A Most Unusual Match (5 page)

S
he 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.

T
he 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?”

Thea took several sips of water, but her palms dampened inside the doeskin evening gloves. “I don't care much for gambling away monies someone else has earned by the sweat of honest labor. If those men lose a fortune they earned with their own hands, that's their choice. But men who gamble away food from the table or the roof over their children's heads are dangerously irresponsible.”

“Mmm. A well-thought-out response. How about ladies, Miss Pickford? Are you aware that Mr. Canfield has altered the old restrictions and now allows ladies to indulge? Gave them their very own gambling room. There's now a betting ring at the racetrack for them, as well. I believe Cynthia actually won herself a tidy bundle a few days ago.” Edgar picked up his wineglass and touched it to Thea's as though to let her know he'd noticed she hadn't taken a single sip.

“So you pass judgment on
ladies,
for gambling food from the table and the roof from over their children's heads?”

“I'd say either gender is equally vulnerable to the risk of gambling, Mr. Fane.”

“You snagged yourself one of those religious reformers, Fane!” Smirking, a needle-thin man with a monocle surveyed Thea. “Miss Pickford doubtless attends church every Sunday, praying for fire to rain down on the rest of us heathens.”

“I don't have the right to pass judgment on anybody.” Thea leveled the oaf a look that made him drop the monocle. “Neither, sir, do you. I was asked a direct question. I answered honestly. If my sense of right and wrong differs from yours, perhaps the matter would best be addressed someplace other than a dinner party.”

Cynthia Gorman clapped her hands. “One for you, Miss Pickford. Geoffrey, stop needling her. Besides, if I recall my distant childhood catechism, God Himself does not approve of gambling, which is why I only indulge once or twice a year.”

Mr. Fane emitted a loud groan. “Cynthia, dear, must we introduce religion? Almost as taboo as politics, is it not?”

“You started it,
dear.
And controversy certainly livens things up a bit. Don't you get tired of trivial gossip, Edgar?” She made a moue, shrugged her shoulders. “Of course, none of it matters to me.”

“Ah. Trivial gossip.” Still smiling, Edgar turned to Thea.

“She wounds me with words, Miss Pickford, though she's one of my oldest friends. Tell me, since you seem to be fearless as well as honest, do you think God will strike me dead because I'm one of those who enjoys gambling large sums of money I haven't earned?”