Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (6 page)

Then the corner of her mouth curved in a half-smile.

"I suppose," she murmured, "the gentleman with the, er,
diamonds
is a friend of yours?"

The velvety timbre of her voice reclaimed his attention more thoroughly than a clap of thunder. He hadn't expected her to sound like she looked: rich. Sinfully rich. He was entertaining a delicious vision of hot fudge and cherries, when the full implication of her words slammed into his brain.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The man in the top hat. I daresay he's your accomplice?"

Somehow, Rafe managed not to choke on his tongue. A dozen questions went shrieking through his brain, not the least of which was how the hell had she linked him with Fred.

"My dear young woman, I fail to understand—"

"I rather doubt that," she cut in smoothly. "You look much too intelligent. Canny, in fact. However, I am willing to believe that you are somewhat naive when it comes to miners' juries and the swift justice they dole out." She turned her face to him at last, that same amused smile flirting with the corner of her mouth. "I take it you and your friend weren't aware that to salt a mine is a hanging crime around these parts?"

Rafe steeled himself against any reaction other than an arched eyebrow. He figured she'd believe a show of hauteur more readily than a denial.

Besides, no one had salted any mines. Fred's whole acting troupe wouldn't have had the resources for that. No, the Brit had simply made up the diamond mine story, counting on human greed and the Gore Range's scarcity of rail, stage, and telegraph lines to persuade these high-dollar speculators to invest in his hoax. He'd figured by the time they confirmed whether or not diamonds really could be unearthed near Rabbit Ears Pass, he and Fiona would be at least fifty thousand dollars richer and living in Mexico.

However, Rafe hadn't spent the last fifteen years as a professional flimflam artist to let some cheeky millionaire's daughter get the upper hand now. He eyed Silver with a nerve he'd honed at fourteen, bluffing his way through the role of Juliet, while all-male audiences pelted him with tomatoes.

"My dear Miss Nichols. With all due respect, you are suffering under some misconception. I do not know the gentleman with the diamonds, and I certainly am not affiliated with any mine salting. Why you should think such a thing is beyond my comprehension."

She turned once more to watch Fred's con, playing out so flawlessly before them. Any minute now, Fred would expect him to step forward, to "inspect" the bait and declare it valid. Then he was supposed to fan the fires of avarice by staking his own money to purchase a hundred shares of bogus stock. Fred had even stationed his nephew on a telegraph pole outside the city limits to intercept all dispatches coming and going to Steamboat Springs, the only town within a hundred-mile radius of Rabbit Ears Pass. Frankly, the con should have gone without a hitch. So what had tipped off Silver?

"Before you make an utter fool of yourself," she said softly, as if in answer to his thoughts, "I think you should know I've dined with the geologist you're impersonating. Mr. Bartholomew Markham is about two-thirds your height, twice your weight, and his pate is just shy of bald."

His neck heating, Rafe entertained a vision of throttling Fred, who had assured him the renowned Pennsylvania geologist had been so busy running his coal-processing company that he hadn't set foot in a western mining town for the last twenty years.

Too much was riding on this con, however, for Rafe to give up the ghost now, especially on account of some know-it-all petticoat who'd had more money, privilege, and opportunity than he'd ever glimpsed, much less known, in his twenty-nine years.

"Good heavens," he said, warming his words with a low chuckle. "Uncle Bartie and I look nothing alike. Now I'm beginning to understand your confusion, Miss Nichols."

"Uncle Bartie, eh?"

He inclined his head. "Yes indeed."

He could feel her appraising gaze again, poring over him with the same attention to detail that a bookkeeper might use on accounts. He couldn't help but lament the irony. Here he was, standing practically thigh to thigh with an unmarried heiress, and they were talking about some old man she'd once dined with.

What was worse, instead of being able to woo her with all the flash of his practiced roguery, he was insisting he was a middle-aged greenhorn, who, in her eyes, probably held as much sexual appeal as an apple barrel. He wondered how she might look at him if he wasn't sporting these asinine whiskers and a pillow for a paunch.

"So you claim to be Mr. Markham's nephew," she said slowly, an unmistakable lilt in her voice. "You must be from Philadelphia, then?"

"The Cradle of Liberty itself."

"How delightful," she drawled. "I'm from Philadelphia, too."

"Yes, well, I, er, was merely born there," he recovered as gracefully as he could. Damn her anyway. Was she really from Philadelphia?

Unable to take that chance, he hastened to add, "I spent most of my youth in..." Hesitating, he cast her a sideways glance. Where would a lawless sport be safe from female busy bodies? "...Abilene. And later, in Dodge City."

"Dodge City? Oh my." Her eyes twinkled like twin stars as they laughed up at him. "A geologist in a cowtown. I can just imagine what you must have dug up."

He glowered at her.

"So tell me Mr. Kansas geologist," she purred, tilting her head slightly, so that the captivating streak in her hair gleamed like liquid silver beneath the chandelier. "In what sort of rock formation might one find bituminous coal?"

Their eyes locked, and Rafe's heart sank. He didn't have the vaguest idea.

"I believe, sir," she said quietly, having the poor grace to smirk, "this is where you might say 'The jig is up.' Would you like to call off your hoax, or shall I?"

A muscle twitched along Rafe's jaw. She'd backed him into a corner, and she knew it. He glanced at Fred. The wily old cheat was still talking a mile a minute and casting impatient, but furtive, looks his way.

Two things occurred to Rafe then. The first was that Miss High Society hadn't denounced him immediately. The second was that she'd given him a way out. He had to ask himself why.

"Before I answer your question, madam, might I ask one of my own?" he murmured, deliberately shifting closer so that the heat of his breath blew in tantalizing gusts against her ear. He was gratified to glimpse the flutter of her pulse. "If you're so sure I'm a footpad, then why didn't you alert Sheriff Crow the moment we were introduced? One cannot help but wonder why an upstanding young woman would risk being charged as an accessory to a crime."

It was her turn to redden. "I... wished to be certain of your character, of course."

"You mean the character you think I'm role-playing?"

He straightened, returning her stare boldly, hoping his audacity would rattle her nerve. As far as he was concerned, she'd already tipped her hand. She was playing some game of her own. He didn't know what it might be, but chances were, she wasn't a strait-laced daughter of virtue as he'd first thought. She'd come here unescorted, hadn't she?

Darkening to a pretty shade of rose, she looked away. "That you are not Bartholomew Markham, nor even a geologist, goes without saying, sir. No, I daresay you are more of an actor—a quite passable one, really—which, I think, might be useful if you were looking for... legitimate employment."

Passable,
was he? Rafe was hard-pressed not to snort. He was a hell of a lot better than passable, if his recent successes at impersonating a French ambassador and a California bank president were any indication. Then again, one could not publicly boast of these performances unless, of course, one wished to conduct all future performances from jail.

"Are you offering me a job, Miss Nichols?"

Her bodice rose, fluttered, and held. She seemed uncertain how to respond, which cued him further that her motives were shady.

Before she could answer, though, the Windbag chose that inopportune moment to hail him from across the room.

"What say you, Markham?" the nuisance boomed, weighing Fred's coal in his pudgy hand. "Could there be diamonds in those hills?"

Twenty pairs of money-glazed eyes bored into Rafe, and he marshaled the discipline not to flinch. This was the part of the con where he was supposed to wax poetic about quartz veins and Markham's expertise as a rock hound. The problem was, gold was no longer Fred's bait of choice, and the geology of diamonds was about as familiar to Rafe as the moon's landscape.

"I wouldn't presume to speculate," he told the Windbag. He watched Fred's jaw drop before he turned once more toward Silver. "How about you, Miss Nichols?"

She seemed surprised that he'd drawn her into the debate. It was a gamble, of course, but since she'd taken his side thus far, he was hoping whatever use she secretly had for him would keep her from throwing him to the wolves.

Besides, his perverse side wanted to see if she had the moxy to handle a hostile audience, which is surely what these men would become if she dared to throw in her feminine two cents worth about their greed.

To Rafe's relief, and his amusement, his gamble paid off.

"A wise course, Mr. Markham," she countered coolly. "I daresay further study
is
in order."

A rumble of disappointment circled the investors. Fred looked like he wanted to bash some wealthy heads.

"Now see here, gents," the huckster cried, stabbing his cigar toward Silver, "are you going to let some slip of a female tell you how to run your business?"

"Perhaps you and I should converse," Rafe interjected quickly, hoping to stave off one of Fred's "meddling doxy" tirades, which, he was certain, wouldn't leave Silver inclined to help them. "You might even wish to join me on the next eastbound train, so we can, er, confer with a lapidary. Analyzing gemstones such as yours is a delicate matter better left to eyes more highly trained than mine."

Fred turned florid. However, the man was nothing if not cagey. He knew when the deck was stacked against him, and, thankfully, he took his cue to fold.

"Then lead the way, my boy. I have no doubt my ore will stand the test of a hundred such examinations. If it's proof you want, then proof you'll get. After all, we want to keep the little lady satisfied."

Rafe suspected this last dig was meant for him, not Silver.

Meanwhile, the speculators were all grumbling, squinting at Fred's chips and trying to decide whether to risk investing now, or to let "Markham get first crack at those diamonds." Fortunately for the suckers, dinner was announced, and the president of the Mining Exchange suggested their debate be tabled until after the meal.

"It seems you'll be able to make your getaway after all," Silver said, her expression turning wry as a half dozen arguing gentlemen jostled past them, intent on roast beef, port, and diamond mines. "Congratulations."

She offered Rafe her hand as if to take her leave. He found her calling card tucked artfully into her palm.

"If you wish to discuss an arrangement, I'll be at this address until tomorrow noon. Come alone," she added with a pointed glance at Fred. Then she inclined her head and joined the men converging on the chairs.

A heartbeat later, both Fred and his smelly cigar stood smoking at Rafe's side. "What the bloody hell were you about, making time with that petticoat when Fiona's lying abed, wasting her life away?"

Rafe grimaced, waving away the tobacco fumes. He fixed his partner with a withering glare. "Trying to keep your ungrateful hide out of jail. You want to tell me why you improvised with diamonds?"

"Fiona figured diamonds were a safer bet," Fred growled back, matching his low tone. "Even the brats around these parts can tell pyrite from gold." He scowled after Silver. "Damned bluestocking. She was on to you, eh? What do you think she'll do now?"

"I don't know."

Rafe watched narrowly as one of the lapdogs seated her near the head of the long banquet table. Then he ran his thumb over the engraving on Silver's card. So she'd be at that address until noon, eh? Perhaps one nonrefundable stage ticket would be well worth a visit to the First Lady of Sterling's abode—and an extra night in Leadville.

"Don't worry, Fred." Tucking the card beneath the flap of his coat pocket, Rafe gave his fuming partner a wink. "The lady may have won the battle, but she hasn't won the war. She's about to meet sweet conquest at the hands of Raphael Jones."

* * *

Every gaslight was ablaze as Silver paced the Aubusson carpet in her Grand Hotel suite. She was far too restless to consider disrobing and falling onto the feather mattress. Her day had been one disaster right after another, and as if that weren't enough reason to lie awake all night, she now had a decision to make. And she had to make it before the departure of the eight o'clock stage.

With an impatient glance at her bureau's porcelain timepiece, ticking off the last fifteen minutes of the day, Silver picked up her pace, as if the muffled tattoo of her heels could somehow speed up her resolution.

Guilt was such a trial. Here in her grasp—she waved a rolled-up edition of the
Rocky Mountain Sun
—she held the ideal plan to ruin Celestia, and yet she was having second thoughts. Doubts, for heaven's sake! How many times had she told herself she couldn't afford to have scruples when the opposition had none?