Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (27 page)

"Dash it all." Rafe made an exasperated sound as he lowered his quizzing glass. "And I went to such trouble picking the precise shade of pink for her bow. One can't wear just any shade when one is otter-brown. Cellie, my dear, do you think you might spare a bangle or two for Tavy to wear for her newspaper photograph?"

"Photograph?"
Silver nearly choked on the word.

"Why, yes," Rafe crooned. "Tavy is going to pose with that delightful Mrs. Trevelyan for the society pages. Mrs. T invited Tavy, as my ward, to be the guest-of-honor at her charity ball."

Silver groaned. It was bad enough that Rafe's preposterous quotations were appearing in one of the newspapers daily. But did his otter have to make the headlines, too?

"Uh... has Mrs. Trevelyan ever
met
your ward?" she asked him.

"Odds fish, my dear. Of course she has." Swiveling, he reached for the
Aspen Times
she'd tossed into the wastepaper basket. Breezing past the stock pages, which she read more religiously than the Bible, he turned to the section of the paper she'd come to dread. "Look you here," he said, snapping the sheets open with a flourish.

Reluctantly, she edged away from her post to peer at the headline. She needn't have bothered, though. The type splashed across the society pages was a full six inches high: "Teamster Baron and His Wife Host Charity Ball for Orphans and Motherless Otters."

Silver cringed. Brady Buckholtz was having a field day at Daisy Trevelyan's expense. Even though Rafe had been careful not to let his own likeness be photographed, leery as he was of attracting bounty hunters and tinstars, not a day went by when Silver didn't worry he'd be recognized. Pernicious Brady would have a field day at
her
expense, then.

"Aren't you supposed to be looking for a suitable stream stocked with plenty of fish and frogs," she reminded Rafe accusingly, "instead of splashing Tavy's likeness across the society pages?"

To her surprise, he grimaced, averting his gaze.

"Me and Chumley are going up to Swindler's Creek this very afternoon," Papa called, his voice echoing from one of her cabinets.

"So far?" Silver was momentarily distracted by the news. "But that's nearly a two-hour journey from Silver's Mine. Surely you can find a stream closer to home."

Papa straightened, red-faced and huffing. "That's just it, daughter. What with all the lumberyards around here, it's just not safe for otters. Why, even a living, breathing submarine like Tavy can't swim too good through sawdust. 'Sides, Cellie's spirits say there are otter lodges further up the mountain."

"Otter
dens,
dearest," Celestia corrected him gently. "Beavers live in lodges. Try looking for Tavy on the window seat."

"Whatever you say, sweet pea." Grinning, Papa threw her a kiss and moved toward the draperies.

Silver quailed.

Suddenly, the dark-gold bombazine rippled. Papa had no sooner reached for the drawstring than something svelte and brown dove past his ankles. He chuckled. "Shoot. I shoulda known Tavy would be snoozing in the sunshine."

Silver had to choke back an oath. Those galloping otter paws had dislodged the satchel strap, and it was in full view now.

Meanwhile, Tavy chirped sleepily and trotted over to Rafe. Wrapping around his ankle, she sighed and settled on his boot, as if she intended to continue her nap. His throat worked as he stooped to lift her.

"Well, that mystery's solved," Silver said with less asperity than she'd intended. Tavy was snuffling at Rafe's cheek and he, wonder of wonders, wasn't cooing about fish kisses. She wondered at his introspection, because he'd never allowed his Chumley facade to be anything less than groanworthy.

"There, there," Celestia crooned. She crossed to Rafe's side and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. "The spirits will find Octavia plenty of otters to play with. And you can visit her new den any time you choose."

Silver bristled at their obvious accord.

"That's right," Papa chimed in. "Why, she'll practically be our neighbor. Since me and Cellie'll have more rooms here than we can use, you and Silver won't have to go far to see her."

Silver started, eyeing her father sharply.

"That's deucedly decent of you, old fellow," Rafe said quickly. Other than the veiled look he shot Papa, his Chumley mask was firmly back in place. "But alas, I can't sell Chumley Manor. It's been our family home since the Crusades. Why, William the Conqueror dined there. And Robert of Locksley, too."

"Robert of Locksley?" Papa's eyes brightened. "You mean
Robin Hood?"'

"Quite so." Rafe cuddled Tavy, lucky Tavy, against his chest. "Why, 'tis rumored we're distant cousins."

Silver rolled her eyes.
They were distant cousins, all right.
She took refuge in exasperation, preferring to be miffed by Rafe's Robin Hood hogwash rather than jealous of his otter. Besides, Papa was just gullible enough to believe Rafe's fabrication.

She started to help Papa save face, but Tavy distracted her. Poking her head out from under Rafe's elbow, the pup twitched her whiskers at the open inkwell. Visions of paw-stained contracts flashed before Silver's eyes, especially when Tavy stretched out tentative webbed toes. Hastily, Silver reached around Rafe for the stopper.

To her consternation, her breast brushed his arm.

"Doesn't your otter have an appointment with a photographer?" she snapped, backing hastily away. She tried not to notice how fast her heart was speeding or how taut her nipple had grown from that innocent contact.

Rafe's smile was pure wickedness. "Why, Miss Pennies, I do believe you're flustered. Was it something I did... or didn't do?"

"I'll be damned!"

Silver jumped at her father's expletive. He was behind the bombazine now, and her heart sank to her toes.

"Cellie, honey, look! Spiritkeepers!" He emerged with the gaping satchel and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "'Course, you're the expert," he added eagerly, holding out a fist-sized rock for her inspection, "but I
think
they're spiritkeepers."

"They are nearly spherical," she conceded, turning her own sample critically in her hands.

"And they don't have any fissures," Papa added, "so the spirits can't slip out."

"Hmm." Celestia passed her chubby, bejeweled fingers over Papa's rock. Her gaze strayed to Silver, who was blushing profusely. Then she passed her palm over the rock in her other hand. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Silver watched uncomfortably as the moons and stars on Celestia's blue tunic shuddered with her breath. She filled her lungs a second time, equally as deep and dramatic.

"The spirits," she intoned finally, "say these will do."

"Hot damn!" Papa was practically dancing a jig. "We can have our séance!"

Celestia's eyes were still closed. "It is most important," she continued in portentous tones, "that the message of the spirits be heard at sunset tomorrow."

Papa pivoted, his eyes round and mystified. "Why?"

Her lashes fluttered open, and she gave him a patient smile. "It's the full moon, dearest."

"Oh." He brightened again, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. "Daughter," he said, his grin a dazzling white crescent in his beard, "we're gonna get to the bottom of those groaning timbers and those missing lunch pails. The Union's gonna settle, and the men are gonna report back to work. And it's all because of you! Who woulda thought you had a slew of spiritkeepers right here, in your ore pouch?"

Silver's throat constricted. "Yes, well..." She caught Rafe's eye and burned hotter with shame. "They looked like country rocks to me."

"That's only 'cause your eye's not trained," Papa consoled her. "But if you can learn to spot a hunk of ore, you can learn to spot spiritkeepers—just like I did. Right, Cellie?"

Celestia gave her a warm and motherly smile. "I'm sure Silver can learn anything, once she puts her mind to it."

Silver forced herself to meet Celestia's gaze. Try as she might, she could spy no accusation there. Nor could she detect a trace of gloating. But surely Celestia was canny enough to have guessed why the missing spiritkeepers had materialized amidst
her
ore samples.

From the depths of the house, a chime faintly echoed.

Papa's brow furrowed. "Sounds like the doorbell. You don't reckon that's that photographer fella, do you, Chumley? I thought you told him to meet you at the Trevelyans' house."

"Quite so, old chap. And now that Tavy has to be re-combed and re-fluffed, I'm afraid we're running a bit behind schedule."

"Not to worry, my boy. I'll send a message right quick to Daisy." Papa kissed the back of Celestia's hand before he began dragging her out the door. "C'mon, Cellie, honey. We've got invitations to send, and candles to arrange.... Hey, how do spirits feel about snacks at their séances?"

Their footsteps faded down the hall. Silver swallowed, feeling more ashamed than relieved that she'd escaped her papa's suspicion. Hiding his rocks seemed like the most heinous act in the world now that she'd seen the childlike joy their discovery had given him.

"Curses," Rafe taunted gently. "Foiled again."

Silver's chin quivered. Mortified by the threat of her tears, she ducked her head, busily straightening the sheaves of paper on her desk. "I don't have the foggiest notion what you're talking about."

"Don't you?"

Tavy scampered onto the ledger, batting the pen out from under its pages. Aggravated by this play, Silver snatched the instrument away.

"If you're referring to the séance, well then, yes. Of course, I'm dismayed. I've been trying to stop it for weeks."

"By stealing spiritkeepers?"

She hated that her hands shook. Scowling, she slammed the papers back on the desk. "Yes.
Yes.
There, I've said it. Are you happy now?"

She flopped into her chair. If she could barely stomach herself after pilfering a few worthless rocks, how would she ever forgive herself once Rafe lured Celestia into a lovetrap?

"I thought... I
didn't
think," she corrected herself gloomily. "That's the real problem. I should have known Papa's séance idea was his befuddled attempt to save the mine. But honestly, Rafe, he's been so preoccupied with Cibola and Nahele's treasure, and then with Celestia and his wedding plans, that I didn't think he cared about anything else."

"You mean about
anyone
else?"

She winced. Leave it to her to hire an insightful coconspirator. "What gave me away?" she asked dryly.

"Oh, I don't know." His eyes were warm with understanding. "Maybe it's the way you dote on him."

She sighed, fingering the pen. She wondered if all playactors read
between
the lines so well.

"Contrary to what you might think, I hate lying to him."

"I know," he said softly. "But take heart. All isn't lost. For one thing, I don't think he suspects you."

"That's because he's too trusting. It will never cross his mind that I might have stolen from him. Or that I'm conspiring against Celestia."

She groaned, rubbing her hands over her face. That's what made her feel worst of all: her father trusted her when she was so blameworthy. "I just wish this whole stupid séance idea had never reached the newspapers. I could just strangle Brady Buckholtz for blowing it out of proportion—"

She hesitated, instinctively uneasy. Rafe had grown quiet, too quiet. Peering through her fingers, she caught him reading the newspaper clipping with Aunt Agatha's scrawled message. A cold splash of dread drenched her.

Oh, no.

She probably should have said something; she probably should have snatched the article away. Why it bothered her that Rafe had learned about her love affair with Aaron was more than she cared to ask in that moment. All she could do was sit frozen in distress, counting the heartbeats that lodged in her throat, until Rafe's eyes finally rose to hers.

For an eternity, she melted into the liquid pewter of his gaze. Deeper than the ocean itself, it was full of emotions she couldn't quite fathom. They flitted too quickly beneath the mirrorlike calm, betraying an intensity that stole her breath away. She had no language to describe the cryptic dance of thought and feeling, no clues to guide her to his deepest hope or fear. She ached to know more, to understand the glimpse of genuineness he'd shown her, but a fleet second later, only her reflection stared back from that placid surface.

The return of his nonchalance, so well-rehearsed yet so unreal, left her choking on frustration. Ever since that night in the parlor, she'd known there was more to Rafe than the cavalier he played. Why wouldn't he show her who he truly was? Why wouldn't he reveal the man behind the facade?

She never got the opportunity to ask. A brisk, measured stride sounded in the hall. Rafe resumed his Chumley mask, and Benson, another master of facades, halted before the open door. The butler's expression was bland as he bowed, but when he straightened to announce his purpose, his tone was disconcertingly smug.

"Pardon my intrusion, miss. But His Grace has a visitor downstairs. A Mrs. Fiona Fairgate, by name. She brought no calling card, but she claims to be his mother."