Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (34 page)

It was a realization she'd been fighting for days.

Ever since the night with Rafe in the parlor, she'd been haunted by his accusations. She'd worried her nightmares really did result from her guilt, that she couldn't bear to see Papa married to any woman other than her mother. And while she would rather have died than admit it, especially to Rafe, she had come to the distressing conclusion that she might very well be that despicable.

Fortunately, her Pinkerton agent had wired her today, before she could destroy her father's life:

BLUE THUNDER, KENTUCKY, 1879. CHURCH DID BURN DOWN. FAULTY LIGHTNING ROD. PREACHER INSTALLED IT. COOPER LEFT TOWN TWO DAYS EARLIER. EVIDENCE SUGGESTS COVER-UP. RECOMMEND DROPPING CHARGES.

The implications of his report were mind-boggling. Reading between the lines, Silver could only conclude that Jedidiah Jones had been a mean-spirited cuckold
and
a liar. He apparently hadn't wanted his congregation to think him incompetent, so he'd blamed witchcraft for the fire he'd caused. As a result, all of Blue Thunder, and especially the church organist, had come to hate Cellie.

Silver hoped her telegram was the proof Rafe needed to finally accept that Preacher Jones had been a hypocrite who'd abused his sacred calling. She also hoped the telegram didn't mean what she dreaded it meant: that Cellie, since day one, had known Rafe wasn't the duke of Chumley. But surely, if Cellie had suspected Rafe's fraud, she would have told Papa... Right?

And break his heart?

Silver squeezed her eyes closed, hating herself even more.

Papa loved Rafe like a son. Just like Papa loved her. It would kill him to know he'd been betrayed by both of his "children." If Cellie understood that, then it was conceivable she was keeping quiet about Rafe's identity and the truth behind the missing spiritkeepers to protect Papa. In fact, it was conceivable that... Cellie really did love Papa.

And if that were true, Silver thought bleakly, she would be contemptible indeed if she tried to stand in the way of their happiness.

That's why she'd come to the parlor early tonight, hoping to find Cellie. That's why she'd volunteered to drape furniture and arrange candles for the séance. She'd wanted in some small way to lend her father's fiancée moral support, especially since she'd known Cellie would be facing a skeptical, perhaps hostile, audience.

Helping her mother-to-be, Silver thought glumly, was also her small way of making amends—a very small way indeed, considering she hadn't yet gathered the nerve to face Celestia, woman to woman, and apologize.

"The spirits speak of danger, yes," Celestia said solemnly, in answer to Daisy Trevelyan's question.

"What kind of danger?" Kilkarney asked suspiciously.

Cellie closed her eyes, rocking rhythmically for a moment.

"Retribution," she announced dramatically.

Every man who'd been holding his breath released it on a gasping rush of air—and just as quickly gulped another.

"Hot damn," Papa muttered. "Retribution. Penhalion, you and your boys aren't planning any mischief with dynamite, are you?"

The squat, feisty Cornishman scowled. "Now see here, Nichols, we may be immigrants, but we're law-abiding. And to strike for reasonable wages is well within our—"

A nerve-jangling thump cut him short. It seemed to come from the window seat.

"Wh-what was that?" Edward Trevelyan asked, his eyes growing white around the edges.

"The spirits!" Daisy squeaked.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Buckholtz retorted.

"Then you will never believe, Mr. Buckholtz," Cellie said with great dignity, "for the spirits do not waste time trying to prove their existence. Truth is truth, and shall always remain truth, whether you, with your closed and doubting mind, choose to believe it or not."

"How convenient."

Silver was sorely tempted to kick the newsman's shin. "Mr. Buckholtz, if you would be so kind as to save your remarks for your editorial page, I, for one, would be eternally grateful." She felt her cheeks warm as Rafe gave her hand an approving squeeze. "Now then, Cellie. I should like to know what your spirits meant by retribution."

"Me too," Papa said, his expression unusually grave. "How's it gonna go down? Knives? Bullets? Looting and mayhem?"

Silver winced. Papa always had been blessed with a vivid imagination.

"Perhaps more to the point," Penhalion growled, "who's supposed to be the target?"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Cellie held up her hands for silence. "One question at a time,
please.
Communication with the otherworld is a delicate matter. One cannot bully answers out of spirits. One must show gratitude. And respect." She shot a blistering look at Buckholtz.

"Now then." Cellie settled more comfortably on her pillows, threw her slipping shawl over her shoulders, and gripped her crystal ball once more. "
I
shall ask the questions.
You
will listen for answers. Spirits, is someone in this circle in danger?"

Everyone in the room jumped as an audible thud answered her query.

"Does one rap mean yes?"

A single rap answered, this time from the other side of the room.

"How will you answer no?"

Two raps sounded close to the window. So did a faint scratching noise.

"How the devil is she making those—"

"Shh!" This time, the Trevelyans and just about everybody else glared daggers at Buckholtz for interrupting.

"Is a man from this circle in danger?" Cellie continued, nonplussed.

One rap.
Silver frowned, glancing uneasily at the shadow-laced walls. Had Papa helped Cellie rig the knocking noises? If so, how had he done it so
convincingly?

"Will there be bloodshed?"

Silence rolled like a tangible fog through the semi-darkness. Silver counted five, perhaps six heartbeats before the answer finally knelled: One rap.

"For heaven's sake, who is it?
Who is it!"
Daisy wailed.

"Is it Edward Trevelyan?" Cellie intoned.

Two raps.
The couple nearly sobbed with relief.

"Very well," Cellie said. "Then we shall determine who among the remaining gentlemen it is."

Forever feuding, Kilkarney and Penhalion locked eyes. So did Rafe and Fred. Silver swallowed, watching Papa watch Buckholtz. And adding to her uneasiness, she caught Cellie gazing narrowly at her.

"Spirits," Cellie called, her voice rising in volume and power, "we seek the gentleman's last name. Kindly knock when I state the first letter. A," she said slowly. "B." Each syllable resonated with dramatic authority. "C—"

"Oh for crying out loud," Buckholtz grumbled. "At this rate, we're going to be here all night."

"You have no right to be flippant," Daisy flung back, "just because you know
you're
not in danger now!"

"Not necessarily," Penhalion growled.

A horrific crash drowned out the rest of his threat. Papa leaped to his feet. So did Rafe and Daisy.

"It's the ghost!" Daisy shrieked, pointing at a renegade crab puff. It bounced from the armchair to the floor. Before everyone's astonished eyes, the remaining china inexplicably toppled, shattering into a dozen pieces. Slowly, spookily, the white ticking on the armchair began to rise.

"Jesus everloving Christ," Buckholtz choked, his eyes bugging out to twice their normal size. The ghost gave a querulous chirp, and Buckholtz, heedless of chandeliers, stained glass, and human life, drew his .45.

"No!"
Rafe shouted, lunging for the newsman's arm. The Colt fired; plaster showered from the ceiling; Daisy wilted in a dead faint; and the ghost, barking in terror, streaked out from under the ticking and dashed beneath Silver's petticoats.

Papa roared with mirth. Fred laughed so hard that his chair toppled backwards. The other men stood blinking at one another, uncertain of the joke, while a scarlet Buckholtz shook off a snickering Rafe.

Cellie, meanwhile, stood scowling. "The spirits are
not
amused," she snapped, shooting daggerlike glares at her detractors. She tossed her pesky shawl over her shoulder, hiked her chin, then sailed from the room like a battleship in full steam.

"Uh-oh." Papa was doing his best to sober up between guffaws. "Looks like the séance is over, folks."

The gaslights flared. Benson appeared at the parlor door with a cocked .45. Several armed servants accompanied him. Without further encouragement, Buckholtz stalked from the house. Several minutes later, Benson's efficient, tight-lipped legions had reunited coats, gloves, and hats with their owners. Cellie's audience, some thoroughly spooked, some crying hoax, hastened for their modes of transportation. Papa ran to soothe his disgruntled necromancer.

Silver sat imprisoned on her seat. Aside from the fact that unaccountable knockings, pronouncements of doom, and capricious gun-firings had left her in jitters, she now had a trembling furball wrapped around her ankle. Why Tavy had chosen her dress and her ankle for concealment when any number of nooks and crannies would have sufficed, was beyond Silver's comprehension.

If she hadn't known better, she would have thought that Rafe had trained his pet to kiss females and sneak under their skirts. In any event, Silver suspected that she'd have trouble being ladylike, much less decorous, while she was yanking an otter out from under her unmentionables.

Reluctant to flaunt her petticoats before the world, she glared at her smirking male audience. Unfortunately, Rafe and Fred—
being
Rafe and Fred—refused to take the hint and leave.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Tavy ran off to, would you?" Rafe drawled, the old mischief dancing in his eyes.

Despite her better sense, Silver softened beneath Rafe's grin. She hadn't realized how much she missed his smiles. Ever since Fiona's visit, he'd been battling a case of the blue devils.

She tossed an aggravated glance at Fred, who was shaking the crystal ball, pretending to be fascinated. "Rafe, you know very well where Tavy is," she whispered back.

He chuckled, dropping to one knee at her side. Her heart took a dizzying leap to see him in the traditional "marry-me" pose. It was all she could do to remember their audience.

"I was deferring to your feminine sensibilities," Rafe murmured, covering her fist with his hand.

"I... appreciate that." Disappointed by his response, in spite of her common-sense reminder that no man would ever propose to a woman in public, she managed to recall the problem at hand. "Rafe, what are we going to do? Tavy's terrified. She's attached herself to my shoe like a barnacle!"

A roguish dimple flirted with the corner of his mouth. "Your shoe, eh?"

She nodded.

"Are you quite sure?"

She blushed at his innuendo, her whole body singing with warmth. "Well..." The smile she gave him was a bit more shy than she would have liked. "More or less."

"Then I suggest we remove her," he purred, shifting nearer. "A delicate operation, to be sure."

His forehead nearly touched hers, and she shivered with delight. She thought he would kiss her. She
hoped
he would. In that moment, as his lips hovered so provocatively above hers, she didn't care one whit who might watch them. She'd surrendered. She was lost. He'd wrapped her in a sensual cocoon of enticement, of man-scents and magnetism. It was the delicious, scandalous paradise promised by Raphael Jones.

And for the first time, after all the many times he'd opened the door on this forbidden Eden, she reveled in the sheer impropriety of walking in.

Tavy, unfortunately, had other ideas. At the crisp click of servile heels on the floor, she peeked out from Silver's hem, blinked up at the butler radiating such tangible disapproval, and yipped, launching herself into Rafe's arms. Rafe chuckled and Silver sighed, watching his pet circle fretfully in the embrace she'd hoped so futilely would be hers.

Benson began clearing his throat.

"Yes.
Benson," she interrupted irritably. It wasn't as if she couldn't feel him looming beside her like the lumberjack of doom. "What is it?"

"You have a visitor, miss."

His cheeky manner disturbed her, and she frowned, rising. "At this hour?"

Benson remembered his manners long enough to incline his head. "The gentleman apologized for the inconvenience. He said he had merely intended to leave his card, but then he heard the gunshot. And he grew most alarmed. He mentioned you were old friends."

This last declaration raised her hackles. What on earth was the matter with Benson, believing such a preposterous tale? No gentleman called on a lady at ten o'clock at night. Weren't butlers supposed to bounce such troublemakers out the door?

Then he passed her an embossed calling card, one she recognized only too well. Her hand shook as she touched the gold leaf. She suspected her complexion had turned rather pasty, because Rafe, rising in concern, hastened to peer over her fist.

The bald shock that twisted his features reverberated through every fiber of her being. In that instant, as their eyes locked, Silver didn't know whether to be distressed or elated. Although jealousy had flared in his gaze, a disconcerting dullness soon rolled in to snuff out his... what? Hope?