Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) by Adrienne deWolfe Read Free Book Online

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