A Most Unusual Match (3 page)

U
pon 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 jus
tified 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.

W
ith 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.