A Most Unusual Match

“All right,” Devlin Stone murmured. The air stirred vaguely, then stilled.

So. He’d listened, and obeyed. Life, Thea decided in utter misery, once again proved she was a worthless cast-aside, an inferior specimen of humanity nobody wanted. Both parents had abandoned her. Her chaperone ignored her. Edgar Fane gave her over to his secretary. And now Mr. Stone left her prostrate in the bushes, never mind that he’d only done what she requested.

Lord? If You care anything about me at all, let me die so I’m no longer a burden to my grandfather. Her quest for justice had failed. Her parody on the dock with Edgar Fane clung like a stench. No wonder Mr. Stone abandoned her, as well.

Chapter Seven

“Miss Pickford? You haven’t passed out on me, have you?”

The calm voice penetrated her miasma, but Thea still started when a damp cloth passed over the back of her neck, then down her cheek. Next she felt his palm—warm, the fingertips slightly abraded—press against her forehead. “No fever. Eat anything today to cause a sickness in your belly?”

“Not…sick.”

“Nor up to talking, either, hmm?” There was a sound of splashing, then he laid the freshly dampened cloth over her eyes. “I’m unbuttoning your sleeves at the wrists so I can bathe them, and your hands. Don’t be alarmed, and don’t fight me, all right?”

As if she could. Sighing a little, Thea allowed his skillful ministrations to lull her into a semicatatonic state, akin to floating on her back in one of the lakes scattered over Staten Island, drifting in the lazy current while the sun and water bound her in a lovely cocoon.

Time floated by, until she was able to take a deep breath without choking on the nausea. Hesitantly she opened her eyes. The whirling had abated. “Thank you,” she breathed, and scraped up half a smile. “I’m better now.” And saying it, she could feel the truth soaking into her pores. Edgar Fane made her sick; Devlin Stone made her feel safe.

Of the two, Mr. Stone probably posed more of a threat.

“Want to tell me what happened?” he asked eventually with the tone that caused a high-strung racehorse to rest its head against him.

For some moments Thea didn’t answer. The vertigo had subsided, but humiliation still burned deep enough to smudge his Good Samaritan kindness into something less benign. A glance upward through the screen of her lashes intensified the uncertainty: he sat at ease beside her, one arm draped loosely across an upraised knee. A light wind stirred the fine linen of his pin-striped shirt. He was hatless today, and the wind brushed the lock of hair over his forehead, lending him the relaxed air of a man with nothing on his mind but a day at the lake. Yet, veiled in shadow, his gaze rested unwavering upon Theodora. She had the impression he would sit there, calmly waiting until Thea offered an explanation even if it took until darkness enfolded them like a blanket.

Who was Devlin Stone?

She had nothing to gain by telling him the truth, and everything to lose if she didn’t. She might not understand his interest, but over the past several weeks she’d witnessed all manner of masculine conduct toward women and this man was no Edgar Fane. He could still be a charlatan, preying upon vulnerable women at resort hotels; from the first she’d sensed his contempt for her. But his present compassion contradicted every definition of a genuine cad. No man she’d ever known willingly nursed a sick woman.

On a more pragmatic note, the severity of this spell had robbed her of the strength to safely hike back to town. Whether the choice was wise or not, Mr. Stone remained her best hope. He might not be cruel, but something warned Thea he would leave her stranded if she wove another story about an English fiancé, or how much she loved to fish. “I…have dizzy spells.” The words stuck in her throat. Clumsily she attempted to rise.

Without a word Mr. Stone wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and eased her back against one of the out-cropping of boulders beside the shrubs. “Here.” He tucked his now-crumpled but still-damp handkerchief into her hand. “Wipe your face. It will help. Suck on this peppermint.” He handed her the piece of candy. “Then you can tell me about these spells of yours.”

“You’ve been very kind.” The candy helped assuage the weakness. “If I told you I’d prefer not to talk about them?”

“I’d take you straight to a physician.” He searched her face, then added without inflection, “Are you with child, Miss Pickford?”

“What?” She almost sputtered the peppermint into his face. “Did you say— Do you actually think— I told you I’m not married. Why would you ask such an insulting question?”

For the first time a glint of blue sparkled in his eyes, and that attractive dimple creased one of his cheeks. “Given your response, I withdraw the question. You may be a highly imaginative liar, but these days only an innocent would offer that answer to a man vulgar enough to broach the subject in the first place.”

Well. Thea didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. “You confuse me, Mr. Stone,” she mumbled, ducking her head. “From the moment we first met, you’ve confused me. I know I’m a…a…I haven’t been truthful. There’s a reason. At the time it seemed the only way.” She smoothed the crumpled handkerchief in her lap, folding it into a neat square, her fingers still clumsy with weakness. “I’ve been here at Saratoga Springs for almost a month. Until you, everybody believed everything I told them.” It was difficult, but she made herself face him directly. “How did you know?”

“When I’m not indulging in the first pleasure holiday in a decade—” his smile deepened until dimples creased both cheeks “—I raise and train horses. Draft horses, to be specific, though we—my uncle and I—gentle the odd pleasure mount here and there. I’ve been around them all my life. Horses taught me a lot about observation, about sensing feelings, moods.” He gave a short laugh. “When you’re surrounded by creatures with hooves the size of a soup tureen, you’d better learn how to read them. Works the same with people. Although I prefer horses for the most part. They might bite or kick if frightened or provoked. But they don’t lie.”

Thea weathered the blow; it was justified. “I didn’t think a harmless fabrication would hurt anyone, and it kept speculation about me to a minimum. It was the only way I could think of to attract…” Her voice trailed into silence.

“And when nothing worked, you got desperate.”

Above them a burnt orange sky warned of encroaching night. Somewhere nearby, an insect commenced its ceaseless chirring. But between Thea and Devlin Stone silence thickened until each inhalation choked her lungs.

“Desperate,” she repeated, squeezing her hand until her fingers went numb. “Have you ever been desperate, Mr. Stone? About anything?”

“Yes. But never enough to cheat, or beg, or deceive.”

“Then you’ve never been desperate, and faced with impossible choices.” She paused. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I don’t know what to think of you, Miss Pickford. Is that your real name, by the way?”

“What? Oh…well, no. It’s actually my mother’s maiden name.” He slid the question in so neatly Thea answered before she realized it. But unless Mr. Stone frequented the tawdry depths of New York City’s Bowery he would not associate her with Hetty Pickford. “Please don’t ask for my real name. I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“Ah.” Another one of those flicks of blue light came and went in his eyes. “We’re in accord, then. I don’t want to be lied to. Now, it’s getting late. Is your companion— Mrs. Chudd? Is she likely to be concerned about your whereabouts?”

“Well, if I don’t turn up by midnight, she’d notify the front desk at least.”

“Not a very efficient companion.”

“No. She’s mostly for appearances. I’m supposed to be a wealthy heiress, engaged to an earl. A chaperone’s expected. Mrs. Chudd’s former employer just passed away. She said she’d always wanted to see upstate New York, but after we arrived she developed an aversion for crowds.”

“I see.” He rubbed his palms together. “All right, then. What say we return to the village? Can you walk, Miss Pickford, or shall I carry you to my buggy?”

“I can walk,” she answered too quickly, and in the sunset’s glow she caught his ironic smile.

In her haste to scramble to her feet a wave of faintness almost contradicted her words. He put his hands on her waist to steady her, and though the courtesy was brief, almost impersonal, Thea’s limbs turned to sand.

“Shall I carry you after all, then?” he offered after her first few steps.

“No. It’s just a silly weakness, already passing.” More a weakness of her mind than her limbs. “I could probably walk back to the village, but—”

“Don’t be a goose, Miss Pickford. Pride’s a useful commodity on occasion. This isn’t one of them.”

The sun slipped behind the mountains to the west as he handed her into his buggy. The contrast between this simple one-horse, two-seat runabout and Edgar Fane’s waxed and gleaming omnibus harnessed to a team of four matched horses was as incongruous as the realization that, given a choice, Theodora much preferred the former. Confused, she watched Mr. Stone light the single carriage lamp, and give the horse an affectionate pat.

Who was this man?

Chapter Eight

She looked like a woebegone waif sitting beside him in the gathering darkness, smelling of peppermint and illness. Strands of hair hung limply around the pale oval of her face and dirt smeared over her yellow shirtwaist. The floppy hat rested forgotten on her lap. For the first mile Devlin fought a battle with his conscience. Fortunately Miss Pickford herself broached the subject.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider forgetting everything you saw and heard,” she said, her grimy hands smoothing in ceaseless circles over the equally grimy hat ribbons.

“Not a chance.” He paused. “Especially the scene on the pier. Your staging and timing were impeccable, Miss Pickford. However, compared to Edgar Fane you’re a very small minnow tempting a shark.”

She groaned. “You saw that?”

“From start to finish. If it’s any consolation, I think the tactic worked. Humor can be a powerful weapon in a woman’s arsenal. The shoe definitely captured Fane’s attention.”

“Only for a moment. I wasn’t expecting to be fobbed off on a personal secretary.”

“A dinner invitation will be forthcoming, Miss Pickford. Count on it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She spoke so softly he barely caught the words, but a chill spiked down his spine. Snug cottages whose windows glowed with lights had begun to appear on either side of the road; in moments they’d be back in the village, and Dev would have to let her go. An opportunity would be forever lost. Off to the right, a grove of shade trees offered privacy and without a qualm he turned the horse off the road and into their concealing darkness.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing sinister. I just want us to come to a better understanding of one another before I turn you over to Mrs. Chudd.”

“There’s no point. I don’t think I can…” A long hesitation was followed by an unraveling sigh, then, “I promised myself I could do this, vowed I could ignore my conscience, and all the doubts. But it’s not working. The attacks of dizziness…they’re getting worse. Stronger.” She turned to face him, the fuzzy light from the carriage lamp illuminating a face taut with misery. “You told me you knew of Edgar Fane. Could you…would you tell me everything you know, without asking why I continue to pursue this man?”

Her sincerity disarmed him; he didn’t want to believe she was being honest with him, because it would corroborate his perception of her true character—and reinforce the dangerous attraction that intensified with every encounter. She was an admitted liar, with trouble and secrets stamped all over her face. Yet her vulnerability appealed to every one of his protective instincts.

Compassion might kill him yet….

“Horses are prey animals,” Uncle Jay counseled often enough to annoy when Dev was growing up. “Humans, now—we’re predators. But that don’t mean we never feel threatened, ’specially women. A mean woman, or a threatened woman, can kick you with words, trample your heart. After Sylvia and your mother, it’s possible you may never trust another one. I don’t look to forgive your intended myself—so can’t blame you none for feeling the same. That don’t mean all females deserve the scorn I hear in your voice these days. Regardless of their behavior, like horses a lady never deserves the back of your hand, or a fist. Always be a man instead of a two-legged mongrel, lad, so’s you’ll sleep at night.”

“How about we trade information?” he began, slowly.

“You tell me about these ‘spells,’ and I’ll tell you what I know about Edgar Fane.”

In the darkness Dev heard her exhale a long wavering sigh. “My grandfather warned me about rogues and knaves. He never warned me about someone like you.”

“Well, if I’m not a rogue or a knave, what does that leave?” Keep it light, he ordered himself. Go gently. You can lead a horse to water, but if you want him to drink, feed him something salty to whet his thirst. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t ask?”

“Grandfather also warned me about men who think too much. Shakespeare had the way of it—such men are dangerous. I should be afraid of you. I don’t trust you, but you’ve been…kind.” A beat of silence hovered before she continued slowly, “Ever since I was a girl, I’ve had occasional spells of vertigo. Sometimes they’re debilitating. Since last year they seem to be worsening.” Her voice thinned. “But there’s no other course. I have to do this.”

The last declaration was scarcely above a whisper. “What is it you have to do?” Dev prompted after a while. “Does it concern Edgar Fane?”

Her hands crushed the hat. “Yes.”

“Ah.” Since he wanted answers, not another episode of vertigo, he told her what he could. “Edgar Fane is a wealthy, likable fellow who enjoys the company of others, particularly attractive women. His father made a fortune, the older brother’s expanding it and his other brother is marrying a French countess next year. From what I’ve gleaned, Edgar’s decided his role is that of charming wastrel—one of those men your grandfather would have warned you about.”

For a moment he silently studied her. “Is your family in dire financial straits, Miss—I can’t continue to call you Miss Pickford, now can I? Will you tell me your name? I haven’t personally met Mr. Fane, but I know enough to question certain aspects of his character. Of course, it doesn’t seem fair to confide my observations unless you’re equally candid.” He paused. “For instance, when he asks you to dinner, how do I know whether you might decide to warn him about a certain Mr. Stone, and the rumors he’s bandying about?”

This time she refused to rise to the bait. “Your observations about Mr. Fane must be highly salacious.”

Night had fallen, covering them in a soft matte darkness. The carriage lamp threw out enough light to illuminate the intelligence glittering in the coffee–dark brown eyes. So. She had recovered. It was to be a battle of wits to the end, then. Strangely pleased, Devlin affected a shrug, then gathered up the reins and smoothly backed horse and buggy onto the road, all without saying a word.

She lasted until a block before the Grand Union Hotel. Garish electric lights strung on ugly poles shone down on crowds of laughing people. A loud burst of masculine laughter startled the livery horse; Dev automatically soothed the animal, then turned onto Broadway into a sea of gleaming carriages and buggies.

“You really do have a way with horses, Mr. Stone.”

Dev pulled into a vacant spot a block from the Grand Union Hotel. “I love them,” he replied simply, wondering at the undercurrent of longing in her voice. “If you treat horses with affection and respect, you’ll earn their loyalty until they die. Yes, they’re animals, and occasionally unpredictable. But if I had to choose between a horse and a human being for companionship, I’d stick with a horse.”

“Then why are you here, at one of the most crowded hotel resorts in the world?”

Her astute question jabbed him square on the chin. He deflected it with some questions of his own. “Perhaps to rescue you from whatever harebrained scheme you’ve concocted? There’s no titled duke, is there? Where did you get that ring? At a pawn shop?”

“The ring was my grandmother’s,” she retorted in a tone frosted with ice. The wobbly-kneed girl he’d ministered to had metamorphosed into the most dangerous of all species: an angry woman. “You made me want to trust you, and I’m ashamed of myself for that. Thank you for your kindness. I won’t trouble you further. If we have the misfortune to meet again, I promise to ignore you. And for your information, Neville was an earl.”

She made as if to leap from the cart. Dev grabbed her arm. “Sorry.”

“You ought to be. Let me go.”

“Not until you accept my apology.” Beneath his fingers her arm tensed. In a soothing motion he slid his hand down to her wrist, keeping the grip gentle, yet unbreakable.

“Besides, I would never abandon a lady I’d just rescued until she was safely home.”

“Even if the lady wishes otherwise?”

“A dilemma, to be sure, Miss—what did you say your real name was again?”

“Lang—” Her lips pressed together.

A glaring beam from a nearby streetlight illuminated her face, allowing Devlin to witness the battle of emotions. Lang… Something tingled at the back of his neck, an elusive fragment of knowledge that vanished when her pursed lips softened in a Mona Lisa smile. She was disheveled, her attire wrinkled and soiled; dirt was smeared across one cheek. Yet that half smile somehow captured his heart and it swelled like a hot air balloon.

Panic skittered through him. “Ah. So it’s Miss…Lang. Strange. Neither name really fits you.” All the newly restored color leached from her complexion. Insensitive clod, he reprimanded himself. “I’ll escort you to the lobby. Shall I have a bellhop fetch Mrs. Chudd to help you to your room?” He distracted her with verbal rambling while casually monitoring the pulse in her wrist. “How about if I call on you in the morning, say ten o’clock? I believe the band is scheduled to play a medley of popular tunes. Have you enjoyed the pleasures of Congress Springs Park?”

“Yes, I love the park. It’s very peaceful, even with all the other people. Mr. Stone, I accept your apology. But I don’t think it’s wise for us to meet again. I don’t want to encourage your false impressions of me, and I don’t want to—could you please let go of my wrist?” She waited, her dark gaze unwavering, until Dev complied. The Mona Lisa smile flickered, then she passed her tongue over her lips and cleared her throat. “Thank you. I wish…I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

And before he could think of an appropriate response, she jumped out of the runabout and marched off toward the hotel. Though she garnered several strange looks from evening strollers, she sailed past with the regal poise of a duchess.

A man was in a wheelbarrow full of trouble when watching the back of a woman made his pulse rate spike and his fingers tingle.

Chapter Nine

The invitation from Edgar Fane arrived two days later. Thea read the lazy scrawl of words, with every breath a dull spike lodging deeper in her chest. So. Her wish had come true at last, but the fulfillment was tinged with the taste of gall: Dinner at Mr. Canfield’s Casino was not the scenario she had envisioned.

The Casino might enjoy a reputation for first-class cuisine, and it might be patronized by the country’s wealthiest and most powerful personages. But for Thea the dignified red brick building also housed a glittering palace of iniquity, a den of vice, preying upon weak minds with more money than common sense. From local gossip she’d learned that reformers had managed to close down the gambling there for a couple of years, but like the racecourse it had reopened for this summer’s season.

She should have known a wretch like Edgar Fane would entertain guests at a gambling palace.

Her father loved gambling more than anything else on earth, including his family. He’d been playing roulette the night he’d met Thea’s mother. After winning a small fortune, he convinced himself, and her, that together they’d change the course of each other’s lives. In a way, he was right. The unwelcome appearance of a baby nine months later introduced an equally unwelcome dose of reality.

Her father dumped Theodora with a letter of apology on her grandparents’ doorstep, then disappeared for three years. Only the infrequent postcards reassured the family that he was alive. Charles and Mathilda Langston loved her as their own; until she died Mathilda never gave up believing the prodigal son would see the error of his ways. But some of Thea’s earliest lessons, learned snuggled in Grandfather’s lap, included the evils of gambling.

Apparently she had shed that particular lesson along with her conscience. Life, she reminded herself defiantly, was an uncertain stew of happenstance.

So for thirty-six hours Thea suffered a Coney Island roller-coaster ride of elation, fear, guilt and determination. Now the time was at hand, and she would not, would not permit the shy, morally upstanding little girl she used to be to dominate her thoughts. Tonight she planned to practice every feminine wile she’d gleaned from years of reading literature and talking to many of the authors of it who enjoyed “rusticating” on Staten Island. By the end of the meal Edgar Fane would…he would—

Mrs. Chudd poked her head through the door to Thea’s room. “Bellhop’s here. A Mr. Simpson is waiting for you in the lobby,” she announced in her flat nasal voice.

“Have the bellhop tell Mr. Simpson I’ll be right down.” Nerves cramped her stomach and chilled her skin.

“Mrs. Chudd? Won’t you come along? It would be more appropriate.”

“Got no use for rich food.” She skimmed a long look at Thea, her pale eyes briefly flickering with curiosity. “You been fine all month, ferdiddling on your own. So I’ll stay here, same as usual.” Jaw jutting, she nodded twice, started to turn away. “Not having a spell, are you?”

“No.” Thea forced her lips to stretch in a rubbery smile, and beneath the satin-and-lace evening gown locked her knees. “I’m fine.”

“Humph. Then I’ll fetch my knitting, finish this sweater for my grandnephew. You might want to be careful what you eat.”

“Ah, Miss Pickford. You’re a vision to behold,” Mr. Fane declared upon meeting her and Mr. Simpson at the entrance to the Casino’s dining room. He himself looked very much the wealthy gentleman in his black evening suit and blinding white waistcoat. “Quite a dramatic change from the intrepid angler who reeled in a shoe.” Mischievous brown eyes twinkled; to avoid looking at him Thea glanced around the crowded dining room.

“I’ve ordered us filet of sole for the entrée,” he continued easily, a secret laugh embedded in the words. “I hope you approve.”

Thea finally managed to tear her awestruck gaze away from the rows of stained glass ceiling panels, and the equally glittering rows of tables full of guests, all of them staring at Thea and Edgar Fane. Either win him now, or justice will be denied forever. She squared her shoulders, lifted a hand to lightly brush her grandmother’s cameo brooch, a steadying touch to bolster her resolve. “I trust all the laces have been removed from my catch so they don’t get caught between our teeth,” she replied.

Mr. Fane threw back his head and laughed out loud. “I think I’m going to like you very much, Miss Pickford. Who knows? You might turn out to be the catch of the day.”

“Mr. Fane, I might say the same about you.”

He laughed again, then led her between rows of circular tables to the back of the room, where a party of ten—six ladies, four gentlemen—watched their approach with the intensity of a pack of jackals about to tear into the carcass. “I’ve asked some friends to join us,” Mr. Fane explained. “Less…intimate, and safer for you at this stage of our acquaintance.” With a flourishing bow he pulled out one of the empty chairs. A folded card with “Miss Pickford” written in formal script sent an oily shiver down Thea’s spine. He gestured to the woman seated beside her place.