Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (11 page)

Fred eyed him speculatively.

"So that's it with the heiress?" Fiona demanded. "No fancy dispensation? No souvenir for your poor, sick Fee?"

"I didn't steal her hairbrush, if that's what you mean."

"Here now," Fred growled, "you watch that tongue of yours. You're talking to a dying woman."

Fiona wheezed.

Rafe fidgeted, averting his eyes to Tavy. She gazed adoringly back at him. She was always glad to see him, whether he brought her trinkets or not. She never made him feel like his only real worth was the money he brought in.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Fiona," he said dryly. "My pockets are as empty now as the day you took me in."

Fred snorted. "They would've been a whole lot fuller if you hadn't let a blooming bluestocking sniff out our con. Hell, lad, you've gone rusty. And then to let the chit slip through your fingers without pinching as much as a silver dollar off her—"

"Freddie, luv, the boy can't very well go and force himself on the woman if she doesn't have any use for him."

Rafe smiled blandly at Fiona's dig. "My sentiments exactly."

He took a step toward the door, but Fred folded his arms, barring his way.

"And you're not going to do a bloody thing about the way she made a jackass out of you tonight?"

"Which time?" Rafe asked evenly.

For a moment, Fred's brows lowered in a thunderous expression. Silence fell so fast and thick that Rafe couldn't even hear Fiona's breathing.

Then the old huckster laughed, a loud and hearty sound. "I've got to hand it to you, lad. You had me going there. 'Which time,' indeed. So what's the plan? Are you going to break her heart? Or are you just going to rob her blind?"

"That will all depend on my mood, I suppose," Rafe said, playing along. To pretend his business with Silver was that of a spurned suitor bent on revenge was, ironically, one of the few businesses in which Fred wasn't likely to interfere. At least, that was Rafe's gamble. If Fred caught the scent of profit wafting out of Aspen, there'd be no keeping him in Leadville. Fred might have a certain fondness for him, but that fondness wouldn't keep him from employing every wile—including extortion—to get his hands on Nichols silver.

Fiona, meanwhile, was shooting furtive, daggerlike glares at her husband. Pasting on a motherly frown, she turned back to Rafe. "And how do you think you're going to keep yourself in champagne and caviar long enough to get this heiress to notice you? You don't have a blooming dollar to your name, lad. Forget the bluestocking. Like as not, she'll be as lively as a wet dishrag in bed anyway.

"'Sides," Fiona continued, wheezing faintly, "my physic says I'll be pushing up daisies by year's end. This may be the last chance my fading old eyes get to watch you tame the shrew. You were the best Petruchio we ever had, Rafe. And we've always been guaranteed a full house when you bare your soul as Romeo. Then there's your Benedick—you know Fred's too old to play the role—and your Hotspur always makes the ladies swoon—"

"No deal, Fiona. I've had enough. After Fred's little improvisation tonight, the prospect of hanging around Leadville has taken on a whole new meaning for me."

Fred scowled, his bottom lip jutting. "I already told you how it was. Baiting those suckers with pyrite would have gotten us both lynched."

"Face it, Fred," he retorted. "You can't help yourself. You'll be a showboater 'til the day you die. I need a stage of my own."

Fred's chest swelled up with wounded pride. "So that's the way of it, eh?"

"That's right," Rafe said more quietly, cursing himself for feeling the old twinge of guilt. If Fred and Fiona had cared about him rather than the money they thought he'd bring in, he would have been tempted—sorely tempted—to bail out on Silver and forfeit her fortune.

But when one faced an eternity in Hell, he reminded himself bitterly, one had to take what little comfort one could get. His foster parents should be pleased to know they'd tutored him so well. Money was all he cared about.

He glanced down at the baby dozing so trustingly in his arms.

Well... money and Tavy.

Fiona was making distressed rasping sounds. "What's the matter with you two, bickering over a dying woman's bed? I won't stand for it, you hear me? I want my last days to be happy ones, with my family gathered 'round me. Fred, you tell Rafe you're sorry. Rafe, you apologize to Fred."

The two men glared at each other.

Fiona made a hiccupping noise. When the threat of her sobs didn't work, she promptly burst into tears. Fred blew out his breath.

"Now Fee, honey," he murmured gruffly, groping for his wife's hand, "don't work yourself up. It can't be healthy in the delicate state you're in. Besides, the boy and I aren't feuding." Fred shot Rafe a warning glance. "Isn't that right, Rafe?"

He sighed. "We're not feuding, Fiona. It was a difference of opinion, that's all."

"So...?" She sniffled, peering up at him with watery eyes. "You'll make an old woman's last days happy? You'll join our theater family again?"

Rafe gritted his teeth. "I told you how it was, Fiona. I'll be hanged if I'm recognized here."

"God have mercy, God have mercy," she wailed, throwing herself into Fred's arms and rocking back and forth. "How will we survive? The creditors, they're camped out at our door, and we can't afford my medicine..."

"I'll send you some of Silver's money," Rafe ground out.

"You will?" she whimpered. "When?"

"Just as soon as I can get my hands on it, okay?"

She sniffed again. Fred solemnly handed her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose loud and long.

"You were always a good boy, Rafe," she said wistfully, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, "a better son than our own turned out to be. I knew you wouldn't let us down."

"There now, Fee," Fred soothed. "You lie back and rest yourself. No more worrying about money, you hear?"

She nodded contritely, settling into her pillows once more. Rafe looked away, swallowing bile. He didn't know whether to be outraged or heartsick. That she would use her illness as a weapon against him was perfectly in character for Fiona. That she would rank him in favor higher than her own son was not.
Damnation.
Rafe didn't think he could bear it if he had to watch her waste away the way his mother had.

"I should be going," he said gruffly.

"What about Tavy?" Fred demanded.

Wariness quickly bolstered his defenses. "What about her?"

Fred shrugged, giving Fiona's hand a last squeeze before rising from the bed. "I wouldn't think otters and bluestockings mix well socially. 'Course, I don't mean anything personal by that, Miss Tavy," he added gallantly, winking at the pup. He reached out to stroke her silken fur, and she gave a sleepy chirp.

"As far as I'm concerned, the world could use a lot more otters and a lot less bluestockings." He gave Rafe a sideways glance. "As hoity-toity as that Nichols chit is, I suspect you're going to need a couple of weeks at least to bring her down a peg and woo some money out of her. Tavy's welcome to stay here until you do."

Rafe's chin hardened, and he eased Tavy away from Fred's petting. He remembered only too well how Fred had sneaked off a mere two weeks after they'd left Blue Thunder and had sold Belle to pay off creditors. The next day, Belle's well-whipped, well-lathered carcass had been found in a roadside ditch with a broken leg and a bullet through her brain. Rafe might have killed Belle's new bastard of an owner if he'd had the vaguest inkling how. At the time, Fred had acted just as furious as Rafe had felt, but he'd never apologized for stealing the filly. And he'd never given Rafe one penny from her sale.

"Thanks, but I think Tavy'll be just the thing to break the ice with Silver Nichols."

"You do? Really?"

Not at all
, Rafe thought. But he'd be damned if he'd let Fred get his hands on Tavy. The man might start out with good intentions, but greed and debt invariably whittled them away.

"Fiona needs her rest," Rafe hedged, "and Tavy's been enough excitement for one day. I'll wire you in a week or so, once I get settled. I trust your show will run at least that long," he added dryly.

He raised Tavy to his shoulder. She draped herself around the back of his neck with a contented little sigh. Inclining his head, Rafe took his leave.

Fred frowned thoughtfully after him.

"Is he gone?" Fiona whispered irritably.

The self-professed master of dramatic timing, Fred didn't answer immediately. Instead, he fished in his vest pocket and pulled out another cigar.

"For now," he answered, striking a match.

"Then get rid of these bloody weeds so I can start breathing again," Fiona grumbled, tossing aside her blankets and shimmying out of her sweat-soaked nightdress.

Fred eyed his wife's matronly chest and plump thighs in a mixture of affection and resignation. She'd been a looker in her day. But then, so had he.

His lips curved faintly at the pun. If his old lady hadn't been so damned sharp-witted, he might have gotten away with more mischief over the years. But it was that mind of hers that kept luring him back to her bed. That mind and her incomparable skill as a shyster.

"We can't toss out the flowers yet, luv. The boy might still decide to bid you a proper adieu in the morning."

Fiona muttered an oath. Throwing open the window, she fanned herself vigorously, noisily dragging in the cool alpine air through her mouth. Good old Fee. She was even willing to suffer hayfever to pull off a scam. Too bad the otter had spilled all her facial powder. If Rafe returned, they'd have the devil of a time re-creating that red nose of hers. Hmm. Maybe it would be enough to keep the wagon in shadows...

"I felt like a blooming Christmas goose, sitting on that bed warmer," Fiona groused, interrupting his thoughts.

"As accomplished as you are, even you can't sweat on cue, Fee, although I must say—" he blew a stream of smoke into the air and gave her a cheeky grin "—you certainly warmed up to your role."

She tossed him a withering glare. "I should never have let you talk me into this. Consumption, for God's sake! And when columbines are out of season, and I've stopped wheezing like a bellows, how am I supposed to explain myself to the boy?"

Fred waved her concern away, leaving a swath of cigar smoke in his wake. "Mexico dries out the lungs, so they say."

"The boy's not green anymore."

"He fell for your act hook, line, and sinker."

"That's because I'm the best. And the poor sot thinks of us as family." She shivered, slamming the window shut again, and hugged her arms to her breasts. "I hope you're happy now. I'm likely to catch pneumonia, and he's still not coming back to the troupe."

"Sure he will. Right after that heiress kicks him out on his ass."

Fiona shook her head. "You're underestimating him. You always have. Just because he doesn't swing his fists and call you a bastard to your face doesn't mean he's a Milquetoast. He's got his own ways. And he's damned cagey about them. What woman can resist a man who spouts poetry and woos like a cavalier? What's more likely is he'll marry that Nichols woman and win himself a fortune. Then we'll lose him for good."

Fred cocked an eyebrow. "You're underestimating Miss Silver, luv."

Fiona snorted.

Retrieving a clean nightdress from her trunk, she tugged it over her head. "In any event," she said, moving back to the bed and yanking the warmer out from under the sheet, "he's never going to forgive you, Fred. Not this time," she added, a hint of regret tinging her voice. "I hope you've got the stomach for that."

His chin rose with a trace of its old, youthful belligerence. "He knows the way it is with creditors."

"That may be. But that doesn't mean he'll excuse you for turning him into a sap."

Fred shrugged, telling himself he didn't care. He was the boss, and business was business. Besides, if it hadn't been for him and Fiona, that wide-eyed preacher's boy would have wound up six feet under. Never in all his fifty-three years had Fred met an urchin so unschooled in the ways of the street. He'd taken advantage of the kid a couple of times just to toughen him up. Rafe hadn't been too appreciative of his education, but the way Fred saw it, he'd been doing Rafe a favor.

His gaze turned wistfully toward the wagon door and the flickering gaslights beyond.

Still, it was a bloody damned shame Rafe was harboring so many bad feelings about those years. The resentment had been unmistakable in the boy's eyes whenever Fred had gotten too close to his precious Tavy.

"It's not too late, Freddie," Fiona said more quietly. "I say we come clean. Tell him the truth before he leaves on the morning stage."

Fred got a hold of himself. Sentiment—especially maudlin sentiment—he reserved for the limelight. As far as he was concerned, Rafe owed them. Lately, the lad hadn't been paying his dues.

"Hell, no. Don't let all that boyish charm make a sucker out of you, Fee. Our young Romeo's pulling a scam of his own and cheating us out of the take."

Fiona blinked, her jaw dropping.

"How do you know that?"