A Most Unusual Match
Sara Mitchell
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesOne of the earliest fiction authors in the inspirational market, Sara Mitchell is the critically acclaimed author of fifteen novels.Her 2001 historical Shenandoah Home earned a Romantic Times Top Pick rating; the sequel, Virginia Autumn, was a 2003 Christy Award finalist and winner of the RWA Georgia's Maggie Award of Excellence in the historical category; and her Love Inspired Historical Legacy of Secrets won the 2008 RT Reviewers' Choice Award in the Love Inspired Historical category.From inspirational romance, to historical fiction, to complex historical suspense, Sara Mitchell's books have touched the lives of readers all over the world. Her hallmark traits include exhaustive research, a command of language and characters with emotional depth. She currently writes for Steeple Hill's Love Inspired Historical line, creating stories that take place in the late 1890s.In all her works, Sara infuses the same passion and faith with which she tries to live life. It remains her hope that ". . . God's grace enables my books to touch hearts and honor Him. Along with," she adds with a smile, "providing a few hours of happily-ever-aftering."When she's not writing and making a mess of her office Sara enjoys rummaging around cluttered antique shops, researching historical photos, shopping for bargains in any kind of store that is NOT crowded and playing her 1870s rosewood Steinway piano. She gave up on sewing, knitting, crocheting, scrapbooking and regular exercise. She has learned, however, to embrace gardening on a small scale, unless she encounters grubs or slugs. Earthworms are fine.She and her husband of 39 years live in Virginia. They are the parents of two adult daughters. Sara loves to hear from readers, and you may reach her through Web site.
“I prefer horses to people,” Devlin said. “They might bite or kick if frightened or provoked. But they don’t lie.”
Thea weathered the blow—it was justified. “I didn’t think a harmless fabrication would hurt anyone…” Her voice trailed into silence.
“And when nothing worked, you got desperate.”
“Desperate,” she repeated. “Have you ever been desperate, Mr. Stone? About anything?”
“Yes. But never enough to cheat, or beg or deceive.”
“Then you’ve never been desperate.”
“I don’t know what to think of you, Miss Pickford. Is that your real name, by the way?”
“It’s actually my mother’s maiden name.” He slid the question in so neatly Thea answered before she realized it. “Please don’t ask for my real name. I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”
“Ah.” Another one of those flicks of blue light came and went in his eyes. “We’re in accord, then. I don’t want to be lied to.”
SARA MITCHELL
A popular and highly acclaimed author in the Christian market, Sara’s aim is to depict the struggle between the challenges of everyday life and the values to which our faith would have us aspire. The author of contemporary, historical suspense and historical novels, her work has been published by many inspirational book publishers.
Having lived in diverse locations from Georgia to California to Great Britain, her extensive travel experience helps her create authentic settings for her books. A lifelong music lover, Sara has also written several musical dramas and has long been active in the music miniseries of the churches wherever she has lived. The mother of two daughters, Sara now lives in Virginia.
Sara Mitchell
A Most Unusual Match
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Do not say, “I’ll pay you back for this wrong!”
Wait for the Lord, and He will deliver you.
—Proverbs 20:22, NIV
He hath…sent me to heal the brokenhearted,
to preach deliverance to the captives,
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty them that are bruised.
—Luke 4:18, KJV
To Melissa Endlich, my dear editor, for her consummate editorial skill, and her faith in me.
Thanks for everything.
Acknowledgments
Profound thanks to the following, all of whom were gracious with their time and generous with their information. Any historical errors are entirely the author’s doing.
Once again to the staff members in the U.S. Secret Service Office of Government and Public Affairs, and the staff of the U.S. Secret Service Archives, for their courtesy and invaluable assistance.
Saratoga Springs, New York
Mary Ann Fitzgerald, City Historian, Saratoga Springs
Allan Carter, Historian, Saratoga Racing Museum
…and all the other wonderful individuals up in Saratoga Springs I spoke to a time or two, or exchanged emails with.
Jekyl Island
Gretchen Greminger, Curator, Jekyl Island—spelled “Jekyll” from the 20th century onward! (so nobody will be confused….)
Clint and the rest of the staff at the Jekyll Island Museum.
Gretchen, many, many thanks for helping me perfect the plot and make it work! You’re a perfect example of a peach of a Georgia gal!
God’s blessings to one and all.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Saratoga Springs, New York
June, 1897
Theodora Langston watched Edgar Fane stroll across the lobby of the Grand Union Hotel. A half smile lurked at the corners of his mouth, while a swelling crowd—mostly ladies—clustered about him. His gray fedora tipped forward jauntily and one pale hand lightly swung a brass-handled walking stick, tapping the marble foyer with each step. Mr. Fane epitomized a gentleman out to enjoy his season at Saratoga Springs. He had the right, seeing he was a son of one of the richest men in the country.
Thea watched him, and her heart burned with hatred.
As he passed the marbled pillar where she stood, the indifferent gaze passed over her as though Thea were part of the pillar. Edgar Fane, she had discovered over the past ten days, preferred his female admirers long and willowy and adoring, or dainty and luscious and adoring. She could feign adoration, but since her unextraordinary face and physique failed to capture the scoundrel’s interest, Thea would have to try a different strategy. She had spent the last of her deceased grandmother’s trust fund on this crusade, and would not abandon her quest until Edgar Fane was behind bars, where he belonged.
Her troubled glance fell upon Grandmother’s ruby ring, snug on Thea’s engagement finger. She was accustomed to ink from a printing press, not fancy rings. Still, the facade of wealth was necessary to gain access to the higher echelons of Saratoga Springs society. Justice did not come cheaply. The ring might be real, all the lavish gowns she’d purchased from Bloomingdale’s with the rest of the trust money might be the latest fashion, but she was living a lie.
She could hear her grandfather’s voice as though she were standing in their library on that rainy afternoon a month earlier. Thea, you mustn’t think such things about him. He had sounded so gentle. Gentle, and defeated. Mr. Fane proclaimed his innocence with equal vehemence. No proof of malfeasance on his part has surfaced.
You are innocent, but you’re the one they arrested, you’re the one those awful Secret Service operatives treated like a common criminal!
I was the one who tried to deposit counterfeit funds.
But it was Edgar Fane who had paid Charles Langston with those bogus funds.
The burning hatred inside Thea seethed, cauterizing her heart. No use to pray for forgiveness, or ask for divine help. Her grandfather could pray all he wanted to, but Thea doubted God would oblige Charles Langston with an answer. Because of Edgar Fane, her grandfather’s faith had dimmed to the stub of a barely flickering candle. As for Thea, life had finally forced her to swallow an unpalatable truth: She could not trust anyone—God or man—to see justice served. If she wanted Edgar Fane to be punished for his crimes, she’d have to do it herself.
For all her life she’d played a part—the good child, the grateful girl, the admirable woman—while inside, insecurity and anxiety clawed with razor-stropped spikes. Now she was about to embark on her most ambitious role. She did not enjoy the risk and the public nature of the charade, but she was confident of her success.
The crowded hotel parlor seemed to lurch, and Thea braced herself against the grooved pillar until the sensation dissipated. She never should have used her mother’s maiden name, a constant reminder that no matter whether her present life be truth or lie, she remained the abandoned daughter of a wayward youngest son and a vaudeville singer from the Bowery. No surprise that for most of her childhood she struggled with dizzy spells.
As for faith, life had finally forced Thea to swallow an unpalatable truth: something was lacking in her, something missing from birth that made her unlovable to everyone but her grandfather.
Despite Charles Langston’s attempts to give her the life of a privileged young lady, perhaps she was Hetty Pickford’s daughter after all.
The high-pitched whinny of an alarmed horse cut through the noisy road traffic on the Saratoga Springs Broadway. Moments earlier Devlin Stone had emerged from the Indian encampment arcade, where he’d spent the past two hours shadowing a suspect. Scarborough disappeared into one of the sidewalk eateries, and Devlin let him go, instead searching the street until he spotted a foam-flecked bay hitched to a surrey in front of the Columbian Hotel. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones by the curb and the horse’s head strained against the checkrein. The driver, stupid man, yanked on the reins while shouting an unending barrage of abuse.
Anger flaring, Dev approached just as the terrified horse reared in the traces and plunged forward straight toward a pair of young boys on bicycles. Dev leaped in front of them. “Move!” he ordered, whipping off his jacket.
The two boys scrambled for safety but the horse swung his head around, ears flat and teeth bared. Devlin grabbed the driving reins just behind the bit, then flung his jacket over the blinkers to completely blind the horse.
“Easy, boy…calm down, you’re all right. Nobody’s going to hurt you now.”
“Hey! Whadaya think you’re doing?” the driver yelled, sawing on the reins in a vain attempt to regain control.
With his free hand Dev reached for his pocketknife. “Probably saving this animal’s life, and unfortunately yours,” he responded in the same soothing tone as he lifted the knife, slicing both reins twelve inches from the bit. “There you are, fella. No more pressure on your mouth. That’s it…just relax.”
He dropped the knife back in his trouser pocket, unlatched the checkrein. The driver’s complexion had gone from the boiling flush of rage to dirty-sheet gray. Good. Devlin held his palm in front of the horse’s nostrils, waiting until a hot fluttering breath gently blew over his fingers before he slowly removed his jacket. A single quiver rolled through the flanks, but the horse stood still, watching Devlin.
“Good boy. You’re all right.” He applied light forward pressure and the horse docilely allowed Dev to lead him across Broadway onto a calm side street.
Devlin turned to the driver. “Get out of the buggy.”
“I’m not paying for the harness you ruined,” the man complained, climbing stiffly down from the surrey.
“How about you shut up and hand me the rest of the reins?” Before Devlin pummeled the bounder himself.
The lash of temper did the trick, for without further argument the man complied. In seconds Dev formed a makeshift hackamore, and secured the end to a hitching post.
“You know horses well enough,” the driver observed grudgingly. “Guess I owe you. Don’t know what spooked the stupid animal.”
“Try having a piece of metal crammed in your mouth, then have someone yank on it until it bleeds.” Devlin eyed the other man with disfavor.
“Yeah…well, I don’t usually do my own driving.” He glanced at the now-quiet horse, a flicker of admiration warring with the sneer. “Anytime you want a job as coachman, look me up.” He reached into his vest pocket and tugged out an ivory calling card.
“No, thanks. I’d have to be around you.” Devlin rummaged for a fifty-cent piece, flicked it so the coin fell with a soft thud onto the packed dirt inches from the man’s shiny shoes. “Enjoy a cup of coffee at the Congress Spring Pavilion. I’ll return this animal. Where’d you rent him? The livery on Henry Street? By the way, you are right about one thing.” He waited a moment before continuing, “I strongly suggest you do hire a driver. Because if I catch you mistreating a horse again, rest assured you’ll feel a lot worse than the animal.”
The driver bristled anew. Then, jaw muscles working, with his heel he ground the coin into the dirt, swiveled and stalked off down the street.
An hour later, mostly recovered, Devlin stood on the piazza of the Grand Union Hotel, surrounded by a herd of chattering humanity instead of a spooked horse in a herd of Broadway traffic. He wished, not for the first time, that he was back in Virginia, surrounded by his own horses, none of which had ever known the cruelty that poor livery hack endured. The pasture would be lush and green, and if he looked up he would see the ancient Blue Ridge Mountains against a summer sky instead of rows of massive white marble columns supporting a structure billed as the largest hotel in the world.
Over the aroma of ladies’ French perfume and men’s sweat he caught a whiff of popcorn. Maneuvering his way between a cluster of ladies debating on whether to visit Tiffany’s before or after a promenade along Broadway, Devlin shouldered his way over to the vendor to buy a bag of popcorn.
Bright summer sunshine poured over Saratoga, onto the twenty-plus thousand tourists enjoying a season at the place touted as “America’s Resort.” An ironic smile hovered at the corners of Devlin’s mouth. How many of the guests would scramble for the first train leaving the depot if they knew an operative for the U.S. Secret Service prowled among them?
Perhaps he should have flashed his badge at that lout earlier—except Dev was here undercover, the badge and credentials safely hidden in his own hotel room.
Of course few operatives—if any—could spend an entire season playing the part of a wealthy gentleman of leisure. In the first place, Congress would never approve the funds. To Devlin’s way of thinking, such shortsightedness plagued a lot of government officials. He’d only been with the Service for two years, and at the moment did not feel adequate to match wits with the Hotel Hustler.
In only three years, the invisible thief had cost unsuspecting dupes somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty million dollars—and nobody could figure out how he managed it.
The previous autumn, Service hopes had soared when a call came in from the chief of the New York City office; they’d arrested a man at the bank where he tried to pass bills matching the Hustler’s work. Infuriatingly, the man denied all knowledge of counterfeiting, claiming the false bills had come from Edgar Fane. Corroborating evidence could not be found either to support his claims or prove his guilt, and they’d been forced to release Charles Langston. Edgar Fane hadn’t even been arrested, much less charged. Another dead end in this impenetrable maze.
Counterfeiters were a despicable bunch. Pervasive as flies, they swarmed the country, mostly in cities, undermining the national currency. A few of them had committed murder. Over the last decade, for the most part the Service had done a crackerjack job closing down the worst of the gangs.
But the Hotel Hustler had them stumped.
Devlin accepted that pride as well as a dose of cussedness had concocted this present undercover infiltration scheme. Chief Hazen reluctantly sanctioned it, telling Devlin he certainly wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
He’d laughed when he said it.
Dev shook his head and resumed watching the front of the Grand Union Hotel. Six weeks earlier, a reliable snitch had informed another operative that the Hustler would be at Saratoga, but as always no other information, such as a description, had surfaced. Three guests, one of them Edgar Fane, warranted surveillance, based upon these scraps of evidence tirelessly gleaned over the past twenty months.
Some ten minutes later patience was rewarded. Dev watched the impeccably clad Edgar Fane emerge onto the piazza, surrounded by his throng of hangers-on. Dev had been shadowing the cultured, congenial fellow for three days, and the man did not fit the usual profile of a criminal. Privileged son of the owner of exclusive emporiums all over the country, Fane scattered money and bonhomie wherever he traveled. The money thus far was genuine. Dev wasn’t convinced about the rest. Edgar Fane reminded him of a Thoroughbred he and his uncle once reluctantly agreed to train for the owner. Flashy specimen of horseflesh, conformation of champions—but not an animal to turn your back on.
Edgar Fane paused, lifted his hand. Several women approached, and Devlin watched in some amusement as they jockeyed for position—the buxom redhead boldly thrust her arm through Fane’s, while a regal blonde offered a narrow white hand adorned with several rings, which Fane adroitly kissed even as his other hand patted the redhead’s arm. The trio merged into the crowd, easy enough to follow since the redhead sported a gigantic hat the size of a saddle.
Devlin shouldered away from the column, then paused, his gaze returning to the third woman, the one Fane had barely seemed to notice as the other two women led him away. She stood very still, and in this chattering, gesticulating, endlessly restless crowd that stillness piqued Dev’s interest. Without fuss, he tucked his hands in the waistband of his trousers and sauntered down the steps, pretending to scan the crowd while he memorized the young woman.
Unremarkable height and build in comparison to the luscious redhead and slender blonde. Like most society women, she styled her mass of honey-colored hair in the current Gibson girl fashion. Creamy magnolia complexion and a soft mouth, large dark brown eyes gazing after Edgar Fane with an expression of—Devlin’s eyebrows shot up. Was that anger, or fear?
He wasn’t to know, because the woman abruptly turned in a graceful swirl of skirts and hurried off in the opposite direction.
Chapter Two
Thinking fast was one of the Service’s unwritten requirements: intrigued, Dev followed the spurned woman instead of shadowing Fane, keeping at least a dozen people between them. When a potential masher approached her, his manner a trifle too familiar, Devlin’s fingers twitched with the need to intervene.
Wasn’t necessary. The young woman laughed, said something; the vanquished masher tipped his hat and moved away. So. The lady knew how to dismiss louts without causing offense.
Perhaps she’d had a lot of practice.
For several more moments Devlin followed her, automatically memorizing traits, from the slight tilt of her head to the firm assurance in her steps, the swanlike neck and softly rounded shoulders. A fine figure of a woman, perhaps. But he needed to see that face again. Moving quickly, he wound his way along the teeming walkway until he was some twenty feet ahead of the woman. He bought a frankfurter from a sweating vendor, absently munching while he chewed over his response to this particular female.
With an internal jolt he realized his acute interest bordered on personal rather than professional. He needed to see her face not only to jot down an accurate description in his nightly notes, but to discover if that blaze of emotion in her eyes had been a trick of the sunlight, rather than a revelation of her character. In his experience, women didn’t always feel like they acted, or acted like they felt.
Devlin might begrudge the instant attraction this particular female had tweaked to life, but he’d be foolish to discount its power. Last time he succumbed, his heart was kicked, stomped and tromped. The Blue Ridge Mountains would be flat as the Plains out west before he’d trust his heart to another woman. Yet without any effort on her part—she didn’t know he existed, after all—this one touched a crusted-over piece of it. Annoyed with himself, Dev moved closer, assessing her like an operative instead of a calf-eyed rube.
She’d make a useful shover, flirting her way through the stores that fronted Grand Union Hotel, handing over bogus bills to cashiers too dazzled to notice they’d just been bamboozled. After stealing thousands of dollars in purchases, she and the cur who supplied the counterfeit goods would turn around and sell everything the deceitful little shover had bought. The game had been played with various permutations throughout the country.
Not this time, Devlin muttered beneath his breath, despising those who preyed upon the innocent, the weak, the gullible. He bit off a tasty chunk of hot frankfurter.
Less than three paces away, a matronly woman draped in deep pink lace lifted her arm and waved to someone. “Miss Pickford?” she called out. “Theodora? Is that you?”
Amazingly, the woman Dev was following started, then offered a smile only someone watching her closely—such as himself—would recognize as strained. For a moment she wavered. Then she blinked and the smile warmed into cordiality. “Mrs. Van Eyck. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. The crowds…”
Dev took another bite, and eavesdropped without a qualm.
“How lovely you look today, dear,” Mrs. Van Eyck gushed. “Have you heard from your darling fiancé this week? Do tell me, you know how much I adore those dashing British aristocrats. You must join me—I was just on my way to the springs for a healthful dose of the waters. I must say, the practice of charging for a drink these days is depressingly crass…. Where is your chaperone, Theodora? Mrs…. oh, dear, I can’t seem to recall her name.”
“Mrs. Chudd. She doesn’t care for crowds, or heat, so I’ve left her reading a book in one of the hotel’s parlors.”
So Miss Theodora Pickford conveniently ditched her chaperone, and had already snagged herself a man. One who doubtless loved her in blissful ignorance of her interest in the son of one of the richest men in the country. Like a cloud passing across the sun, disillusionment shadowed Devlin’s mind. His successes with the Service might satisfy an inchoate longing to serve his country, but the scope of human greed continued to catch him off guard.
“Where is Mr. Van Eyck today?” the two-timing flirt inquired.
Well-modulated voice, Devlin noted grudgingly. Warm, with a dash of humor. She smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth, and nobody would believe her to be anything other than genuine. Nobody except an undercover Secret Service operative whose belief in humanity had just endured another drubbing.
“Oh, you know Mr. Van Eyck. Playing cards at the Casino,” Mrs. Van Eyck babbled along. “Annoying, when the weather is fine, isn’t it? My dear friend Esmeralda—I introduced you the other day, did I not? Her husband’s second cousin is distantly related to Queen Victoria, you know. I was quite mystified to learn your fiancé was unacquainted with him. You did tell me your intended is an earl?”
“I did, but you may have forgotten that dear Neville feels tremendous responsibility for all his family properties. They’re scattered all over the British Isles, not to mention a villa in Italy, so he’s rarely in London.”
Why, the minx was lying! The slightly elevated voice, restless movement of her hands, dilated pupils—subtle signs but clear indications all the same.
More likely her absent fiancé was a butcher from Cleveland, or some gout-riddled banker twice her age. She might even be lying about having an intended at all. The particulars could be supplied with time. All that mattered for the moment was that Miss Pickford had an association with one of the suspects on Devlin’s list, that she felt no qualms in wandering about without escort or chaperone and that she was a liar.
Too bad for you, darling, Dev thought. He detested liars, personally as well as professionally.
Unless the liar happened to be himself.
His conscience grumbled as it always did when he thought of the deceptions necessary in his undercover work; Dev reminded it that he had sworn an oath to defend the United States against all persons engaged in practices designed to undermine the country’s economic sovereignty. This girl might be another bored society belle, but she was also clearly hiding something. And if that something was of a criminal nature, she might be in league with the Hotel Hustler himself, given the winsomeness of her charm.
Casually he stepped around Mrs. Van Eyck, placing himself within touching distance of Miss Pickford.
“Miss Pickford! Good afternoon.” He doffed his straw boater and bowed, his smile deepening at her look of consternation. “What a stroke of good fortune to find you in this crush. I just arrived from London last night. Neville was overjoyed to learn my visit to Saratoga would coincide with yours. He planned to send you a telegram—did you receive it? Well, never mind, what matters is the special message for you, that he asked me to pass along in person.” He leaned forward, adding in a dramatic whisper, “We should probably retire to somewhere more private. Since Mrs. Chudd is happily reading in the parlor, so much the better.”
“How thrilling,” Mrs. Van Eyck cooed, “to have something more…physical…than a telegram or letter bringing word from your beloved.” Her eyes twinkled. “Do join me later, Miss Pickford, and share everything this handsome messenger imparts. Young couples in love liven things up. Brings back happy memories of myself and Mr. Van Eyck, three decades ago.”
“I don’t think…” Miss Pickford began as she fumbled to open a brightly colored Chinese fan. “I didn’t receive a telegram.”
“Well, it’s doubtless waiting at the desk. We’ll fetch it later.” Devlin clasped her elbow in a display of seeming gallantry which also effectively edged Mrs. Van Eyck farther away. “Is this heat too much for you? Let me escort you over to that patch of shade under the elms.”
“Yes, of course.”
Beneath the flimsy lawn overblouse he could feel the tensile strength of her slender forearm. A twitch of puzzlement feathered the base of Devlin’s neck. For an accomplished flirt and a liar to boot, at close quarters Miss Pickford struck him as…fresh, unspoiled, even. Untainted by the slight aura of dissipation that hovered around Saratoga. He could lose himself in those expressive dark brown eyes. Her bones were those of a finely bred Arabian instead of the massive draft horses he bred and trained at StoneHill.
Something didn’t fit here.
Grimly he focused his attention back on the plump, perspiring Mrs. Van Eyck. “Forgive me for absconding with your friend. I wouldn’t intrude except I’m planning to attend the races—the first is at one forty-five, I believe. Before that I’m to meet someone at Hathorn Spring, so have little time to spare. Miss Pickford? Shall we?”
Two spots of red now burned in the young lady’s magnolia cheeks, but the tangled emotions swimming through her eyes jarred Devlin. He’d expected anger and possibly a show of outrage….
“I’ll try to see you later, Mrs. Van Eyck,” Miss Pickford promised, twisting her neck to address the older woman and in the process managing to discreetly free her arm.
“Dear Neville is a dreadful tease. This past spring he sent a young fellow dressed like a medieval troubadour to my house. I was treated to a ballad—poorly sung, I’m afraid—about all of Neville’s goings-on that week.”
Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips curled in a smile as she moved the fan back and forth in front of her face, possibly to disguise a significant “tell”: the corners of her eyes didn’t crinkle, which told Devlin her smile, like Miss Pickford, was artificial.
“How droll,” Mrs. Van Eyck offered after a pause.
“Yes, isn’t it? Um…I’ll speak with this gentleman, then how about if I meet you at the Congress Spring Pavilion? Say, in a quarter of an hour?”
Between the two of them, Mrs. Van Eyck didn’t stand a chance. After a final sideways perusal of Devlin, she retreated.
“You’re quite good,” he began, “though might have been safer promising to meet her at—”
“I much prefer to converse with a gentleman if I know his name, especially when he claims to be acquainted with my fiancé.” She stood still, fan now dangling forgotten from her wrist. One hand was planted on her hip, but the other had curled into a fist at her side.
So she wanted to prolong the game, did she? “Ah. How remiss of me. Devlin Stone, of StoneHill Farm, Virginia, at your service, Miss Pickford.”
“I thought I detected a Southern drawl.” For a moment she seemed to hesitate before tossing her head. A fine pair of amethyst earrings dangled in the sunlight. “Well? What is the message dear Neville requested you to deliver? You have a meeting with someone and races to attend, after all. You’d best get on with the delivery before you’re late for your appointment.”
“You’ve got me, ma’am.” Devlin swept an astute appraisal over her person, noting how the pulse in her throat now fluttered faster than the second hand on his pocket watch. He wished he didn’t admire her nerve as much as he did her creamy skin. “I’ve actually never met your dear Neville. I overheard your conversation with Mrs. Van Eyck, and couldn’t resist the opportunity to meet a lovely lady.”
“I doubt that very much, Mr. Stone.” Humor flitted across her face—the second honest emotion she’d revealed.
“Mrs. Van Eyck is devoted to her husband. She might be diverted by the dimples in your cheeks, but she would never dream of establishing a liaison with a strange man, no matter how attractive. Now if you’ll excuse me, I did promise to meet her. I’ll pass along your regrets.”
She stepped back into a bar of sunlight while Devlin struggled to untangle the mess her wit, and her poise, had made of his mind. For the first time he noticed the scattering of faint pockmarks that marred the creamy complexion in several places. For some reason, after her magnificent charade the slight imperfections tilted his opinion in favor of charity instead of contempt.
Ruthlessly Dev squashed the emotion. “Before you leave, do you think you’ll be running into Mr. Fane again soon? He’s an attractive, personable fellow, isn’t he? And one of the country’s richest men. I wonder how your fiancé would feel, knowing of your interest in someone whose reputation with the ladies is ofttimes…less than gentlemanly?”
She gawked at him. “You know Edgar Fane?”
“I know of him. He scatters largesse wherever he goes. Perhaps that explains why he’s always surrounded by a particular sort of woman.”
“And what sort of man makes vile speculations about a woman he’s only just met?” she whipped back. “Are you insulting, or threatening me, Mr. Stone?”
“Perhaps you should tell me, Miss Pickford?”
For a suspended moment he wondered if she planned to dig in her heels, or flee. The back of his neck itched like sunburn; he was ashamed of how he was baiting her. Yet he couldn’t allow what might be the only lead in eleven months of fruitless investigation to vanish because the lead was a lovely liar struggling to hide her vulnerability.
Slowly a hint of color crept back over her cheeks. The dark eyes searched his, and Dev’s own pulse quickened when her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Both,” she whispered, and before he recovered from her unexpected honesty she vanished into the crowd.
This time, Devlin let her go.
Chapter Three
Theodora pushed her way through the crush of people strolling the Broadway. The energy that had fueled her encounter with Mr. Stone leaked away with each step until her feet barely lifted from the ground. A dozen yards from the Grand Union Hotel she stopped underneath the base of one of the elm trees shading the Broadway, needing a moment to collect herself. After several calming breaths, the spinning sensation receded; she fixed her gaze upon a fancy-goods storefront full of ladies’ gloves while she thought about her reaction to the stranger.
How had this Mr. Stone known she was acting? His eyes, a mesmerizing blend of gray, slate blue and…and ice, had pierced every one of her painstakingly formulated masks. At the moment she should be prostrate with vertigo, her reaction to a bone-searing insecurity spawned early in her childhood. She kept this weakness relentlessly hidden from everyone but Mrs. Chudd, the widowed neighbor she’d hired at Grandfather’s insistence to be her companion “while you work this mad scheme out of your system.” Until the previous year, most of the attacks had disappeared altogether. Then Grandfather was arrested and spent a week in jail—for passing counterfeit money. The money Edgar Fane had paid him. The police and several Secret Service operatives had treated an innocent Charles Langston like a common criminal, but they hadn’t even charged Edgar Fane, the lying, cheating snake.
Thea wasn’t sure who she despised more, Edgar Fane or the sanctimonious Secret Service operatives with their closed minds and weak spines.
Edgar Fane was a villain. Thea had dedicated her life to proving his guilt, regardless of debilitating spells of vertigo. She owed that life to Grandfather, but would never enjoy it until she found a way to restore the twinkle in his eye and his wilted faith in God. For Thea, waiting for the Almighty to pursue vengeance was no longer an option.
Dizzy spells, however, might prove to be something of a conundrum. Certainly her first few brushes with Mr. Fane triggered the symptoms, probably because he’d ignored her. It was also turning out to be far more difficult than she imagined, projecting an attraction for a man she planned to skewer with the pitchfork of justice.
Devlin Stone claimed to know Edgar Fane. Per haps…?
Perhaps she could jump off a cliff, as well. It might be less hazardous than pursuing Devlin Stone, who made her pulse flutter and caused a most unusual sensation in the region of her heart. Apparently Mr. Stone triggered a multitude of strange feelings, but not a single swirl of vertigo.
And he might be the only person able to help her.
Thea’s hands clenched the Chinese fan. Mr. Stone’s threat to expose her to her imaginary fiancé Neville could be discounted, but the threat itself would have to be dealt with. She’d learned Edgar Fane planned to leave Saratoga in three weeks. Less than a month…
Another swirl of dizziness batted her, a warning she would do well to heed.
So don’t think about him, or Devlin Stone’s unsubtle threats, Theodora. Think about how to persuade him to share everything he knows about Edgar Fane. Think about Charles Langston, and retribution. Think about flinging evidence at the Secret Service and humiliating them as they had humiliated her Grandfather and ruined his life.
But instead her mind reached back to the instant Mr. Stone had touched her. Strength, vitality and authority wrapped around Thea as securely as his fingers enclosed her arm. The impulse to confess everything had overwhelmed her senses, a terrifying prospect. Worse than the dreaded vertigo, she had been tempted to cling to a stranger, because…because unlike her reaction to Edgar Fane and despite all common sense, she had been drawn to Mr. Stone like penny nails to a powerful magnet.
There. She’d admitted the truth, to her conscience at least.
The whirling inside her head abruptly diminished.
She supposed she ought to be grateful. Regardless of Devlin Stone’s too-perceptive gaze, apparently he only muddled her senses. If thoughts of him lessened the vertigo, she’d recite his name a hundred times a day.
Cautiously Thea straightened and headed for the hotel.
An hour later, dressed for her afternoon at the races, she left Mrs. Chudd reading a book and sipping fresh limeade. A spare woman with iron-gray hair, Mrs. Chudd was exactly the sort of chaperone Thea required: indifferent, and incurious. After confiding to her about the spells of vertigo, the woman had nodded once, then remarked that she wasn’t a wet nurse but if called upon would do her duty. Today, her “Mind you use your parasol else you’ll turn red as one of those Indians,” constituted Mrs. Chudd’s only gesture at chaperonage. At least this was Saratoga Springs, where guests discarded societal strictures like a too-tight corset.
After leaving a note of apology for the desk clerk to have delivered to Mrs. Van Eyck, Thea joined a dozen other guests in queue for one of the hotel wagons headed for the track. She felt awkward; there were those who disapproved of the entire horse-racing culture, denouncing the sport for its corruption and greed. Until she arrived at Saratoga, Thea had never paid attention one way or the other, though she remarked to someone at her dinner table how thrilling it would be to watch the powerful creatures thunder down the track at amazing speeds.
Today, however, was a hunting expedition, not a pleasure excursion. The tenor of her thoughts stirred up fresh guilt. After three weeks Thea could mostly block the insistent tug by remembering how her grandfather looked behind bars the only time she visited him in that foul hole of a cell. Voice cracking, fine tremors racking his stooped form, Charles begged her not to return. Because she saw that her presence hurt him beyond measure, Thea gave her promise.
Promises made to loved ones must be kept.
No matter how despicable her actions now, she would never break her word like her father with all his picture-postcard promises to come home, or abandon anyone at birth like her mother did Thea. Richard Langston and Hetty Pickford—what a legacy. Yet never once had her grandfather condemned their only child for the behavior of her parents.
Impatient with herself, Theodora glanced down at her blue-and-white costume, self-consciously running a finger over the perky red braid trimming the skirt and basque while she turned her mind to the afternoon ahead. A tingle of anticipation shot through her at the prospect of matching wits with Devlin Stone again.
She’d thought long and hard while she changed into her present costume. For some reason Mr. Stone had singled her out of a crowd of thousands of available, far more beautiful females. Based upon Thea’s admittedly scant personal knowledge of romantic liaisons, all that was necessary to assure a gentleman’s continued pursuit would be to indicate her willingness to be pursued. Very well, then. With a bit of pluck and a whole bucketful of luck, through encouraging Mr. Stone’s interest in her, in turn she hoped to procure enough insight into Edgar Fane’s habits to at last secure an entrée into the scoundrel’s inner circle of friends. She refused to crawl home in shame and defeat.
Her tactics troubled Thea. If she ever blew the dust off her Bible and strove to establish a better communication with the Lord, she would doubtless spend many years on her knees, begging forgiveness for the sordidness of her present behavior. Even though he did not approve of her decision to pursue justice, Grandfather had understood her motives. Hopefully God would understand, as well, and help her achieve her goal. He was, after all, a God of justice. If You help me now, perhaps I’ll believe You’re also a God of love. If God helped her in this quest, perhaps she could also forgive Him for allowing her parents to abandon her, and an innocent man to be flung in jail.
But if she couldn’t procure justice, and restore Charles Langston’s faith, she saw no reason to waste time on her own.
As for Devlin Stone, she would ignore the prickle of attraction, maintain her distance with the laughing quips and smiling rebuffs that had thus far served her well with other flirtatious men. By the time Theodora Langst— The mental lapse stabbed her like a hatpin. For the rest of the way to the track she mentally repeated her assumed name—Theodora Pickford, Thea Pickford…Miss Pickford—and envisaged herself the privileged heiress whose beauty, grace and supreme self-confidence had won the love of a dashing Englishman. Is Neville a baron, or an earl? Inside her frilly lace gloves Thea’s palms turned clammy; she gripped her lace parasol more tightly.
Her cause was just, her purpose noble, she reminded herself staunchly in a mantra repeated often these past weeks. The only person who would be hurt by her actions was the man who deserved it. Sometimes the end did justify the means.
It was ten minutes until post time when the load of passengers descended onto the velvet green lawns surrounding the racetrack. The crowd streaming into the grandstands looked to number in the thousands, not the hundred or so Thea had naively anticipated. Spotting Mr. Stone would be more difficult than she’d anticipated. Stalling, she opened her parasol and hoped she looked as though she expected her escort to appear any second. Beneath broad-trunked shade trees, jockeys fidgeted while trainers saddled the horses for the next race. Striped tents fluttered in a stray breeze, shading hundreds of race goers. Dust filmed the air. At one end of the sweeping slate-roofed grandstands she noticed a separate, open-sided structure full of odd-looking little stalls on stilts.
“What’s going on over there?” she asked a passing gentleman studying a copy of the Daily Saratogian.
“Betting ring, ma’am. But that one’s only for the gents. Ladies’ betting is up on the top landing, rear of the grandstand. You a maiden filly, right? Well, you’re in luck. Track was closed last year. But you can see for yourself the people have spoken, and the sport of kings is back at Saratoga. You go on up there, purchase yourself a ticket. Rensselaer looks good in the Travers. Good luck to you, miss.”
“Thank you,” Thea said faintly, staring after the man.
Older, shadowy emotions stirred inside, greasy splotches of childhood memories. One of the cards her father had sent to her years ago had been postmarked “Saratoga Springs.” Now, though surrounded by faces full of excitement and nervous anticipation, for some reason she had to fight the urge to weep. In the distance a bell clanged several times, and the surge of humanity pressed upon her, sweeping her up in their rush to reach the stands.
Theodora, you dinglebrain, what were you thinking? She would never reach the stands, much less succeed in locating Devlin Stone in this sea of faces.
Abruptly she turned, elbowing her way through all the bodies rushing in the opposite direction. Breathing hard, she at last reached a broad dirt avenue, and her gaze fixed upon the less-peopled stables to the southeast of the track. Perhaps over there she could snatch a moment or two of privacy, just enough to stiffen her spine again and set her to rights. She wasn’t deserting the field of battle, nor abandoning her quest. She just needed to hush a few unpleasant voices from her childhood, and to come up with a more workable plan to locate Devlin Stone.
Chapter Four
Upon reaching the stable area Thea was disconcerted to find herself confronted by a stern-faced man, standing with folded arms under the boughs of a massive pine. At her approach he shoved back the rim of his bowler hat and looked her over.
“You an owner, miss? Not supposed to let race goers wander hereabouts unescorted.”
“I’m…I’m looking for my escort, a Mr. Stone?”
She was taken aback when the suspicion on the man’s face relaxed into friendliness. “Ah, he’s been here for a bit. Nice feller, told me about his horse farm in Virginia. Sure has that Southern drawl, though.” He tugged out a brightly patterned handkerchief and dabbed his sweaty forehead, then gestured toward the stables. “Go ahead, miss, but mind your step and your skirt. It’s not as busy, now the racing’s commenced. But you stay clear o’ that aisle.” He pointed. “Trainers are bringing out the horses for the next race, owners are jawing at the jockeys, the horses can be fractious. So don’t go bothering them none, else you’ll get us both in Dutch.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind. And I’ll be very careful.” Flummoxed by her extraordinary luck, Thea smiled at the guard, closed her parasol and strolled with thudding heart toward the cool shadowed aisles in stables devoid of activity. Several grooms glanced over at her distractedly but nobody challenged her presence. By the time she reached a row of stalls near the back, the only person she had encountered was another groom, dozing on a fruit crate, his cap pulled over his eyes. All the stalls in this row were empty.
Earthy scents surrounded her, of hay and oats and leather and manure, all overlaid by the lazy heat of sunshine on old wood.
Gradually the knots in Thea’s stomach unsnarled; she slipped down the cool, deserted aisle, then with more confidence approached the next row of stalls. A couple of stable boys touched their caps to her as she passed; some curious equine heads poked over stall doors, ears perked, nostrils whiffing. One horse, a chestnut with a white stripe down his forehead, nickered softly. Thea had never been around horses much, but after the tumultuous activity elsewhere, the tranquility here tugged her heart. Soon she found herself edging close enough to gingerly pat the chestnut’s muzzle, which was softer than a fur muff. Warm air gusted from flared nostrils as the animal nudged her hand. Delighted, for a moment she savored the interaction, the unfamiliar scents swirling pleasantly around her. Then the horse retreated back into his stall, and with a lighter step Thea continued down the aisle. For the first time in her life she began to understand the compulsion to participate, even with only binoculars and betting tickets, in a sport where a rider harnessed himself to the horse and flew like the wind.
When she turned the next corner her gaze froze on the figure of a man standing a dozen paces away, his back to Thea. One of his arms draped companionably around a horse’s neck, and Thea could hear the soft Southern cadences of his voice speaking to the animal. The pose struck her as almost intimate, and she found herself unable to shatter the peacefulness of the moment. Instead, drawn by a yearning that caught her even more off guard, Thea crept closer until she could hear Mr. Stone’s words.
“…treating you like they should? You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you? For a Thoroughbred, that is. I’m used to something more substantial, say a Suffolk punch, or a Percheron? Magnificent horses, they are, and easily twice your size. But you’d put ’em to shame on a racetrack. Ah…easy, son. Touchy spot? Sorry. How about here, on the poll… Yeah, you like that, do you? That sweet spot between your ears, where the cranium meets the vertebrae.”
Mesmerized, Thea watched the calm authority of his hands, deftly moving over every part of the racehorse he could reach from forehead to neck, moving only his arms. Never had she known a man could build such a connection with a beast that most likely weighed over a thousand pounds. Unlike the friendly but aloof horse that had allowed her brief pat before turning away, the horse with Mr. Stone had lowered his head over the stall door. The two of them looked as though they were, well, talking to each other.
Without warning, Thea’s eyes stung, with a longing more forceful than the thirst for revenge that had dominated her life for nine agonizing months. What would it feel like to have a man lavish affection upon her, not merely a brief handclasp over her elbow? A man who communicated care and tenderness, like Mr. Stone with that horse? Plainly he loved the animals, and perhaps owned one or two himself. If so, he might be a man of some wealth.
Which meant, if she cozied up to Mr. Stone, he’d be justified in considering her as one more Saratoga sycophant, like all the women trailing along in Edgar Fane’s wake.
Uncertainty glued Thea’s feet to the ground.
One of the horses in a nearby stall snorted, then kicked the boards with his hoof. An involuntary gasp escaped before Thea could stifle it. Mr. Stone glanced casually around. Slowly he removed his arm from the horse’s neck and turned to face her, the gentleness on his face hardening to—to stone.
“Miss Pickford. What a…surprise.” Without looking away he gave the horse a final pat, then ambled down the aisle toward her. “I admit to chagrin. I…ah…wasn’t prepared to see you again so soon, certainly not in this setting.”
Thea squared her shoulders. “I didn’t expect to find you in this setting either.” He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader. Without the straw boater to soften his appearance, an aura of danger hovered around him now more than ever. Not the danger of a snake like Edgar Fane, but that of a thunderstorm—and she stood unprotected in an open field while lightning stabbed the sky. Thea focused on his hands—a stupid mistake because all she could remember was how they looked gently stroking a horse. “I have an important matter to discuss with you.”
“Ah. Hmm.” He seemed to hesitate. “Very well, I’m not one to gainsay a lady determined to ignore her fiancé’s existence—Miss Pickford? Are you all right?”
Unstrung by the bald reminder of the nonexistent Neville, Thea almost backed into several stacked bales of straw. “I’m perfectly all right,” she said.
In the dim stable his light eyes bored into hers; he lifted a hand to shove a lock of hair the rich color of polished mahogany off his forehead. Despite herself, Thea stiffened. Something flickered in his expression, then without fuss he stepped back a pace or two and folded his arms. “Are you a horse lover, Miss Pickford?”
“I’ve never been around them enough to know. But I admire them, very much. A chestnut with a white strip down his nose let me pat him for a second. I…you love them, don’t you?”
“Yes. More than just about anything else on this earth. Most of the time, I prefer them to people.” He hesitated, then added matter-of-factly, “Don’t be afraid, Miss Pickford. I don’t abuse horses, or women. Those who do best keep out of my way, however. May I offer an apology, for frightening you this morning?”
“I wasn’t frightened, but an apology is definitely called for,” she agreed.
The lock of hair fell back over his forehead. He brushed at it, and Thea stared, transfixed anew at the long supple fingers, the tanned wrist almost twice the size of hers. Why, that hand looked strong enough to break a brick, yet a moment earlier his touch had transformed a high-strung Thoroughbred to a purring kitten.
Blinking, she reminded herself of her purpose in hunting this man down. “You voiced several ungentlemanly accusations, which I’m willing to overlook because I—” The words faltered into awkward silence until she added breathlessly, “Mr. Stone…you’re staring at me.”
“Merely returning the favor, Miss Pickford. I’m flattered. You’re a lovely young woman, but I’m thinking your fiancé should conduct his courtship from a much shorter distance than the other side of an ocean.”
Thea’s parasol slid free and fell with a soft plop onto the packed dirt stable floor. Mortified, she bent to retrieve it, but Mr. Stone stepped forward and swooped it up instead, his fingers brushing hers as he returned the parasol. The jolt of sensation fried the air between them. “I would never dishonor my fiancé…” she began feebly, the once-facile lie now stumbling from her lips. “I merely need to ask you something, about someone else.”
“Oh?”
As if in a dream Thea watched him idly stroke the side of his nose. The vivid image of that finger brushing her nose burned a fiery trail all the way to her toes. Hot color scorched her cheeks. Her grandfather was right: despite her sophisticated education and her acquaintance with numerous intellectual gentlemen, until today she had remained unblemished emotionally. A perfectly rolled and floured biscuit which had never seen the inside of an oven.
The friendly courtship she had enjoyed the previous summer with a neighbor’s grandson by comparison now seemed a tepid thing, ending without fanfare when the young man returned to Boston. In Thea’s opinion, romance between a man and a woman was vastly overrated.
This is not a romance, you limp-noodled ninnyhammer.
“Miss Pickford? You wanted to ask me about something, or someone?” Mr. Stone prompted.
“Oh. Yes, yes I did.” Thoroughly rattled, Thea snatched a piece of straw from the bale of hay and distractedly wove it between her fingers. “I wanted to ask you about…about—you told Mrs. Van Eyck and me you planned to attend the races. It’s, ah, past two o’clock….”
“So I did, and so it is.” Mr. Stone’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he stared down at her without speaking. “I don’t know what to do about you,” he eventually murmured, his voice deep, the drawl warm and lazy. “You need to be more careful when you lie, and how you look at a man when your heart is promised elsewhere.”
“Well, I’m not doing it on purpose,” she blurted, stupidly. “As for telling lies, you’re the one who pretended an acquaintance with my fiancé. How would you feel if I reported you to the local constable, or alerted—”
The words backed up in her throat when Mr. Stone took a single long stride toward her. The scents of starch and sweat and horse filled her nostrils. Before she could react, he plucked the straw from her fingers and skimmed it along the line of her clenched jaw. “No, you won’t. You have too much to lose, don’t you, to risk that sort of attention.”
Stepping back, he sketched a brief bow, then swiveled on his heel and sauntered down the aisle, turned a corner and disappeared.
Thea remained motionless, one hand braced against the rough stable wall while she waited for the churning in her stomach to settle. After several moments she lifted her hand to the cheek the straw had touched. A tingle still quivered along her veins.
This bizarre physical attraction could be contained and ultimately controlled. But the absence of any signs of vertigo from their confrontation alarmed her profoundly. Such a reaction indicated a moral weakness in her character far worse to Thea than the facade designed to procure justice on behalf of her grandfather. A godly young lady of impeccable virtue should be outraged, or even nauseous with that vertigo—the latter her reaction on the four occasions when she had spoken to Edgar Fane.
Despite her sheltered upbringing, perhaps she had truly become her mother, whose acting skill was superseded only by her affinity for men.
The possibility cast a murky film over the summer afternoon, but Thea refused to abandon her purpose. Life offered choices, her grandfather told her frequently. She wasn’t doomed to follow her mother’s path; she would simply choose to avoid any further encounters with Devlin Stone. Another opportunity would arise to ingratiate herself with Edgar Fane, a man for whom she would never feel anything but disgust.
Stiffen your spine, Theodora, and get on with the task.
Chapter Five
With a theatrical flourish, Edgar Fane pulled the sheet covering his latest painting from the canvas. His appreciative audience—the fifty or so guests he had invited to join him aboard the Alice as the boat gently steamed across Saratoga Lake—applauded and lifted their champagne glasses to toast his artistic prowess.
The effort was not one of his better ones. He’d chosen a seascape—hence the unveiling on the steamer—but the colors were too bright, the people on the shore more reminiscent of paint smears. The frame, however, was a lovely antique gold.
He did like the frame, which he’d discovered in an antique store in Chicago. A satisfied tingle briefly tickled his insides.
“Who’s the lucky recipient this time?” Richard Beekins gave his shoulder a congenial pat, wheezing noisily in Edgar’s ear as he talked. “C’mon, be a good chap and tell your daddy’s old friend.”
Edgar gave the boozy fellow a smile, then used the excuse of setting aside the delicate champagne flute to turn away. “You know I never divulge privileged information. Everyone needs a secret or two in life. Besides, I need a gimmick to heighten the interest. We all know I’m no Michelangelo.” He winked at Dahlia, his chosen dinner partner for the afternoon boating party. “Even my charming companion here, lovely lady though she may be, couldn’t inveigle the name of the new owner.”
Dahlia obediently pouted and fluttered her eyelashes. Diamonds twinkled in her ears, at the base of her throat and on almost every finger on both hands. “Darling Edgar, I haven’t yet tried.”
Bored with feminine fawning, Edgar downed another flute of champagne as he smiled his way among the guests until he reached the prow of the slender steamer. Dahlia fortunately had been detained by Richard Beekins. Propping his elbows on the narrow rail, Edgar contemplated the undulation of the water, how the sunlight danced over the ripples and whether or not he could capture the effect on canvas. Not that it mattered. His forays into painting provided a useful outlet, but he’d never intended to pursue the craft seriously. On the other hand, perhaps a studied dedication would offer an antidote to the ennui plaguing him the past few years.
“You’re looking far too solemn.” Cynthia Gorman’s scent filled the air before the woman herself joined Edgar, close enough for the wind to blow her lawn skirts against his trousers. “You’ve been brooding most of the afternoon. What is it, Edgar?”
“Can’t a man enjoy the sun on his head and the wind in his face for a minute or two?”
“Not Edgar Fane, apparently.” Her laugh drifted pleasantly over the water. “When I spied you off by yourself for once, I grabbed the opportunity. You’re the only member of your family I can stand being around for longer than a half hour, you know.”
“Because I don’t try and seduce you out of your fortune, or because I don’t talk about mine?”
“My dear man, yours is the only seduction I might contemplate, but we both know that’s never going to happen, so why don’t you try me as a confidante? I can keep a secret.”
Edgar’s impatience erupted in a burst of laughter, which naturally offended Cynthia. He laid his hand against her heliotrope-scented cheek. “Don’t,” he murmured. “You know I love you dearly—”
“As you love all the other women in your harem…”
“Precisely. All a delight to the eyes, but I have no intention of confining my delight or confiding secrets to any of them. Thanks to my brothers and sister making more money and producing heirs, I am free to live—precisely as I please, unencumbered by familial obligation.”
“Never alone, but always lonely.”
Annoyed, Edgar straightened and stepped away. “My dear Cynthia, if I want a philosophical lecture I’ll hunt down a mesmerist. The boat will be docking soon. I think it’s time I made the announcement.” He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against her jutting jaw. “Since we’re such old friends, I will share one small secret with you.” He waited until her eyes kindled with hope, then leaned to whisper into her ear, “You won’t be the recipient of my latest work of art.”
A loud burst of masculine guffaws echoed through the cut glass doors of the Casino’s barroom. Half-empty glass of springwater in one hand, Devlin paced outside the entrance while he chewed over what to do next. Two of his suspects were here. Upstairs in the game room, Randolph Lunt had suffered heavy losses at the roulette table, and when he left off gambling to drown his sorrows Dev automatically followed; meanwhile, Joseph Scarborough was deep in a poker game with four other men. He looked to be on a winning streak and would likely stay in the game for a while. Back home, some of their wins, and many of the losses, would feed half the county for a year. Devlin sipped the now-lukewarm water while he fought the cynicism crusting, one barnacle at a time, over the idealism of his youth.
As for his remaining suspect, Edgar Fane—that slippery charmer had taken a party of guests out on the Alice, one of the steamers chugging around Saratoga Lake. They wouldn’t return dockside until near sunset.
So Devlin paced, and pondered his options.
Moments later, across the room the narrow cut glass doors banged open, and Lunt shoved through. “Hey, you!” He headed toward Devlin. “Need change for a twenty. Help me out, won’t you?”
“Let’s see what I’ve got.” Dev tugged out his wallet and made a show of leafing through the bills.
After handing him smaller bills Dev accepted the twenty in return, casually tucking it away with rock-steady hands, while inside his heart pounded like a kettledrum. When Lunt disappeared back through the doors, Dev exited the Casino and hurried down the street to his hotel room.
Thirty minutes after a thorough examination of what turned out to be a bona fide twenty-dollar bill, he headed back for the Park, his favorite sanctuary not only from the masses but his own foul mood.
Redesigned a quarter of a century earlier by Frederick Olmsted’s firm, Congress Spring Park was a popular destination for guests and townsfolk alike. Meandering paths wove through neatly sculpted shrubbery and towering trees. Soft summer breezes carried the sound of the band playing hum-along tunes from a bandstand, built in the middle of a spring-fed pond at the center of the park.
Sunbeams turned the droplets of a fountain to twinkling crystal confetti. Steps slowing, Dev finally allowed the peace of the place to relax the knots in his muscles. The saw-toothed disappointment ebbed.
Most likely the soused Randolph Lunt was a dead end—a man who gambled away enough money to drive him to drink did not possess enough fortitude to be the Hotel Hustler.
That left Joseph Scarborough, Edgar Fane—and Miss Pickford, whose interest in Fane probably deserved closer examination, in light of her deceptions. By the time Devlin wound his way back through the pair of Corinthian columns flanking the entrance to the park he had settled upon a plan of sorts: shadow Miss Pickford for a few days, note who she saw and the circumstances, see if any pattern developed. He told himself this course of action was coldly professional, and had nothing to do with a pair of dark brown eyes or the longing expression he’d glimpsed when he first caught sight of her.
Nothing to do with the faint scent of lilacs or vivid blush when she looked at him and dropped her parasol.
Tranquil mood broken, Devlin headed for the lake to wait for Edgar Fane and his boating party to return. He could hunt down Miss Pickford tomorrow. After hiring a two-seater runabout, he drove the four miles at a leisurely clip, then left the horse contentedly munching a handful of oats beneath a shade tree. Dev wandered down toward the dock where several people were fishing, their poles stretched in ragged formation along the landing and the shore. Lake water lapped in lazy ripples, insects droned in the tall grasses and farther down the shoreline a pair of ducks took flight.
One of the anglers near the end of the landing was a woman, dressed in some sort of striped skirt, yellow overblouse and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Lake breezes stirred the blue-and-yellow ribbons tied around the crown and dangling provocatively down the woman’s back. She was alone, the closest other fisherman a dozen yards away. When she half turned, Dev caught a glimpse of her face. The punch of disbelief—and elation—left him disoriented.
Theodora Pickford. Fishing alone, from the dock where Edgar Fane would shortly disembark?
Why should he be surprised? Dev shook his head. Though supposedly engaged to a supposedly beloved British aristocrat, the Jezebel had professed an interest in Devlin—and Edgar Fane—from the moment Dev met her.
On the other hand, he might be judging her too harshly. He wasn’t in the best of humors, after all. And all right, he admitted to himself that the memory of their encounter in the barn burned in his brain like a brand.
His father, dead before Devlin’s tenth birthday, would have thanked God for “arranging” this encounter, proclaiming it divine assistance. Dev however saw no reason to interpret Miss Pickford’s presence here as anything other than deliberate design on her part, and luck on his. No divine intervention, no proof that God invested any interest in the species He’d created, and perhaps now regretted.
Absently Devlin kicked a pebble, his gaze on Theodora Pickford’s distant silhouette. He was an independently wealthy man with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and a restless soul. Two years earlier he’d gone to Washington looking for a half brother, and instead of returning home to StoneHill Farm, he’d become a Secret Service operative. On a good day, Devlin liked to think his path to the nation’s capitol two years ago had been part of his destiny. That he had something to offer a world far beyond the boundaries of StoneHill, something grander, something…ordained. Something that kindled the internal jolt of satisfaction he felt when a herd of horses cantered over to greet him.
He’d never expected to experience that jolt just from looking at a woman who most likely he’d be arresting one day soon.
Chapter Six
He retraced his steps to his livery horse. Late-afternoon sunlight sheened the lake in gold and tinted streamers of wispy clouds a deep rose-pink. Steadily chugging toward the landing, the narrow-nosed steamer skimmed across the water, returning Miss Pickford’s unwitting human catch to shore.
Perhaps he should warn Edgar Fane.
Instead Dev settled back against the tree trunk and watched. Sweat trickled down his temple; absently he swiped the droplets away, lifting his face to the light breeze, and waited. The Alice arrived at the landing and passengers swarmed onto the dock, their voices loud in the peaceful late afternoon. With scarcely a glance they streamed past Miss Pickford and the other anglers. Miss Pickford suddenly began a wild struggle with her fishing pole. Several passengers paused to observe, and over the swell of a dozen conversations Dev heard her breathless voice.
“I’ve been here for hours, and was about to give up. Oh—” Her upper body jerked, then steadied as she wrestled against the taut line. “No, no, don’t help me. It’s very exciting, isn’t it? I hope it’s a largemouth bass. My grandfather is…” The rest of her words faded into the general babble.
A small crowd gathered, blocking Dev’s view. He un hurriedly ducked beneath the gelding’s neck to better monitor Fane’s passage to shore, noting the instant the man’s attention turned from the boat captain to Miss Pickford. Poor fool, Dev thought. Fane laughed and took a step toward the siren seducing him with her fishing antics, even as a shapely debutante decked out in a ridiculous mimicry of a sailor suit wrapped possessive fingers around his forearm.
Without warning, Miss Pickford emitted a cry of surprise, her arms stretching taut while she fought to haul in her catch, which suddenly soared out of the water in a graceful arc and landed wetly six inches from Edgar Fane’s feet.
“I caught it!” she exclaimed, at last turning to face her spellbound audience. “Did you see? What kind of fish—oh.” Even from twenty feet away Dev could read the emotions tumbling across her face—surprise, sheepishness, amusement…and guilt. “Why…it’s a—a shoe! I’ve been fighting for ages, over a shoe?”
Laughter tittered through the group. Dev wandered closer.
“How embarrassing.” Miss Pickford addressed Fane, a becoming shade of pink tinting her cheeks the same hue as the clouds. “I beg your pardon. Did my shoe ruin yours?”
The artful question, with its tint of good-natured humor, secured Edgar Fane’s unswerving interest, Devlin noted. Miss Pickford had cast her lures with masterful expertise.
“Not at all.” Fane leaned to pick up the “catch.” “At least, not compared to this poor old thing.”
“I suppose we could ask the cook at Briggs House if he’s willing to try a fillet of sole?” Miss Pickford ventured, and the entire crowd burst into appreciative laughter.
“Ha! Not only a lovely angler, but a humorist, as well. I’m delighted to meet you, Miss—it is Miss, I hope?”
“Well…unofficially I do have a fiancé, but he’s in Europe at the moment.” After an appropriately timed pause she added, “My chaperone might not approve, but this is 1897, after all. Practically a new century, time to dispense with so many cumbersome formalities.” And the chit had the audacity to offer her hand. “Miss Pickford. I’m very glad my catch didn’t land in your face.”
“Miss Pickford. Edgar Fane, at your service.” He bowed, the gesture courteous but mocking. “Tell me, Miss Pickford, do you also bowl and don bloomers to ride a bicycle? Play tennis and golf? I’m intrigued by this new concept of femininity, unashamed to engage in all manner of outdoor sport. We must get together. Here’s my card. Simpson? Where are you, man? Ah…this is Simpson, my personal secretary. Simpson, I’m hoping Miss Pickford will dine with me one evening this week. Can you check my schedule, and make arrangements? Miss Pickford? I look forward to sharing more of your exploits.”
And with a final lingering perusal he left her with his secretary and joined the rest of his guests. They clattered down the landing and dispersed into various buggies and carriages, the secretary following a moment later. The pier was soon deserted save for Miss Pickford and a couple of other fishermen who steadfastly kept their backs to her. One of the trolleys that ran from the lake to the village clanged its pending arrival at the Briggs House hotel. Devlin’s attention never diverted from the lone woman who stood at the end of the pier. She stared out over the lake, fishing pole drooping lifelessly in her hand. Nearby, the remaining anglers began gathering their equipment, likely intending to catch the last trolley.
Suddenly Miss Pickford leaned down, scooped up the shoe and heaved both it and the fishing pole into the lake. Then she whirled and marched down the landing, passing within a dozen paces of the tree where Devlin waited, a silent, cynical witness to her performance. Eschewing the trolley, she set out walking along the edge of the road back to town.
What kind of woman walked four miles when transportation was readily available? Certainly she’d hoped to secure a ride in Edgar Fane’s private omnibus, but with that hope dashed she had nothing to gain now but blisters.
“Shortsighted a bit, weren’t you?” Devlin commented aloud after she disappeared around a bend in the road. He climbed into the runabout. “Well, let’s see what kind of line you’ll try on me.”
Ten minutes along the road, however, he still hadn’t overtaken her. The sky was deepening to twilight, the trolley long gone and only three other horse-drawn conveyances and several bicyclists had passed; serve him right if Miss Pickford had accepted a ride in someone else’s buggy. His report to headquarters would have to detail the account of how Operative Stone allowed both parties he’d been shadowing to slip through his fingers. Grimly he searched both sides of the road, slowing the horse to a plodding walk. Even so, in the gathering darkness he almost missed the flash of color behind a clump of bushes.
“Whoa…” he murmured, and set the brake, his gaze riveted to the bushes. There, another glimpse of creamy yellow, the same shade as the overblouse Miss Pickford had been wearing.
Then he heard a low moan.
Panting, Thea propped herself on her hands, but the motion triggered another bout of nausea; she retched, sides heaving, perspiration mingling with the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes. Not since the night she’d visited Grandfather in that dreadful jail had she suffered from an attack this vicious. Stupid, stupid, stupid not to have realized what might happen if her little scheme to attract Edgar Fane worked.
Or more precisely, didn’t work. The blackguard might have noticed her, but she hadn’t garnered sufficient interest for an invitation to return to the hotel with the rest of his more favored guests.
Listen to yourself, Theodora. Her entire life now re flected the moral virtue of a…a vaudeville singer.
Which punishment in Dante’s Inferno did she deserve, for becoming that which she most despised? The dizziness intensified, sucking her down, down into the depths. God would never forgive her, because she would never forgive herself.
“What the—” a man’s voice exclaimed, and strong hands closed around her shoulders.
“Don’t…” Thea managed before her stomach heaved again and she gagged.
“Easy. Shh…don’t fight me, you’ll make it worse.”
The deep, now-familiar voice soothed, but humiliation scorched rational thought. Better a party of drunken fishermen had stumbled upon her than this man. “Mr. Stone…” Thea managed in a hoarse whisper, “please leave me alone. I’ll…in a moment I’ll be fine. I just need…” The effort to converse overwhelmed her. She could only close her eyes and allow those competent hands to do whatever they pleased.
A musky yet pleasant aroma drifted through her nostrils as he gently eased her back down on the warm earth. Instead of scratchy meadow grasses her cheek was cushioned by some sort of fabric. She tried to lift her hand, but flashing lights stabbed behind her closed eyelids. “Can’t…please. Leave me alone.”
“All right,” Devlin Stone murmured. The air stirred vaguely, then stilled.
So. He’d listened, and obeyed. Life, Thea decided in utter misery, once again proved she was a worthless cast-aside, an inferior specimen of humanity nobody wanted. Both parents had abandoned her. Her chaperone ignored her. Edgar Fane gave her over to his secretary. And now Mr. Stone left her prostrate in the bushes, never mind that he’d only done what she requested.
Lord? If You care anything about me at all, let me die so I’m no longer a burden to my grandfather. Her quest for justice had failed. Her parody on the dock with Edgar Fane clung like a stench. No wonder Mr. Stone abandoned her, as well.
Chapter Seven
“Miss Pickford? You haven’t passed out on me, have you?”
The calm voice penetrated her miasma, but Thea still started when a damp cloth passed over the back of her neck, then down her cheek. Next she felt his palm—warm, the fingertips slightly abraded—press against her forehead. “No fever. Eat anything today to cause a sickness in your belly?”
“Not…sick.”
“Nor up to talking, either, hmm?” There was a sound of splashing, then he laid the freshly dampened cloth over her eyes. “I’m unbuttoning your sleeves at the wrists so I can bathe them, and your hands. Don’t be alarmed, and don’t fight me, all right?”
As if she could. Sighing a little, Thea allowed his skillful ministrations to lull her into a semicatatonic state, akin to floating on her back in one of the lakes scattered over Staten Island, drifting in the lazy current while the sun and water bound her in a lovely cocoon.
Time floated by, until she was able to take a deep breath without choking on the nausea. Hesitantly she opened her eyes. The whirling had abated. “Thank you,” she breathed, and scraped up half a smile. “I’m better now.” And saying it, she could feel the truth soaking into her pores. Edgar Fane made her sick; Devlin Stone made her feel safe.
Of the two, Mr. Stone probably posed more of a threat.
“Want to tell me what happened?” he asked eventually with the tone that caused a high-strung racehorse to rest its head against him.
For some moments Thea didn’t answer. The vertigo had subsided, but humiliation still burned deep enough to smudge his Good Samaritan kindness into something less benign. A glance upward through the screen of her lashes intensified the uncertainty: he sat at ease beside her, one arm draped loosely across an upraised knee. A light wind stirred the fine linen of his pin-striped shirt. He was hatless today, and the wind brushed the lock of hair over his forehead, lending him the relaxed air of a man with nothing on his mind but a day at the lake. Yet, veiled in shadow, his gaze rested unwavering upon Theodora. She had the impression he would sit there, calmly waiting until Thea offered an explanation even if it took until darkness enfolded them like a blanket.
Who was Devlin Stone?
She had nothing to gain by telling him the truth, and everything to lose if she didn’t. She might not understand his interest, but over the past several weeks she’d witnessed all manner of masculine conduct toward women and this man was no Edgar Fane. He could still be a charlatan, preying upon vulnerable women at resort hotels; from the first she’d sensed his contempt for her. But his present compassion contradicted every definition of a genuine cad. No man she’d ever known willingly nursed a sick woman.
On a more pragmatic note, the severity of this spell had robbed her of the strength to safely hike back to town. Whether the choice was wise or not, Mr. Stone remained her best hope. He might not be cruel, but something warned Thea he would leave her stranded if she wove another story about an English fiancé, or how much she loved to fish. “I…have dizzy spells.” The words stuck in her throat. Clumsily she attempted to rise.
Without a word Mr. Stone wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and eased her back against one of the out-cropping of boulders beside the shrubs. “Here.” He tucked his now-crumpled but still-damp handkerchief into her hand. “Wipe your face. It will help. Suck on this peppermint.” He handed her the piece of candy. “Then you can tell me about these spells of yours.”
“You’ve been very kind.” The candy helped assuage the weakness. “If I told you I’d prefer not to talk about them?”
“I’d take you straight to a physician.” He searched her face, then added without inflection, “Are you with child, Miss Pickford?”
“What?” She almost sputtered the peppermint into his face. “Did you say— Do you actually think— I told you I’m not married. Why would you ask such an insulting question?”
For the first time a glint of blue sparkled in his eyes, and that attractive dimple creased one of his cheeks. “Given your response, I withdraw the question. You may be a highly imaginative liar, but these days only an innocent would offer that answer to a man vulgar enough to broach the subject in the first place.”
Well. Thea didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. “You confuse me, Mr. Stone,” she mumbled, ducking her head. “From the moment we first met, you’ve confused me. I know I’m a…a…I haven’t been truthful. There’s a reason. At the time it seemed the only way.” She smoothed the crumpled handkerchief in her lap, folding it into a neat square, her fingers still clumsy with weakness. “I’ve been here at Saratoga Springs for almost a month. Until you, everybody believed everything I told them.” It was difficult, but she made herself face him directly. “How did you know?”
“When I’m not indulging in the first pleasure holiday in a decade—” his smile deepened until dimples creased both cheeks “—I raise and train horses. Draft horses, to be specific, though we—my uncle and I—gentle the odd pleasure mount here and there. I’ve been around them all my life. Horses taught me a lot about observation, about sensing feelings, moods.” He gave a short laugh. “When you’re surrounded by creatures with hooves the size of a soup tureen, you’d better learn how to read them. Works the same with people. Although I prefer horses for the most part. They might bite or kick if frightened or provoked. But they don’t lie.”
Thea weathered the blow; it was justified. “I didn’t think a harmless fabrication would hurt anyone, and it kept speculation about me to a minimum. It was the only way I could think of to attract…” Her voice trailed into silence.
“And when nothing worked, you got desperate.”
Above them a burnt orange sky warned of encroaching night. Somewhere nearby, an insect commenced its ceaseless chirring. But between Thea and Devlin Stone silence thickened until each inhalation choked her lungs.
“Desperate,” she repeated, squeezing her hand until her fingers went numb. “Have you ever been desperate, Mr. Stone? About anything?”
“Yes. But never enough to cheat, or beg, or deceive.”
“Then you’ve never been desperate, and faced with impossible choices.” She paused. “Is that what you think of me?”
“I don’t know what to think of you, Miss Pickford. Is that your real name, by the way?”
“What? Oh…well, no. It’s actually my mother’s maiden name.” He slid the question in so neatly Thea answered before she realized it. But unless Mr. Stone frequented the tawdry depths of New York City’s Bowery he would not associate her with Hetty Pickford. “Please don’t ask for my real name. I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”
“Ah.” Another one of those flicks of blue light came and went in his eyes. “We’re in accord, then. I don’t want to be lied to. Now, it’s getting late. Is your companion— Mrs. Chudd? Is she likely to be concerned about your whereabouts?”
“Well, if I don’t turn up by midnight, she’d notify the front desk at least.”
“Not a very efficient companion.”
“No. She’s mostly for appearances. I’m supposed to be a wealthy heiress, engaged to an earl. A chaperone’s expected. Mrs. Chudd’s former employer just passed away. She said she’d always wanted to see upstate New York, but after we arrived she developed an aversion for crowds.”
“I see.” He rubbed his palms together. “All right, then. What say we return to the village? Can you walk, Miss Pickford, or shall I carry you to my buggy?”
“I can walk,” she answered too quickly, and in the sunset’s glow she caught his ironic smile.
In her haste to scramble to her feet a wave of faintness almost contradicted her words. He put his hands on her waist to steady her, and though the courtesy was brief, almost impersonal, Thea’s limbs turned to sand.
“Shall I carry you after all, then?” he offered after her first few steps.
“No. It’s just a silly weakness, already passing.” More a weakness of her mind than her limbs. “I could probably walk back to the village, but—”
“Don’t be a goose, Miss Pickford. Pride’s a useful commodity on occasion. This isn’t one of them.”
The sun slipped behind the mountains to the west as he handed her into his buggy. The contrast between this simple one-horse, two-seat runabout and Edgar Fane’s waxed and gleaming omnibus harnessed to a team of four matched horses was as incongruous as the realization that, given a choice, Theodora much preferred the former. Confused, she watched Mr. Stone light the single carriage lamp, and give the horse an affectionate pat.
Who was this man?
Chapter Eight
She looked like a woebegone waif sitting beside him in the gathering darkness, smelling of peppermint and illness. Strands of hair hung limply around the pale oval of her face and dirt smeared over her yellow shirtwaist. The floppy hat rested forgotten on her lap. For the first mile Devlin fought a battle with his conscience. Fortunately Miss Pickford herself broached the subject.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider forgetting everything you saw and heard,” she said, her grimy hands smoothing in ceaseless circles over the equally grimy hat ribbons.
“Not a chance.” He paused. “Especially the scene on the pier. Your staging and timing were impeccable, Miss Pickford. However, compared to Edgar Fane you’re a very small minnow tempting a shark.”
She groaned. “You saw that?”
“From start to finish. If it’s any consolation, I think the tactic worked. Humor can be a powerful weapon in a woman’s arsenal. The shoe definitely captured Fane’s attention.”
“Only for a moment. I wasn’t expecting to be fobbed off on a personal secretary.”
“A dinner invitation will be forthcoming, Miss Pickford. Count on it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She spoke so softly he barely caught the words, but a chill spiked down his spine. Snug cottages whose windows glowed with lights had begun to appear on either side of the road; in moments they’d be back in the village, and Dev would have to let her go. An opportunity would be forever lost. Off to the right, a grove of shade trees offered privacy and without a qualm he turned the horse off the road and into their concealing darkness.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing sinister. I just want us to come to a better understanding of one another before I turn you over to Mrs. Chudd.”
“There’s no point. I don’t think I can…” A long hesitation was followed by an unraveling sigh, then, “I promised myself I could do this, vowed I could ignore my conscience, and all the doubts. But it’s not working. The attacks of dizziness…they’re getting worse. Stronger.” She turned to face him, the fuzzy light from the carriage lamp illuminating a face taut with misery. “You told me you knew of Edgar Fane. Could you…would you tell me everything you know, without asking why I continue to pursue this man?”
Her sincerity disarmed him; he didn’t want to believe she was being honest with him, because it would corroborate his perception of her true character—and reinforce the dangerous attraction that intensified with every encounter. She was an admitted liar, with trouble and secrets stamped all over her face. Yet her vulnerability appealed to every one of his protective instincts.
Compassion might kill him yet….
“Horses are prey animals,” Uncle Jay counseled often enough to annoy when Dev was growing up. “Humans, now—we’re predators. But that don’t mean we never feel threatened, ’specially women. A mean woman, or a threatened woman, can kick you with words, trample your heart. After Sylvia and your mother, it’s possible you may never trust another one. I don’t look to forgive your intended myself—so can’t blame you none for feeling the same. That don’t mean all females deserve the scorn I hear in your voice these days. Regardless of their behavior, like horses a lady never deserves the back of your hand, or a fist. Always be a man instead of a two-legged mongrel, lad, so’s you’ll sleep at night.”
“How about we trade information?” he began, slowly.
“You tell me about these ‘spells,’ and I’ll tell you what I know about Edgar Fane.”
In the darkness Dev heard her exhale a long wavering sigh. “My grandfather warned me about rogues and knaves. He never warned me about someone like you.”
“Well, if I’m not a rogue or a knave, what does that leave?” Keep it light, he ordered himself. Go gently. You can lead a horse to water, but if you want him to drink, feed him something salty to whet his thirst. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t ask?”
“Grandfather also warned me about men who think too much. Shakespeare had the way of it—such men are dangerous. I should be afraid of you. I don’t trust you, but you’ve been…kind.” A beat of silence hovered before she continued slowly, “Ever since I was a girl, I’ve had occasional spells of vertigo. Sometimes they’re debilitating. Since last year they seem to be worsening.” Her voice thinned. “But there’s no other course. I have to do this.”
The last declaration was scarcely above a whisper. “What is it you have to do?” Dev prompted after a while. “Does it concern Edgar Fane?”
Her hands crushed the hat. “Yes.”
“Ah.” Since he wanted answers, not another episode of vertigo, he told her what he could. “Edgar Fane is a wealthy, likable fellow who enjoys the company of others, particularly attractive women. His father made a fortune, the older brother’s expanding it and his other brother is marrying a French countess next year. From what I’ve gleaned, Edgar’s decided his role is that of charming wastrel—one of those men your grandfather would have warned you about.”
For a moment he silently studied her. “Is your family in dire financial straits, Miss—I can’t continue to call you Miss Pickford, now can I? Will you tell me your name? I haven’t personally met Mr. Fane, but I know enough to question certain aspects of his character. Of course, it doesn’t seem fair to confide my observations unless you’re equally candid.” He paused. “For instance, when he asks you to dinner, how do I know whether you might decide to warn him about a certain Mr. Stone, and the rumors he’s bandying about?”
This time she refused to rise to the bait. “Your observations about Mr. Fane must be highly salacious.”
Night had fallen, covering them in a soft matte darkness. The carriage lamp threw out enough light to illuminate the intelligence glittering in the coffee–dark brown eyes. So. She had recovered. It was to be a battle of wits to the end, then. Strangely pleased, Devlin affected a shrug, then gathered up the reins and smoothly backed horse and buggy onto the road, all without saying a word.
She lasted until a block before the Grand Union Hotel. Garish electric lights strung on ugly poles shone down on crowds of laughing people. A loud burst of masculine laughter startled the livery horse; Dev automatically soothed the animal, then turned onto Broadway into a sea of gleaming carriages and buggies.
“You really do have a way with horses, Mr. Stone.”
Dev pulled into a vacant spot a block from the Grand Union Hotel. “I love them,” he replied simply, wondering at the undercurrent of longing in her voice. “If you treat horses with affection and respect, you’ll earn their loyalty until they die. Yes, they’re animals, and occasionally unpredictable. But if I had to choose between a horse and a human being for companionship, I’d stick with a horse.”
“Then why are you here, at one of the most crowded hotel resorts in the world?”
Her astute question jabbed him square on the chin. He deflected it with some questions of his own. “Perhaps to rescue you from whatever harebrained scheme you’ve concocted? There’s no titled duke, is there? Where did you get that ring? At a pawn shop?”
“The ring was my grandmother’s,” she retorted in a tone frosted with ice. The wobbly-kneed girl he’d ministered to had metamorphosed into the most dangerous of all species: an angry woman. “You made me want to trust you, and I’m ashamed of myself for that. Thank you for your kindness. I won’t trouble you further. If we have the misfortune to meet again, I promise to ignore you. And for your information, Neville was an earl.”
She made as if to leap from the cart. Dev grabbed her arm. “Sorry.”
“You ought to be. Let me go.”
“Not until you accept my apology.” Beneath his fingers her arm tensed. In a soothing motion he slid his hand down to her wrist, keeping the grip gentle, yet unbreakable.
“Besides, I would never abandon a lady I’d just rescued until she was safely home.”
“Even if the lady wishes otherwise?”
“A dilemma, to be sure, Miss—what did you say your real name was again?”
“Lang—” Her lips pressed together.
A glaring beam from a nearby streetlight illuminated her face, allowing Devlin to witness the battle of emotions. Lang… Something tingled at the back of his neck, an elusive fragment of knowledge that vanished when her pursed lips softened in a Mona Lisa smile. She was disheveled, her attire wrinkled and soiled; dirt was smeared across one cheek. Yet that half smile somehow captured his heart and it swelled like a hot air balloon.
Panic skittered through him. “Ah. So it’s Miss…Lang. Strange. Neither name really fits you.” All the newly restored color leached from her complexion. Insensitive clod, he reprimanded himself. “I’ll escort you to the lobby. Shall I have a bellhop fetch Mrs. Chudd to help you to your room?” He distracted her with verbal rambling while casually monitoring the pulse in her wrist. “How about if I call on you in the morning, say ten o’clock? I believe the band is scheduled to play a medley of popular tunes. Have you enjoyed the pleasures of Congress Springs Park?”
“Yes, I love the park. It’s very peaceful, even with all the other people. Mr. Stone, I accept your apology. But I don’t think it’s wise for us to meet again. I don’t want to encourage your false impressions of me, and I don’t want to—could you please let go of my wrist?” She waited, her dark gaze unwavering, until Dev complied. The Mona Lisa smile flickered, then she passed her tongue over her lips and cleared her throat. “Thank you. I wish…I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”
And before he could think of an appropriate response, she jumped out of the runabout and marched off toward the hotel. Though she garnered several strange looks from evening strollers, she sailed past with the regal poise of a duchess.
A man was in a wheelbarrow full of trouble when watching the back of a woman made his pulse rate spike and his fingers tingle.
Chapter Nine
The invitation from Edgar Fane arrived two days later. Thea read the lazy scrawl of words, with every breath a dull spike lodging deeper in her chest. So. Her wish had come true at last, but the fulfillment was tinged with the taste of gall: Dinner at Mr. Canfield’s Casino was not the scenario she had envisioned.
The Casino might enjoy a reputation for first-class cuisine, and it might be patronized by the country’s wealthiest and most powerful personages. But for Thea the dignified red brick building also housed a glittering palace of iniquity, a den of vice, preying upon weak minds with more money than common sense. From local gossip she’d learned that reformers had managed to close down the gambling there for a couple of years, but like the racecourse it had reopened for this summer’s season.
She should have known a wretch like Edgar Fane would entertain guests at a gambling palace.
Her father loved gambling more than anything else on earth, including his family. He’d been playing roulette the night he’d met Thea’s mother. After winning a small fortune, he convinced himself, and her, that together they’d change the course of each other’s lives. In a way, he was right. The unwelcome appearance of a baby nine months later introduced an equally unwelcome dose of reality.
Her father dumped Theodora with a letter of apology on her grandparents’ doorstep, then disappeared for three years. Only the infrequent postcards reassured the family that he was alive. Charles and Mathilda Langston loved her as their own; until she died Mathilda never gave up believing the prodigal son would see the error of his ways. But some of Thea’s earliest lessons, learned snuggled in Grandfather’s lap, included the evils of gambling.
Apparently she had shed that particular lesson along with her conscience. Life, she reminded herself defiantly, was an uncertain stew of happenstance.
So for thirty-six hours Thea suffered a Coney Island roller-coaster ride of elation, fear, guilt and determination. Now the time was at hand, and she would not, would not permit the shy, morally upstanding little girl she used to be to dominate her thoughts. Tonight she planned to practice every feminine wile she’d gleaned from years of reading literature and talking to many of the authors of it who enjoyed “rusticating” on Staten Island. By the end of the meal Edgar Fane would…he would—
Mrs. Chudd poked her head through the door to Thea’s room. “Bellhop’s here. A Mr. Simpson is waiting for you in the lobby,” she announced in her flat nasal voice.
“Have the bellhop tell Mr. Simpson I’ll be right down.” Nerves cramped her stomach and chilled her skin.
“Mrs. Chudd? Won’t you come along? It would be more appropriate.”
“Got no use for rich food.” She skimmed a long look at Thea, her pale eyes briefly flickering with curiosity. “You been fine all month, ferdiddling on your own. So I’ll stay here, same as usual.” Jaw jutting, she nodded twice, started to turn away. “Not having a spell, are you?”
“No.” Thea forced her lips to stretch in a rubbery smile, and beneath the satin-and-lace evening gown locked her knees. “I’m fine.”
“Humph. Then I’ll fetch my knitting, finish this sweater for my grandnephew. You might want to be careful what you eat.”
“Ah, Miss Pickford. You’re a vision to behold,” Mr. Fane declared upon meeting her and Mr. Simpson at the entrance to the Casino’s dining room. He himself looked very much the wealthy gentleman in his black evening suit and blinding white waistcoat. “Quite a dramatic change from the intrepid angler who reeled in a shoe.” Mischievous brown eyes twinkled; to avoid looking at him Thea glanced around the crowded dining room.
“I’ve ordered us filet of sole for the entrée,” he continued easily, a secret laugh embedded in the words. “I hope you approve.”
Thea finally managed to tear her awestruck gaze away from the rows of stained glass ceiling panels, and the equally glittering rows of tables full of guests, all of them staring at Thea and Edgar Fane. Either win him now, or justice will be denied forever. She squared her shoulders, lifted a hand to lightly brush her grandmother’s cameo brooch, a steadying touch to bolster her resolve. “I trust all the laces have been removed from my catch so they don’t get caught between our teeth,” she replied.
Mr. Fane threw back his head and laughed out loud. “I think I’m going to like you very much, Miss Pickford. Who knows? You might turn out to be the catch of the day.”
“Mr. Fane, I might say the same about you.”
He laughed again, then led her between rows of circular tables to the back of the room, where a party of ten—six ladies, four gentlemen—watched their approach with the intensity of a pack of jackals about to tear into the carcass. “I’ve asked some friends to join us,” Mr. Fane explained. “Less…intimate, and safer for you at this stage of our acquaintance.” With a flourishing bow he pulled out one of the empty chairs. A folded card with “Miss Pickford” written in formal script sent an oily shiver down Thea’s spine. He gestured to the woman seated beside her place.
“This is a very dear friend, Mrs. Cynthia Gorman.” As Thea gingerly sat down he leaned close enough for his breath to stir the fine hairs on the back of her neck. “If she takes a liking to you, you’ll be able to learn anything about me good manners prohibit you from asking.” He straightened. “Mrs. Gorman, Miss Theodora Pickford.” Thea angled her head toward Mrs. Gorman, away from Edgar Fane.
“I asked Simpson to find out everything he could about you,” Edgar next informed Thea without a shred of remorse. “I have to be careful, I’m afraid. Women can be fortune hunters, the same as men. Can’t they, Mrs. Gorman?”
“As you can see, Edgar loves to torment, and call it teasing,” Cynthia said. With her long narrow face, worldly green eyes and golden hair, she reminded Thea of a beautiful but restless lioness. “I understand your fiancé is a British earl. Lovely engagement ring—antique, is it? I adore jewelry. We can talk about your fiancé and jewelry if you like, Miss Pickford. Or the charms of a season at Saratoga. Edgar of course will want to confine the conversation to himself. But whatever you do, please refrain from asking about his paintings.”
“Paintings? I’ve heard he enjoys working with oils and watercolors. Why wouldn’t I ask about them?” Thea returned, artfully lifting one eyebrow.
“Dearest Cynthia, is your nose still out of joint?” Edgar sat down on Thea’s other side, and without a word the waiters began to serve crystal compotes full of fresh peaches, strawberries and grapes. “She wanted my latest work of art, but I gave it to a lonely old gentleman who owns a couple of quaint old bookstores in Baltimore. He was most appreciative.”
“So appreciative he checked out of his room at the United States Hotel the next day,” a round-cheeked man with a spade-shaped beard chimed in. “Last I heard, he was planning to auction your landscape to the highest bidder, to avoid the bank foreclosing on his stores.”
“What must he be thinking?” Edgar popped a strawberry in his mouth and chewed it with unselfconscious enthusiasm. “I’m no Rembrandt. But if someone’s foolish enough to spend their well-earned dollars on dabbling I give away for free, I’ll not put a crimp in their style.”
Everyone laughed, and as the rhythm of the courses moved in watchlike precision from fruit to oysters on a bed of crushed ice, to a delicate clear soup, Thea’s nerves settled into quiet determination. Mrs. Gorman spent several moments deliberately prying, but when Thea remained charming but vague the other woman turned to the man seated on her right. Conversations swirled over and around them; Edgar Fane, she discovered reluctantly, made for a thoughtful, entertaining host. By the time the fish was served—and she laughed with everyone else when the waiter presented her with an exquisitely prepared filet of sole—Thea was almost enjoying herself. The vertigo remained in abeyance, and beneath the table her knees had finally quit shaking.
But she had not forgotten her mission.
Find a weakness. Find evidence. Expose Edgar Fane as a liar and a thief.
“Is Saratoga Springs your favorite destination for the summer season?” she asked Mr. Fane during a conversational lull.
“Certainly has been a wise choice this year,” he replied, smiling at her. “When I heard the prim-mouthed do-gooders had failed in their attempts to keep the Casino closed, I decided to signal my support by spending the season here at Saratoga. I’ve rented a cottage a few blocks away. When not entertaining friends there, I invite them to superlative suppers here at the Casino, to help Mr. Canfield keep his coffers full.” Something in the way he studied Thea set warning bells to clanging. “A lot of my friends enjoy the game room upstairs. In fact, several acquaintances have won and lost considerable fortunes. You look disapproving. Tell me your opinion toward gambling, Miss Pickford. Is it a tool of evil, or the engine that keeps not only Canfield Casino but this little community from sinking into oblivion?”
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