A Most Unusual Match (8 page)

M
oments later, her traitorous chaperone was happily ensconced with Tolstoy, her leg resting on the gout stool. Mr. Fane led Thea down several bisecting hallways into a large, airy room with wicker furniture and Boston ferns. Two paddle fans lazily moved the air. “Over here,” he said. “We've missed most of the sunset, but there's still enough light to appreciate the view.”

She approached warily; he had placed himself between a side table and a corner, leaving Thea little room. “Very serene,” she agreed. And very isolated. “Um…I believe it's too dark for a walk.”

“Possibly. I wouldn't want you to be nervous, so…” He took a step toward her, his mouth twitching when Thea stiffened. He reached past her and tugged the chain to a Tiffany floor lamp. “There you go. A bit of artificial light, to help you relax? Tell me, Miss Pickford, what really prompted an engaged lady to accept a private dinner invitation with a man like me?”

“A man like you? Heavens, Mr. Fane, have you crafted some nasty plot to drug the coffee, sell me to the Arabs? Or—” she darted around him, over to a floor globe situated between a revolving bookstand and a chair “—are you
deliberately trying to fluster me?” With a flick of her wrist she set the globe awhirl and prayed her internal spinning would remain stationary for one more hour. She needed places, names—any clue, however oblique, to Edgar Fane's private life. A chink in his impenetrable armor. “I would like to know why one of the richest men in the country would ask a lady engaged to another man to have a private dinner with him.”

“Irrepressibly impertinent. I think I like it.” Mr. Fane ambled toward her, head cocked to the side and a brooding expression hiding his thoughts. “Would you believe me if I said loneliness?”

“No.”

“Are you always this forthright, Miss Pickford?”

Her conscience winced, but Thea answered steadily enough. “I'm not going to hang on your every word, or offer flattering sobriquets in the hope you'll offer to drape me in jewels. On the other hand, I would like to understand the man hiding inside a crowd of hangers-on. Do you have a—a real job, Mr. Fane? Or do you merely enjoy spending the family fortune?” She stopped, biting her lip. “I beg your pardon. That
was
impertinent of me.”

“You know, Miss Pickford…I wonder about you. I really do. I'm not sure you want to understand me as much as you want to—how shall I phrase it? Test the waters? See if I'm a better catch than your English earl?”

“I'm sorry an impulse to attract your attention led you to believe I could be that sort of woman.”

“You already know I'm a wealthy man, Miss Pickford. Your fiancé might be an earl, but that doesn't mean he's well-heeled. I'm used to people who hope to benefit from my, I believe
largesse
is one of the press's favorite descriptions. Of course, many of them are the women who hope for a marriage proposal.”

“I do not want to marry you, Mr. Fane.”

For the first time a flicker of surprise cracked his set features. “You actually sound as though you mean that.”

“Whatever else you believe or your secretary spy reports about me, you can count on my complete disregard for such an alliance.” A stew of vicious emotions bubbled inside. She was a bat-brained idiot, to think she could pry information from a man sophisticated enough to convince bankers and government agencies of his innocence. “Mr. Fane, I think we should—”

“Well, well, well…what have I interrupted?” Cynthia Gorman emerged from the shadowed hall. Lifting a graceful hand, she flicked on an electric light switch, and green-gold light illuminated the morning room. “Forgive me, my dears. And here I thought
I
was the only woman to enjoy a cozy tryst with Edgar.”

A flash of rage, quickly banked, darkened Mr. Fane's eyes but he recovered rapidly. “Cynthia, don't be more catty than you have to.” He met the other woman in the middle of the room, effectively blocking her from Thea. “What are you doing here? I'll have that butler sacked.”

“Oh, stop sputtering, darling. I told him I stopped by to fetch my parasol. I left it yesterday, in one of these private tucked-away rooms. The ones you like to hide people in. Forgive me, Miss Pickford. No offense intended. Edgar and I are forever teasing each other.”

“None taken.” Eyeing the doorway into the hall, Thea inched toward a sitting area behind Cynthia Gorman. “I should go anyway. My companion is elderly, and doesn't need to stay out too late.”

Cynthia gave a peal of laughter. “The old woman in the library? She's snoring like an elephant with a cold. Please. I'll fetch my parasol, whisk myself out. Carry on with your evening together, and pretend you never saw me.”

“I'm almost to a point where pretending won't be necessary,” Mr. Fane said.

The caustic retort wiped the smile off Cynthia's face. “I've apologized. Nicely. Don't turn into an oaf, Edgar.” Long, elegant fingers stroked down his sleeve. “I promise to be gone before you've taken a first sip of the coffee I smelled perking. Is it from those Jamaican beans you like so much? You'll enjoy it, Miss Pickford. Make sure you ask for some of the English biscuits to go with your brew. Mayhap it will remind you of your earl, loving you from afar.” Smiling like a mischievous cat, she engulfed Thea in a quick hug, then disappeared in a froth of white lawn and lace.

“Ah, Cynthia. The air is rife with shiny knives when she doesn't get her way.” Mr. Fane reached Thea's side.

“You needn't glare at me accusingly. I did not invite her to be part of a ménage à trois.”

“I beg your pardon? A what?”

Chagrin softened the thick ridges scoring his forehead; in all the weeks she'd been following him, Thea had never witnessed a display of such rancor. “Never mind,” he said, but his smile looked forced. “I shouldn't have mentioned it. Let's have some of that coffee.”

Her insides felt as though she were squeezing them through a wringer washing machine. Time was evaporating, the mood darkening, and she was…desperate. Perhaps she could bait him with words, goad him into an unguarded response. “Only if you tell me why the son of one of the most influential men in the country spends most of his time doing…nothing useful. Along with healthy activities and socializing, like my companion I read a lot, Mr. Fane. Since arriving at Saratoga Springs I've discovered you're a favorite topic of conversation among people and newspaper
articles, yet I still know very little about you. And your manner to Mrs. Gorman just now…I'm wondering if I made a mistake, accepting your dinner invitation.” Invisible pressure against the side of her head gave an ominous push, and she surreptitiously gripped the curved back of a wicker chair.

“I was concerned her remarks had offended you. We've known each other for years, remember. Sometimes she abuses our friendship and I call her hand. Don't allow her jealousy to—”

“This has nothing to do with Mrs. Gorman. It's late, and I think I should leave. Can you direct me back to the library, please?”

“Are you all right, Miss Pickford?” Frown deepening, he studied her. “You're not acting like yourself.” Slowly his hand closed around her elbow in a light grip, and it took the last of Thea's dwindling courage not to jerk away.

“Very well. I'll take you to Mrs. Chudd.”

Tension vibrated in the press of his fingers, and the way his gaze seemed to dart about every room they passed. Or perhaps she was superimposing her own nerves over his? He left Thea seated in the entry hall while he went to wake her companion and summon the driver; within moments he was handing her and a querulous Mrs. Chudd into the carriage.

“An interesting evening,” he said, bowing over her fingers, which unforgivably trembled. “With an interesting woman. What a shame circumstances forbade the opportunity to get to know each other better. Mrs. Gorman has a lot to answer for.”

All the way back to the hotel, with Mrs. Chudd glowering and silent on the opposite seat, Thea wondered at those parting words, and cursed herself for her ineptitude.

She hadn't even discovered Edgar Fane's pending destination, much less a crumb of condemnatory evidence.

The vertigo hit with the force of a nor'easter while she plaited her hair for bed.

 

“What are you doing here?” Edgar stalked across the room to Cynthia, who was sitting on a Turkish divan while she smoked one of his Cuban cigars. The affectation disgusted him, because whenever he smoked around her she taunted him about the filthy habit and vile odor.

“Saving you from yourself.” She stubbed out the cigar and stood, idly waving the smoke away with her hand. “Why the interest in that girl, Edgar? You know she's only after your family fortune.”

“You know less about her than I do.” He went to stand over her, but Cynthia merely lifted her brow. Edgar took her chin in a forceful grip. “But I do know you, and this cat-and-the-empty-birdcage look. What have you been doing in my house, hmm? Tell me, my dear. I'm in no mood to play games this evening.”

“Too bad.” She shoved his hand away. “You play them so well. All right, I can tell you're in a beastly mood. I did forget my parasol, but I was at loose ends this evening so decided to prowl around this ridiculous pile of bricks while I waited for Miss Prim to decide whether or not to stay for coffee.” A nasty smile curled her lips. “I found a locked door, in the opposite wing? And you know what they say about curiosity.”

A sense of inevitability settled over Edgar, and he turned away from her until he could school his face to a polite mask. “I take it you charmed my soon-to-be-former housekeeper into unlocking the door?”

“Of course. I'm not stupid, my dear, and neither are you. I've wondered, for quite some time now, what you were
doing with your many peregrinations from city to city, like Diogenes looking for the light. You're a very clever man, aren't you?”

“Yes. Why don't we go for a moonlit walk by the pond, and discuss the terms of your silence? It wouldn't do for Mrs. Surrey to overhear anything.”

Cynthia tossed her head. “I don't mind filling in for Miss Pickford. But if you try to kiss me to seal the deal, tonight I might be inclined to bite first.”

“You'll probably do more than that,” Edgar replied, and tucked her hand through his crooked arm.

A thunderbolt of anticipation tightened his muscles, while every nerve tingled over the bold step he was about to take. How…fortuitous?…that Cynthia turned up earlier in the library. He'd grown tired of her possessiveness anyway, and had actually toyed with the idea of quelling it through a genuine pursuit of the intriguing Miss Pickford. On the other hand, he would still pursue Theodora, though the outcome for both women would be quite different from what they hoped.

“What are you smiling about?” Cynthia grumped beside him. “Now
you
look like the cat by the empty birdcage.”

Edgar patted her hand. “All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”

 

Devlin waited until Thea and Mrs. Chudd entered the Grand Union Hotel before he stepped out of the shadows and followed them inside.
She'd looked pale, and drained, as though the evening had sucked color and life from her.
The open rotunda stretched all the way to the top floor; balconies on each level allowed guests to peer down into the lobby. Dev unfolded the newspaper he'd been carrying and leaned against one of the marble columns, watching with relief when the two women trudged along the
second floor landing without glancing down. Just before they disappeared down a hallway Thea seemed to wobble, and one hand braced against the balcony railing until she recovered.

Moving rapidly, Dev mounted the staircase after them, gliding with soundless step to the corridor they had entered. A moment later he heard the sound of a key rattling in the lock, and a low murmur of voices.

For the moment, Thea was safe.

He padded to the end of the hall, where he discovered a small open parlor. Excellent. Relieved, Devlin stationed himself so he could see if anyone else followed Thea back to the hotel, or showed untoward interest in her hotel room. At a little past midnight a noisy family tromped back to a room two doors down from Thea's, and a half hour later the night watchman wandered past the parlor for the second time.

“Still here, eh?” Bald and potbellied, the guard smiled sympathetically. “Fight with the missus? She lock you out of the room?”

Devlin yawned. “Worse. Insomnia,” he said. “She snores.”

Nodding, the watchman moved on. At two o'clock Dev concluded Thea was safely asleep. No suspicious strangers lurked outside her room. And if she'd suffered an attack of vertigo, she and Mrs. Chudd were handling it. For now, the need for vigilance was over.

Back in his own rooms, after writing his report Devlin passed the rest of a miserable night tormenting himself with images: Thea, dining with Edgar Fane; Thea falling ill and
Fane
holding her close, bathing her face with a cool cloth. Thea and Fane, laughing because the Hotel Hustler was not one man, but a team, and Devlin Stone had been duped by another woman. All her self-conscious ramblings
had been designed to learn
his
soft spots, and fool that he was, Dev had handed her a cartful of them.

No. Call him arrogant, or duped, but he refused to believe Thea was a criminal, devoid of a conscience. He'd met enough of those over the past two years to tell the difference. Theodora was a woman in trouble, and she needed his help.

He hoped.

D
awn found him at the racecourse stables, helping the grooms ready their charges for the day. Over the past weeks his willingness to shovel manure, groom dust-coated hides and clean tack had earned him a free ticket to wander wherever he chose. Some of the owners even unbent enough to ask his advice, especially when one of the grooms announced that Mr. Stone had “the touch” with the creatures. Didn't matter that he owned and trained draft horses, not Thoroughbreds.

By the time the noon hour rolled around, the sanity of a sunny summer morning had dispelled some of the night goblins, and the physical exertion had cleansed his mind. He ate lunch with a pair of crinkle-eyed Irish lads, sifting through tidbits of possibly useful information, then wandered over toward the grandstands to catch a couple of races. Somewhere the ringer clanged the bell, signaling the minutes to post time, and Dev absently counted rings while he made his way through hurrying race goers. Thirty yards away from the betting ring a ruckus seemed to have erupted.

Dev wandered over to investigate. “What's going on?” he asked an onlooker.

“Fracas in the betting ring. Something about passing phony goods to the bookie. Someone fetched a copper. Just goes to show, don't it?”

“That it does. Thanks, friend.” Without waiting to hear more Dev wove his way over to where avid witnesses circled the knot of red-faced, shouting men.

His big feet solidly planted on hundreds of discarded betting tickets, the policeman clamped a hand on one of the troublemakers' shoulders. When his call for order was ignored, he pulled out his billy club but achieved no noticeable effect, as all three men continued shouting threats and imprecations.

“…and if you don't release me this instant, the mayor will hear of this! I'm a guest and a law-abiding free citizen—”

“…know queer money when I sees it! Them hundred-dollar bills he tried to give me are bogus goods! Ask my sheet writer! He seen 'em, too!”

“Well, he paid me twenty-thousand dollars in bills that look just like those. If they're all fake, I want my money back—my real money, before they throw his carcass in the big house.”

“I tell you, I have done nothing wrong. Officer, you are making a grave mistake here.”

Every one of Dev's senses heightened when he caught a glimpse of the man in a neat gray suit and top hat being held by the policeman—Randolph Lunt.

After following him for weeks, Dev had been ready to scrub Lunt off the list, a discouraging admission, which did not bode well for his professional reputation. What a piece of luck, to happen along the very moment Lunt made his move. Too bad he'd have to identify himself to the policeman as a U.S. Secret Service operative in order
to verify fraudulent bills. Too soon, too public—too much of a risk.

More troubling, even if the bills in question proved to be counterfeit, at the moment the man could only be charged with passing bogus goods. With his connections, Lunt would be back on the street and out of sight before the ink dried on the order to release him. The previous autumn, a clever New York lawyer and an unimpressed judge had made mincemeat of the Service's case after Charles Langston was arrested on the same charge Lunt now faced. Langston claimed Edgar Fane had fleeced him, so Fane had been questioned, as well. But ultimately all charges were dropped for insufficient evidence. Langston and Fane walked, the case once more hit a dead end—and here Devlin stood, on the same precipice as his hapless fellow operatives in the City last fall.

Of course, if Lunt also had ties to the Hotel Hustler…

Not yet.
The order whispered through him as clearly as though the words had been voiced aloud. Something—some blink of an instinct, something more forceful than a hunch, shut Devlin's mouth, held him poised and watchful, muscles bunched. A second thought crossed his mind that perhaps his presence here at this particular moment was something other than mere “luck.”

Cautiously he inched around to better analyze Lunt's face and body movements. The man repeated his protestations of innocence, all without contractions, the timbre of his voice growing more elevated; his left hand was stuffed inside his pocket and bulging outward—all signs he was lying. Mr. Girard and the bookie, on the other hand, both radiated honest outrage.

“You're a liar, that's what you are!” Girard said, jabbing a finger toward Lunt's chest. “A cheat, and a liar.”

“I won that money fair and square over at the Casino,
not two hours ago,” Lunt protested, his voice hoarse with outrage. “As for your libelous claim, Mr. Girard, I have paid you what was owed, and will see you in court, sir.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” the unflappable policeman re turned. “Best all you gentlemen come with me. These here are serious charges, and I'll do my duty as I see it to keep all activities at this racetrack legal. Tully?”

“Yessir?” The bookie removed his flat cap and wiped his sweating forehead.

“Bring all them bills to police headquarters, every one of them. Right now, eh? We'll sort things out there, right and proper.”

Two more policemen arrived, forming a wall of brass-buttoned resolve. Randolph Lunt, along with Tully, his sheet writer and Mr. Girard, were escorted from the betting ring and off the racecourse. Dev, unnoticed, followed them into the village, down Broadway to the stately brick Town Hall, which housed the jail and police headquarters. Pedestrians scattered out of the way, staring after the procession as the police ushered the three men up the steps and through the arched entryway into the building. On the opposite side of the street, Devlin paced as he waged an internal debate—telegraph headquarters? Reveal himself to the police? Or wait for that mysterious unseen Voice to give him further direction?

Either the God his father had believed in was revealing Himself to Dev in an unexpected manner, or lack of sleep had induced some form of cerebral delusion.

Nearby strollers were suddenly jostled aside by a woman who darted between them and passed Devlin with arms thrust skyward. Skirts and petticoats flared wide, she stumbled across the cobblestoned curb into the street, barely dodging a passing buggy in her erratic flight.
“Help!” she cried brokenly. “Help! P—police! We need a policeman!”

A portly man had followed on her heels, but he stopped on the sidewalk, right beside Devlin. Breath sawed from his lungs, and his eyes stretched wide and unblinking in a darkly flushed face. One hand went to his chest.

“Easy,” Devlin said. “Here, I've got you. Lean on this hitching post. Catch your breath.”

The man shook his head violently, tried to speak and finally braced one shaking hand against the empty post. His white-eyed gaze latched onto Dev's at the same time his other hand grabbed Dev's sleeve. “Dead,” he got out. “She's dead.” Damp patches darkened the armpits of his blue blazer and large droplets of sweat rolled down his beet-red face. “A woman. Dead. Woodlawn Park. We found her, my wife and I…we found her, in some bushes. Out walking. I—we didn't know what to do, so we…” His lips turned an alarming blue tint. “We couldn't find…a policeman.”

“Calm yourself, sir. Your wife's reached Town Hall. Catch your breath, hmm? I'll see that your wife is informed of your whereabouts, and promise her you'll join her soon. You, lad—” he caught the eye of a gangling young man wearing a cobbler's apron “—could you fetch this gentleman some water? Is there a place he could sit for a few moments, inside your shop? If you think it's necessary, go for a physician.” He pressed the winded husband's shoulder in a final gesture of reassurance, then dashed across the street after the wife.

A dead woman in the park.

As he ran, a brief arrow of anxiety found its mark too close to his heart for comfort. For the first time in years a particular woman's well-being mattered, triggering irrational thoughts born both of too much knowledge—and
too little. Surely, out of thousands of women who visited or lived in Saratoga Springs, surely the victim wasn't Thea. Devlin blanked the unwelcome conjecture from his brain.

But sure would help if he knew where she was at the moment.

Inside police headquarters, all attention had momentarily focused upon the two policemen with set faces who hovered over the distraught woman. Neither Lunt, Girard nor the bookie Tully and his helper were in sight.

A sergeant glanced up at Devlin's approach. “You the husband?”

“No. He's across the street, catching his breath. I told him I'd check on his wife, let her know he'll be along as soon as he can.”

“I'll pass along the message.” When the officer brusquely ordered Dev out of the way, he complied without protest. An unknown woman's death was after all none of his business.
It is not Thea, Stone. Concentrate on your own job, you tomfool chump.
Somewhere in this building Randolph Lunt was being held, and the charge against him
was
Devlin Stone's business. Thinking rapidly, he marked the presence of the Police Chief, whose double rows of buttons signifying his position gleamed dully against his uniform jacket. He was engaged in deep conversation with a gentleman dressed in a funereal three-piece black suit, probably a lawyer. They stood behind a waist-high railing, ignoring the furor taking place on the other side of the room. Dev waited until the black-suited man turned away to gather some papers off a desk, and the Chief set off toward the woman now quietly weeping into her handkerchief.

Decision made, Dev quietly moved to block his path. “Chief Blevins? My name is Devlin Stone. I'm an
undercover operative with the United States Secret Service. I'll provide badge and credentials later. I know you have an unknown dead woman in a park, and a possible high-profile counterfeiter in your custody. Both require immediate investigation. I'd like to offer my assistance with Randolph Lunt. I witnessed most of the altercation at the racetrack, and am willing to testify under oath that Mr. Lunt was not telling the truth. With your permission, I can also determine whether or not the bills in question are bogus.”

He paused for emphasis, then added, “But I need one request granted. It is imperative that my identity remain absolutely secret from everyone but you.”

With an effort that threatened to crack his jawbone he managed to shut his mouth, before he included an
un
professional request for the identity of the murdered woman.

As soon as he could grab ten minutes, he'd verify Thea's whereabouts for himself.

She's fine,
he repeated silently.
She's safe.