Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (8 page)

"Questions about acting, Miss Nichols?"

"Questions about your background, sir."

"Ah." He flashed a smile so unrepentant that it would have made the angels sigh. "You mean my past. I give you fair warning, it is not the sort of fare I usually inflict upon a lady's ears."

"And yet if I am to hire you, Mr. Jones, I am entitled to know all—within the realm of good breeding, of course."

A long, well-manicured finger tapped his lips, as if to hide another smile. "Please. Call me Rafe."

She raised her chin. She wasn't about to encourage his familiarity. Moonlight, balconies, and bedrooms to the contrary, she was suffering the ne'er-do-well's company only because she couldn't hope to hire a man of integrity for the plot she'd devised. It was high time he understood that, too.

Thinking to put him in his place, she fixed him with the stare she usually reserved for insubordinates and Celestia.

"Let us proceed with our business, shall we? Have you ever visited Aspen?"

"Regretfully, no. I've limited my, er, pleasure trips to Leadville and Denver."

She pressed her lips together. She should have guessed he couldn't answer a perfectly proper question without a ribald afterthought.

"Do you recall ever meeting my father, Maximillian Nichols?"

"No."

"Are you sure? This is most important."

He regarded her for a long moment. She sensed he was weighing his response, trying to determine what advantage he'd gain by changing his answer. Any prior association he'd had with her father would prove disastrous to her scheme, of course, so she did her very best to keep her expression more bland than creamed corn.

"I'm sure."

The air fled her lungs in a rush. Only then did she realize she'd been holding it. She cursed herself for telegraphing her feelings. Raphael Jones was a professional prevaricator. She could see the keen mind at work behind his lazy fringe of lashes, and while his quick wit was certainly attractive, not to mention necessary, it presented a problem, too. Would she be able to stay one step ahead of him? Could she keep him under rein? Unlike Jones, she didn't make her living by swindling people.

Calling upon a finesse she'd honed while haggling over wages with the miner's union, Silver shuttered her expression once more.

"I could not fail to notice you played a geologist this evening, not an investor. We're both acquainted with the abysmal results of that choice. Am I to assume you're unfamiliar with the sort of financial speculation that's discussed in mining circles?"

The amusement was back, flickering over his mobile mouth and high cheekbones before taking up residence again in his gaze. "I read the stock pages."

"Yes, but if you were in the company of my father, could you discuss stocks and dividends and grades of ore with assurance?"

"Most certainly."

Her heart quickened. Even if he was lying, he was doing a bang-up job. Mastery in the art of deception was no doubt essential if a man was to survive in his world.

"Very well." She chose her next words carefully. "Mr. Jones, the sort of work you'll be doing for me will require that you... uh, not have a wife or fiancée waiting in the wings. At least, I would not feel comfortable employing you if you were so committed."

"Indeed?" The lilt in his bourbon-smooth drawl was unmistakable.

"I assure you, Mr. Jones, you'll be playing a part, nothing more."

"I see."

He didn't see anything yet, damn him, but she clamped her mouth shut anyway. She couldn't keep letting his mockery goad her.

"Mr. Jones, I am considering you for the role of a lifetime. A performance requiring such talent, such daring, such supreme mastery of the dramatic arts, that thespians across this continent would weep to learn that they missed this opportunity."

She paused expectantly, waiting for some reaction—
any
reaction—other than the smirk that was beginning to make her wish she dared reach over and shake him.

"Do go on, Miss Nichols. I love performances."

She gave him a sharp look. Just what did he mean by that?

"Your exposure to Shakespeare should be most helpful in this role. However, a certain savoir faire will be required if you are to play the part convincingly. Tell me. Have you ever been cast as a nobleman?"

"Hmm." He began to swing his leg, making his knee skim her skirts in the most provocative, nerve-jangling way. "In addition to Prince Hal from
Henry IV,
I've played Don Pedro in
Much Ado About Nothing
and Antonio in
The Merchant of Venice."

She frowned at the mention of Prince Hal, a carousing reprobate whom Shakespeare never redeemed until
Henry V.
The role suited her impression of Jones far too well.

"Don Pedro and Antonio are both noble characters," she said pointedly, "with the kind of refinement you'll require."

He said nothing. He just continued swinging, gazing into her eyes with that enticingly wicked, charmingly masculine smile. Her stomach fluttered.

This was it. Her last chance to change her mind. Once she told Jones her plan, she'd be stuck with him. There'd be no turning back.

Courage, Silver. This is for Papa.

"I suppose all that remains, Mr. Jones, is to tell you what I would be hiring you for."

She waited for her resolve to resurrect itself. Since moving to Colorado, she'd often had to be strong, even harsh, to protect her happy-go-lucky papa and see that his business stayed afloat. Now, once again, Papa needed to be saved from himself. His time was running out. No matter what she might personally think of Jones, the man was quite clearly a godsend in her time of need.

Jones raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She drew a bolstering breath.

"Mr. Jones," she said crisply, "I would like you to pose as a British aristocrat in order to seduce my father's fiancée."

Chapter 3

Rafe's jaw dropped. Then he laughed out loud.

The way Silver had been trying to reel him in, he'd figured she must be plotting a fraud. Still, he hadn't given her enough credit. He'd never dreamed she was capable of such guile.

"You want me to do
what?"
he gasped, clutching the tree limb to keep from tipping over the railing.

Her face grew as red as the ruby on her hand. "I daresay you heard me correctly the first time, Mr. Jones."

"But I assure you, the novelty hasn't worn thin."

"And I assure you, this is not a laughing matter! I am not in the habit of... of consorting with confidence men, but my father's utter disregard for his safety, his reputation, and his business has forced me to this lamentable end!"

"And here I thought you saved my neck because you liked me."

She shot him a quelling glare. "Might I continue?"

He swallowed another chuckle. "Yes, yes, by all means. So this conniving gold digger got her hooks in Midas Max, eh?"

"You said you didn't know my father," she countered suspiciously.

"I know his reputation. His magic pickax is legendary around these parts."

"Yes, well..."

She cleared her throat, and he suspected she was thinking what he was: Maximillian Nichols was a horny old devil with more luck than brains. Of course, she was probably thinking it in more ladylike language.

Nichols was renowned for blundering into his fortune. His first strike was the indirect result of his charity to a hard-luck stiff who'd had every intention of swindling him with a worthless claim. However, that "worthless" claim yielded pay dirt almost immediately when Nichols started puttering around its shaft. After buying three more "bust" claims and striking bonanzas in every one, speculators had dubbed him "Midas Max."

She raised her chin. "You haven't met 'conniving' until you've crossed paths with Celestia Cooper, I assure you.
Madam
Celestia, as she calls herself, parades around town purporting to read palms. She prescribes talismans for good fortune, potions for love, and amulets for physical complaints. She even professes to speak with spirits. Dead men's ghosts, for heaven's sake! I mean, really. Have you ever heard anything so preposterous?"

Actually, Rafe's idea of preposterous was Silver on the rampage against some harmless crackpot. Whatever did a millionaire like Max see in Celestia Cooper, anyway? She must be breathtakingly beautiful.

"But the truly worst part," Silver confided, gripping her newspaper in a stranglehold now, "is that this... this
witch
torched a church and burned it to the ground."

A lopsided grin tugged at his lips. "To the ground, you say?"

Silver nodded.

Well now. I'll have to shake the crackpot's hand.

"If I wasn't so certain Celestia was just a showboater, I might be swayed to believe her love spells and potions really do work. Papa insists on marrying her, even after that church-burning incident."

Sounds like I'll have to shake Max's hand too.

"I've warned Papa time and again," Silver raved on, oblivious to his efforts to keep a straight face, "but Celestia has so thoroughly pulled the wool over his eyes, I fear he can't see how she'll fleece him in the end. He's a trusting soul. As such, he has no concept of the numbers of barracudas that swim in the backwaters of our society."

"And you do?"

She blew out her breath. "That is not the point. The point is, Celestia Cooper must be stopped from marrying my papa and breaking his heart!"

Rafe gazed into her luminous, worry-filled eyes and was sorely tempted to applaud.
Brava.
He couldn't remember a more convincing performance. Silver was turning out to be quite the little flimflammer, wasn't she? First, she'd lied to the good citizens of Leadville for him. Next, she'd tried to dazzle him with that "role of a lifetime" pitch. Now she was claiming she didn't want her daddy to marry because his happiness was her priority.

Hell, do I have sucker written all over my face?

Silver's only priority, Rafe decided, was her daddy's fortune, those very same millions she stood to inherit by her lonesome if she kept him from marrying the competition.

"So you figure you'll bait one mountebank with another, eh?" He gave her a mocking smile. "When it comes to defrauding frauds, you think I'm a sure bet?"

"Well... yes. Don't you?"

"Certainly. But then, I couldn't be successful if I didn't share your confidence in me."

Her brow furrowed at his irony. "In truth, Mr. Jones, I daresay you have enough confidence for both of us."

"You flatter me, Silver."

She gave him another withering look. "Perhaps it will also flatter you to know that you inspired my idea,
Mr. Jones."
She stressed the formality, much to his amusement. "Earlier tonight, when I watched you pretending to be Bartholomew Markham, I thought there might be some sort of dinner show planned. But no one seemed to know of any entertainment, except, of course, for my speech. When your friend arrived, I deduced a hoax was in progress.

"At first, I was indignant on behalf of my colleagues." A hint of eagerness crept into her voice. "Then I was struck by divine inspiration. According to the
Rocky Mountain Sun,
a British earl, Lord Wilber Stokes of Chumley, has been traveling through the gold-mining west."

She paused, unrolling her newspaper and handing it to him. "You'll find the article there, on page one. The
Sun
is crying foul, because Chumley isn't likely to bring his august presence—or his British sterling—to Aspen. Apparently Chumley considers hard-rock mining far too expensive, not to mention risky, for speculation. He's been quoted in the San Francisco and Denver newspapers as saying he won't fritter his fortune away."

Rafe raised an eyebrow. Come to think of it, he had heard the gossip surrounding Chumley's travels. Last night, in the gambling hall below his lodging, he'd overheard a one-eyed Texican and his incredibly dumb crony blathering about the earl's "crown jewels" and how they would have lived like kings on such "loot."

With a wry smile, Rafe stepped closer to the gaslights and skimmed Silver's newspaper article. If the
Sun
could be believed, Chumley was the typical British blue blood with all the personality of a tree stump.