Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) by Adrienne deWolfe Page B

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