Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (14 page)

Rafe cocked his head and smirked. Judging by the lights, music, and laughter, the party was well underway. He'd taken great care to arrive last.

Timing was everything in the theater.

Giving the coach roof a whack with his walking stick, a shiny new acquisition that amused him to no end, he displayed the bored manner of a British blue blood. His demeanor was no small feat, considering the result of his whack. The vehicle lurched; the wheels bounced; and he was nearly flung from his seat as the coach listed, jolting to a shuddering halt in a rut.

Jimmy, God love him, had finally located the coach's brakes.

Rafe heard a thump and the eager pounding of boots. A heartbeat later, his driver, an impossibly gullible youth whose vocabulary was roughly limited to exclamations, flung open the door.

"Man alive, your worship sir," Jimmy panted, his ruddy cheeks bulging above the collar that he, in his less auspicious job as a cantaloupe picker, was unaccustomed to wearing. "That house sure is some pumpkins!"

Rafe gazed fondly at the youth. Jimmy was decked out in a red livery that had cost Rafe—or rather, Silver—at least twice as much as every item of clothing Jimmy had ever owned. Jimmy was another new "acquisition" that amused Rafe to no end, and he couldn't wait to spring the lad on Little Miss High Society.

"That house?" Rafe gestured toward the grand edifice with a limp hand. "'Some pumpkins,' you say?" He sniffed disdainfully. "Lud, my boy. You have yet to see my kennels."

Jimmy's eyes bugged out, making him look like a guppy with spikey blonde hair. "Golly!"

Rafe hid his smile. Tossing his cape back with a flourish, he stepped briskly up the cobbled walk that wound toward the door. He'd been waiting two excruciatingly long days for this moment. For the last forty-eight hours, he'd been holed up in a hotel bathtub, surrounded by kettles of fish. Somehow, it seemed inanely appropriate that of all the motherless otters in the world, he had adopted a defective one. The minute Tavy hit the water, she sank like a cannonball. She was quite possibly the only webbed-footed creature on earth who didn't have a clue what to do with her paws.

He'd had some fancy explaining to do each time the hotel clerk knocked on his door, sheepishly mentioning the complaints of his neighbors, who swore they heard some kind of "dog" yapping in his quarters. He couldn't very well admit he'd smuggled an otter inside, much less that he was teaching it to swim. As eccentric as he'd been painting Lord Chumley, he suspected there was a limit even to his retinue's gullibility.

He groaned to himself. How was he supposed to return Tavy to the wild if she couldn't even paddle her way across a bathtub?

But that was the least of his troubles.

When he'd agreed to seduce Celestia Cooper, he'd assumed Silver was matching him up with a modern-day Jezebel. He'd conjured in his mind a woman so sinful, so voluptuous, that no mortal man could possibly have resisted her. Silver had never bothered to correct his misconception.

Well, yesterday morning, while he'd been sneaking fresh fish up the back stairs for Tavy, he'd glimpsed the inimitable siren herself. In fact, he'd nearly collided with Midas Max as he was boyishly stealing a kiss from his lover in her doorway. Rafe was sure his jaw had dropped to the carpet when a short woman with plump arms, a double chin, and wild blonde corkscrews hastily gathered her sheet and ducked out of sight. Max's
affaire d' amour
was no smoldering, pert-breasted fantasy. What was worse, Celestia Cooper was old enough to be Rafe's mother.

Rafe halted before Silver's door, scowling at the memory.

He'd been so furious—disappointed, too—to learn that his conquest was no tempestuous beauty, that he'd had half a mind to vanish into the wilderness and let Silver sweat out her father's engagement.

Unfortunately, his finances wouldn't permit such rash behavior.

Even if he could have mustered the lust to woo a woman who reminded him so forcefully of Fiona, he'd be loathe to try. He had one or two scruples left, despite his every effort to purge them, and they were both adamantly against tricking old women and breaking their hearts.

Of course, he wasn't about to let Silver know that. No, his cohort-in-crime had a little lesson to learn about bamboozling Raphael Jones. He'd thought long and hard about his options, and he'd finally decided on the only sensible alternative: revenge. That's why he'd scoured the valley for a suitable retainer. Hiring Jimmy had been integral to Rafe's plan. Spending a king's fortune on Silver's credit had also been part of his mischief. But best of all...

Rafe snickered to himself.

Best of all were the character improvements he'd made in the role Silver had scripted for him.

Rapping his cane on the Nicholses' glass-and-mahogany door, Rafe envisioned the look on his coconspirator's face when he unveiled the new Lord Chumley. To his surprise, though, Silver didn't greet him on the threshold. Instead, a pine tree of a manservant, in impeccable swallowtails, appeared at the entrance. The man barred his way, looking down his hooked nose.

"Hullo, my good man," Rafe said in his best British fop's voice. "Do step aside and tell Miss Nichols the Duke of Chumley has arrived."

The manservant arched an eyebrow. One sweeping, flesh-scoring glance later, he'd masterfully conveyed what he thought of Rafe, Rafe's attire, and all of Rafe's ancestry.

"The
Duke
of Chumley, you say?" the servant repeated in an unmistakably British accent.

Rafe started, and the back of his neck turned blistering hot. Damn Silver anyway. She'd also neglected to tell him she had an English butler!

"That's correct." Rafe fixed the servant with his haughtiest stare and vowed to make Silver the Shyster pay double—no, triple—for this second breach of contract. "Run along and fetch your mistress."

"And I suggest, sir, that
you
run along before I have you thrown into the gutter."

A heartbeat later, the wooden portal slammed, and Rafe was left staring at his reflection in the quivering opaque glass.

Silver, my love, that's another one I owe you.

For her part, Silver nearly dropped an entire tray of champagne glasses when she heard Rafe's voice—and her butler's threat. Hurrying into the entrance hall, she rounded the corner just in time to see Benson slamming the door on her long-awaited guest.

"Benson!" she choked, certain she'd blanched. For once heedless of the proprieties, she made a beeline through the couple who was signing her guest register and tried to console herself that this night couldn't possibly get worse. First, her illustrious chef had arrived tipsy, an empty bottle of cooking sherry jutting from his coat pocket. Next, her pricy Denver orchestra had turned out to be little more than a tone-deaf oompah band. Then, her father's bride-to-be had grabbed the mayor's hand and started predicting his reelection returns.

But these had only been the preamble to disaster. Five minutes after her guests had started arriving, members of the Miners Union had staged a rally on her lawn. With a scribbling reporter in tow from the
Rocky Mountain Sun,
they'd announced to anyone who would listen that they had never agreed to work in a haunted mine and that the only fair alternative was to double their wages.

Thanks to the timely arrival of Marshal Hawthorne, Silver had postponed all further blackmail attempts by agreeing to a morning mediation, although she'd been sorely tempted to fire every one of the blackguards right on the spot.

But the final horror on this night of horrors, Silver groaned silently, would be to watch her nobleman-for-hire be unmasked by her very own butler.

It was moments like these when Silver wondered if Celestia had fashioned a rag poppet in her likeness and was gleefully jabbing pins into its head.

Racing to the door, Silver thrust her tray of glasses into her bemused butler's hands. "For heaven's sake, Benson, what's the matter with you?" she whispered, throwing open the door. She almost sobbed with relief to see Rafe still standing on the stoop. He managed to look unperturbed, as if nearly getting his nose smashed against a windowpane was an everyday occurrence.

"My Lord Chumley, I am so sorry!" she greeted him, genuinely mortified. "Please do come in. I don't know what has gotten into my butler. Obviously, there's been a misunderstanding." She shot an ominous glance at her manservant. "Benson, apologize at once to his lordship."

Benson drew himself up to his full six feet, seven inches. "With all due respect, Miss Nichols, this man is an impos—"

"Benson!" Silver choked as Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, the couple by the register, turned curiously toward the commotion. "Lord Chumley is my guest. Kindly do as you're told."

The butler's face mottled at her lady-of-the-house voice. However, years of serving, not to mention the tidy stipend she paid him, must have won out over his pride. With a coldness that would have endeared him only to penguins, he inclined his head. "My apologies to... Your
Grace
," he added disdainfully.

Silver started. Your Grace? Wasn't that a duke's address?

Rafe's smile was bland as he craned his head back to peer at her butler. "Odd's fish, m'dear," he said, fluttering a handkerchief beneath the servant's nose. "Wherever did you recruit your man? From one of your colonial lumber camps?"

Benson's jaw grew rigid at the insult.

"Of course not," Silver interceded, wishing Rafe was close enough for a good elbow jab. "Benson comes from a long and distinguished line of menservants. Why, his grandfather served in Lord Wellington's household."

Rafe didn't look the least bit impressed. Silver suspected he didn't have a clue who Lord Wellington was. So much for her pipe dream that he would actually rehearse his role.

As relieved as she was that he'd finally arrived as promised, the impression he was making was far from the desired effect. For some unfathomable reason, he'd selected a gold velvet coat, a chartreuse waistcoat, and matching green spats for his shoes. His cravat was a frilly, overly elaborate affair that no doubt would have smothered a shorter man, and the tawny, muttonchop whiskers he'd pasted to his jaws gave him a comical, rather than sophisticated, air.

"Benson, kindly take that tray to the parlor," she said, deciding she would be wise to debrief her imposter once more.

Benson nodded stiffly, giving Rafe one last, skin-flaying glance before turning with the champagne. Unfortunately, that gave Rafe enough space to step inside.

"I say," he drawled, affecting a faint lisp, "what a smashing little cottage you have. All these colored windows and glittery... thingamabobs." He waved his handkerchief at the two thousand dollar crystal-and-sterling chandelier tinkling in the breeze from the open transom. "I wager that keeps your lumberjack of a manservant busy come polishing time, what? Oh, and dear me, look." Before Silver could block the smart aleck's escape, he'd ambled over to the priceless Chinese vase and the stunning arrangement of mountain laurels that dominated the register's table. "Posies!" he exclaimed, inhaling noisily.

Pasting on a smile for the Trevelyans, Silver caught the troublemaker's arm. "Come along, my lord. I'll see to your cape."

"Jolly good." He started to hum, waving his handkerchief in time to the off-key ditty, and Silver gritted her teeth, dragging him under the circular staircase.

"Must you be such a trial?" she whispered, snatching that ridiculous linen from his hand. "You're late. Don't tell me you spent all this time at Signor Marzetti's, because clearly you did not. Where on earth did you get that waistcoat?"

Rafe's lips twitched as he lovingly smoothed the brocade. "Rather festive, don't you think?"

"You don't want to know what I think." She had the sneaking suspicion he'd been striving for the reaction she'd just given him. Mentally cursing herself, she stuffed his handkerchief and gloves into his top hat and tossed his cape over a hook. The last thing she wanted was to encourage his buffoonery.

Drawing a calming breath, Silver opted for reason over ire. "Well, you're here now, and nothing can be done about that waistcoat. You should have told me you couldn't get an appointment with Signor Marzetti. I would have arranged for—"

She realized Rafe wasn't listening. He was too busy gawking through his quizzing glass at the statue her love-struck father had commissioned for the alcove. The sterling maiden was supposed to represent Aphrodite, but Silver had never ventured close enough to admire its artistry. All its shameless, bare-chested glory made her blush.

Rafe, on the other hand, was fairly smirking at the sculpture's pronounced places.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him toward less scandalous vistas. "Will you please pay attention?"

His lazy golden lashes swept lower, lingering on her own modest décolletage. "I should be delighted."

Her insides shriveled with embarrassment. Despite the caress in his gaze, it was hard to feel adequate compared with the Greek goddess of love. "We have little time to talk." She did her best to assume a businesslike whisper, despite the distraction of his nearness. His heat gusted over her bared shoulders like a sultry summer night, and his scent, an enticing aroma, filled her head like a sensual fog. "Sandalwood," she murmured.

"I beg your pardon?"

She started, realizing she'd spoken aloud. She'd been trying to guess the essence of his cologne.
Good Lord.
Thirty seconds alone with the man, and already she was babbling like a mooncalf!