afraid your situation is more dire than I thought," he told her gravely. "We shall have to march into the fray with all our guns blazing, so to speak. Of course you will be paying for my meals, clothes, and lodging, but in order to turn Celestia's head, I shall also need an allowance. Given our shortage of time, I'm afraid the amount will have to be significant. But your devotion to your father has touched me deeply. In consideration of your plight, I shall see how far I can stretch five hundred dollars per week."

"Per week?"

"Yes, of course. You, yourself, have cast me in the role of aristocrat. One cannot play the part on a shovel stiff's wage."

Her hands flew to her hips. "Now see here, Jones, I'll allow you two hundred dollars, and you'll be happy to have it."

"Four hundred."

Their eyes locked.

"Two-fifty," she countered.

"Three-fifty plus a horse and buggy."

She looked like she'd relish the act of barbecuing him. "Three hundred and the promise not to sic the sheriff on your sorry hide."

"Five hundred and the promise not to mail your father a most eye-opening letter." He smiled pleasantly.

"Y-you wouldn't dare!"

"Not for five hundred dollars," he lied soothingly. "After all, you did spare me from spending the night in jail."

"Your gratitude overwhelms me, Mr. Jones."

He inclined his head to hide his smirk.

"If I agree to your terms," she said in grudging tones, "what guarantee do I have that you'll perform the job to satisfaction?"

"Well..."
Really,
Silver. You should know better than to lead with a line like that.
He rose leisurely. "I could give you my references."

"If you think I'd take the word of your scalawag of a partner—"

"Oh, no." He strolled to where she was so charmingly silhouetted by the flicker of gaslights. "Not Fred. Fred would be entirely unsuitable. He doesn't have firsthand knowledge of my performance in these... affairs."

She straightened her spine. "I'm sure I would think twice before believing the word of any acquaintance of yours, Mr. Jones."

"Why, then our relationship already shows great promise. I suspected you'd say that very thing. Knowing how one's partner thinks is important in a close-call scenario."

Silver's mouth grew uncomfortably dry as his voice dropped to a throbbing murmur. She would have liked to say their "scenario" was close enough, but she didn't want to give him that satisfaction. His bawdy innuendos had triggered too many of her old fears. She'd as good as hired the rounder now, so she'd have to get a grip on herself if she was to show him who was boss.

She fixed him with her best keep-your-distance glare. "None of which answers my original question."

"You speak truly."

He halted less than an arm's length away. She could actually feel his heat, smell his mountain-fresh cologne. A tendril of uneasiness coiled in her belly.

"Perhaps you would prefer a demonstration," he said.

"A-a demonstration?"

His hand reached out to catch a strand of hair, one of the prematurely gray ones that had always made her look so old and ugly. When he tucked it behind her ear, she felt the whisper of his knuckles against her cheek. She wanted to die of mortification. Surprisingly, however, the feeling came less from his touch than from her vision of herself as a frightful, windblown mess.

"Mr. Jones, I don't think..."

His eyelids drooped in the most hypnotic, pulse-stirring way.

Run!
her head shrieked to her feet. Instead, she stood rooted and breathless, wrapped in the silken bonds of girlhood fantasies and dreams of romantic love. They'd only led to moonlight madness, foolish choices that had caused her indescribable pain, and yet still she stood before him, like a rabbit charmed by the fox who'd invited her to dinner.

"What would satisfy you, Miss Nichols?" he whispered, his thumb skimming her jawline until it dipped lower, pressing against the hammering vein in her throat. "Words of poetry? A bouquet of roses?" His lips inched nearer. "A kiss?"

That was it. The instinct for self-preservation took over where common sense had failed.

"I must ask you not to do that," she said, snatching his fingers from her cheek.

"But your guarantee. I couldn't have you thinking me unequal to my role."

She swallowed. Somehow, he'd managed to wrap his hand around hers. Now it was his prisoner, her palm embarrassingly moist beneath his thumb. "I... daresay I shall have to take your word in the matter."

"Are you quite certain? I would be only too happy to shoulder the burden of proof."

She tried not to notice how rapidly her insides were warming to his game. "That you thoroughly enjoy seduction, I have no doubt," she retorted, wishing the butterflies in her stomach would alight. "Save your bag of tricks for Celestia."

He chuckled, a rich rumble of sound that vibrated into her fingertips and danced down every nerve. "As you wish. But if you should ever change your mind..." He raised the back of her hand, and the moist touch of his lips sent goose bumps scuttling to her toes. "...I am, of course, at your command."

She rather doubted that, but when he released her, she was too relieved to debate him. God forbid her tongue should stumble over the words, somehow turning them into another proposition.

She ran her damp palms down her skirts in an effort to rally her composure. "Since we are agreed, Mr. Jones, you'll find your first payment and your instructions waiting for you at Aspen's Windsor Hotel. I'll send for you there."

"So thrive my soul."

She suspected he was quoting Romeo again. Apparently the man had a one-track mind. For the future, when they'd have to rendezvous secretly to discuss their conspiracy, she made a mental note never again to meet him on a balcony—or worse, in the moonlight.

"And now, if it's not too much to ask, sir, I'd like for you to leave."

"Ah, me. The lady grows weary of my company." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Very well." Sweeping low, he performed a flawless bow. "Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast..." He straightened, his hand pressed forlornly to his heart. "Ah, would I were sleep, and peace so sweet to rest."

She blushed in spite of her strong counsel against it, and he gave her a naughty wink.

"I shall count the hours, Miss Nichols. Until then..." He reached for the tree. "Good-night."