A Most Unusual Match

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.”