Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (5 page)

Besides, Papa's safe. Even with all those lanterns, fuses, and sticks of dynamite gathered outside the shaft, Celestia won't harm him. He wouldn't be any good to her if he's dead
.

No, of course he wouldn't be, Silver thought grimly. First, he'd have to marry her. Then he'd have to add her name to his will....

She caught her breath. Fear slammed into her gut so hard and fast that she felt nauseous. Gripping the table edge, she tried desperately to ward off dread. But it wasn't any use. The seed of suspicion had already been sown.

Dear God, I have to stop that wedding. More than ever, I have to find a way.

Chapter 2

Rafe wanted to leave this high-society shindig.

In fact, he thought, gazing irritably around him at the Grand Hotel's assemblage of tuxedoed tenderfoots, he wanted to leave Leadville. Only three summers had passed since his last visit here, and already "Cloud City" had lost all resemblance to its wilderness heritage.

The lawless mining town he'd watched spring up beside his beloved Mt. Massive was now a provincial little city. Civilization had taken such firm root here that a huckster could hardly ply his trade anymore without some damned policeman blowing the whistle. Temperance was even becoming fashionable, thanks to the hoity-toity petticoats they'd imported from back east. Rafe couldn't remember being stuck in a more demoralizing place—except, perhaps, for his hometown of Blue Thunder.

He grimaced into his fake gray mustache and beard.

Now where had that ugly memory come from? Blue Thunder, Kentucky, more than any other Christian paradise, was the embodiment of hell to him. Only an imbecile would have wasted enough brain space to hold on to the memory. He couldn't imagine why he had, much less why he'd let it surface to plague him now, when he needed all his mental faculties to pull off this con—unless, of course, the reason had something to do with Fred and Fiona.

He made another face. Unfortunately, the bloated windbag who'd been bending his ear didn't take the cue to scurry off.

After ten blissful years of calling the shots in his cons, Rafe had had the misfortune of crossing paths last night with Fred and Fiona. Much to his dismay, his train had been re-routed to Leadville due to a spring snowfall-turned-avalanche, and he'd been forced to disembark. Fred had been standing on the platform, hawking handbills for his theater troupe's latest comedy of errors.

With nothing else to do but stand on the depot's porch, Rafe had made the mistake of inquiring after Fiona; Fred had started blubbering like a baby; and Rafe had apparently been robbed of his last shred of common sense. Why else would he risk recognition by his old nemesis, Sheriff "Rooster" Crow, by helping Fred swindle the members of the Leadville Mining Exchange?

Rafe tossed a dour look at the Windbag, who seemed to think stories about hydraulic mining, in which whole hillsides washed away, made riveting conversation.
Pompous ass.
Clearly he'd been too busy raking in gold dust to worry about the waterways he was making unfit for travel or drink. Robber barons like the Windbag were marks Rafe delighted in fleecing, when Sheriff Crow wasn't stalking the premises. On occasion, as the inspiration presented itself, Rafe became rather like a nineteenth-century Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to save Mother Nature—a hobby Fred deplored, since it smacked of sentimentality.

Rafe scowled as his thoughts drifted back to his former employer, a man whom he'd once naively hoped might become his second father. Playing on that youthful aspiration, Fred had begged him to visit Fiona at the wagon. And Rafe had gone, dragging his feet all the way. The old reprobate had duped him one too many times into performing with the troupe after Rafe had gotten the itch to strike out on his own.

But Fiona was sick. Really sick. If Rafe hadn't seen her with his own eyes, he might not have believed it. And Fred... well, never had he seen Fred so convincingly lost. The Brit had filled Fiona's wagon with bouquets of wildflowers, a tender gesture completely alien to the man, and then, confiding in broken whispers that Fiona only had six months to live, he had vowed before Rafe and God Himself that he would find a way to make his "Fee" well again.

Unfortunately for their sakes, Rafe thought gloomily, consumption didn't have a cure. He'd watched his mother succumb to the lung plague. Six years later, Sera's letter had found him in Texas, bringing news of Gabriel's decline. The boy had battled bravely, postponing his rendezvous with Saint Peter until Rafe could say a personal good-bye.

Of course, on the afternoon that Rafe had dared to show his face at the house, Michael and Jedidiah had barred the door so Gabriel's soul wouldn't be contaminated. Rafe had threatened to beat them both senseless until ten-year-old Sera had sneaked Gabriel out the window and around to the front porch. Weak but exuberant, the boy had fallen into Rafe's arms, begging to be taken back to Texas so he could live out his days as a cowboy. Content with Rafe's promise, Gabriel had died that night in his sleep.

Rafe's throat constricted at the memory.

Needless to say, Rafe was all for finding a cure for consumption. But cheating death of Fiona's soul would take doctors, medicine, an extended vacation in a hot, dry climate, and money.
Lots
of money. Fred, as usual, had none.

That's why Rafe, against his better judgment, was risking Sheriff Crow's recognition to help Fred humbug the silver barons of Leadville. The rest of his reasoning, he owed to his own embarrassingly low finances. Keeping Octavia housed and fed was costing him a damned sight more than any female had a right to cost. If Tavy hadn't practically become his whole world, he would have dumped her back in the mountains where he'd found her.

Twitching his nose in a futile attempt to stop his mustache from itching, Rafe finally yielded to the need to scratch, swallowed an oath to find the glue still wet, and prayed he hadn't shifted the irritant off-center.

Damn Fred anyway.
He should have burst through the ballroom doors fifteen minutes ago. His penchant for missed cues was going to jinx this hoax, because Fiona or no Fiona, Rafe had an eight o'clock stage to catch.

Three summers ago, a bit too drunk to think straight, he'd blustered his way into this very hotel—and the bed of Sheriff Crow's wife. At the time, he'd believed the woman's claim that she was a widow; the good sheriff, of course, had been unsympathetic to his alibi. Needless to say, Rafe would have been breaking rocks at the state penitentiary if it hadn't been for Mrs. Crow's finesse with a lock pick. And since he wasn't particularly interested in mounting another escape from the Leadville Jail, he preferred not to raise suspicions now.

That's why he was feeling a bit uncomfortable after his encounter with the resident robber "baroness." He might have been flattered by the woman's appraisal if her smile hadn't frozen the moment they'd been introduced. She'd arched a brow over eyes as startlingly blue as sapphires.

Something about him, Rafe mused, had caused unmistakable disapproval in Miss Silver Nichols. At the time, he'd been relatively certain he hadn't knocked his theatrical whiskers askew, so he couldn't help but wonder what had put her off. Surely it hadn't been anything he'd said, unless, of course, she was the overly virtuous kind who took offense to a man's simple hello. Or maybe she didn't favor East Coast dudes. He prided himself as a mimic, and he knew he'd gotten the Philadelphia accent down pat.

Half-intrigued, half-irritated, he glanced around the richly paneled, plushly carpeted room until he spied its lone female occupant. She stood beneath the center chandelier, holding court. Three plump stockbrokers gathered around her, each of them a good thirty years older, and three inches shorter, than Silver. In fact, they looked rather like lapdogs panting in the presence of royalty, despite her conservative dress: a high-necked gown of lilac silk.

Every now and then, Her Royal Highness would incline her perfectly chignoned head, which was a fascination in itself, since her otherwise coal black hair bore a streak of silver. Surely her twenty-odd years didn't make her old enough for the distinguishing mark at her left temple. On the other hand, her youth lent her none of the giggling silliness he'd come to associate with females under twenty-five. There was a sophistication about Silver Nichols that most overindulged women didn't exude until their fortieth year. It was her sophistication, Rafe decided, coupled with those eyes and that hair, that made Silver striking. Her nose was too long, her forehead too high, and her chin too angular for him to classify her as beautiful.

Still, beautiful or not, he was puzzled to see Silver at an all-male business function. He was even more puzzled to see no obviously preferred beau staking out his territory by her side. Her daddy reputedly had more money than the Rockies had snow, so it seemed to Rafe that eligible bachelors should be standing in line, begging for her company.

As if to comment on his notions of propriety, she laughed. The low, vibrant peal was as mellifluous as a golden bell, making it hard to mistake in the din of rough male voices. He wondered what the lapdogs had told her, and if, by chance, her gesture toward his side of the room had anything to do with him.

Then the flash of red fire caught his eye. The ring on her left hand must be worth a king's ransom, but it hinted of rubies, not diamonds. How strange that an heiress her age wasn't even betrothed. Was she risking spinsterhood because she liked playing queen without a king? Or did she have some hideously huge but well-hidden flaw that no fortune could compensate for?

Rate's curiosity climbed another notch. He was just trying to imagine what feminine flaw could possibly keep
him
from courting an heiress, when suddenly the double doors banged open. Fred, puffing madly on a cigar, swept across the threshold in a top hat, tuxedo, and spats. No wonder the old humbugger was late. He'd probably spent all afternoon rummaging through the prop wagon to dig up his evening wear.

"Gentlemen," the master conniver crowed. He thumped his cane to command the crowd's attention.

A hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned to Fred. He plucked off his gloves with a grandiose gesture that was impeccable in its timing.

"Is there a man among you who has an interest in diamonds?"

A ripple of gasps swept through the men. Rafe groaned aloud. Damn Fred and his improvisations. They'd agreed to bait the brokers with gold, not diamonds.

"I have here in my coat pocket," Fred continued in his resonant bass, sounding more like a medicine show pitchman than a western financier, "one thousand shares of my client's diamond mine, secreted away in the Gore Mountains by Rabbit Ears Pass. Not since the legendary strike of Central City has Colorado seen a mother lode of such overwhelming proportions."

Only through sheer force of habit was Rafe able to keep his expression from betraying his feelings. A diamond mine, for God's sake! How the hell was he supposed to pretend expertise on something he knew so precious little about? He had half a mind to lead the rush when Fred's change of plan backfired and twenty outraged stockbrokers beat the tar out of him.

At that inopportune moment, Rafe made the mistake of looking at Silver. Her gemstone gaze cut straight through the tobacco smoke to drill a hole to his soul's rotten core. The sensation wasn't reassuring to an imposter who risked exposure with each passing heartbeat. Biting off an oath, he dragged his gaze back to Fred and racked his brain for facts about diamonds.

"Step forward, gentlemen, don't be shy," Fred meanwhile boomed like the mining promoter he was purporting to be. "You'll want to take a gander at these little beauties. They came straight from the heart of Mr. Elliott Beachum's mine."

With theatrical flare, Fred raised a satin pouch and spilled into his hand what would most likely prove to be a lump of coal and three glittering chips of quartz. Rafe could almost feel the avarice escalate in the room. As one man, the board members surged forward. The wave of greed swept up the Windbag, too, and Rafe prayed silently for both his and Fred's sake that the "diamonds" didn't crumble, crack, or shatter under Sheriff Crow's inspection.

A gentle "Eh-hem" and the captivating whiff of lavender distracted Rafe from his worries. To his surprise, he found Silver Nichols standing companionably by his side. With her hands clasped behind her back and her gaze focused on the milling men, she appeared to be unaware of him. In fact, as her silence dragged on for another minute, Rafe began to think she'd stopped beside him by accident, that she was merely waiting for her opportunity to jockey closer to Fred.