A Most Unusual Match (10 page)

I
t was a little past five o'clock. Devlin paced the train platform, checked his watch for the third time in five minutes and suppressed the need to kick the depot's brick wall. Fortunately from down the track the shriek of a whistle finally pierced the air and a moment later the train chugged to a hissing standstill by the covered platform. Shortly thereafter Dev greeted Operative Brian Flannery, from the New York City office. The operative grabbed a bulging Gladstone bag from the baggage cart and flipped the handler a quarter. On the short walk from the depot to the jail, Dev supplied details of the case Flannery hadn't heard via telegram and telephone.

“…and while I'm not prepared to say Lunt's the Hotel Hustler, he's definitely been passing bogus bills, mostly twenties and hundreds. Wish I'd been able to nab him earlier, but at least the timing finally worked out. He made a mistake. I happened to be in the vicinity.”

“Better to be lucky than wise, my granny used to say.”

Dev nodded, though he still wondered privately if there was something other than coincidence at work here. His father once told him that God's ways were like the
air—largely unseen, but always at work, even when a body didn't feel the current. “Police confiscated another two hundred thousand in counterfeit bills from Lunt's hotel room. I haven't interrogated him myself.” He exchanged a rueful look with Flannery. “Chief Hazen agreed with my decision to identify myself only to the Chief of Police. Keep my cover intact. Chief Blevins secured a room for me in the basement of the Town Hall to examine the bills, and promised nobody would bother me, or know I was there.” It had been a strange, lonely feeling, sequestered in a silent room while above and all around him people went about their business and, please, God, discovered the identity of the dead woman.

It was irrational, but until he could snatch a moment to talk to Thea…

“And?” Flannery asked impatiently.

Dev pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. Long night, longer day. Over the past three hours I've examined about half the bills he tried to pass at the racetrack. Superb quality forgeries, but so far none of them bear the Hustler's mark. A couple with marred head vignettes, some where the Treasury seal is off a hair.” He grimaced, flexed his stiff shoulders. “We're close, but not close enough. I haven't had enough experience to be able to tell where the paper came from, but even if Lunt's not the Hustler I can prove they're counterfeit, and that Lunt knew it.”

Flannery swore cheerfully and clapped a freckled paw of a hand on Dev's shoulder. “You've done better than the rest of us, boyo. Uncanny, they tell me, after only a couple years' experience how you sniff out fakes and liars. This time we're that close. I feel it in me bones. Y'know, for someone who enjoys shoveling horse manure, you ought to look happier, not like a bloke on his way to a funeral.”

Devlin's heart gave a quick flip. “Manure makes good fertilizer, and clean stalls make for healthy horses.”

“You're a cipher, Devlin me boy. A regular cipher,” Flannery said, sky-blue eyes alight with sympathy. “Say, you're not planning to up and quit over this Hustler business, are you?”

“No. I plan to get that boil on the Treasury's backside behind bars, whatever it takes, Brian.” He smacked a fist against his open palm while he talked, hoping to relieve some of the internal pressure. “Arrogant peacock of a man. Those little clues he leaves on some of his work are nothing but jabs at the Service.”

“Still on c-notes or tenners? Same mark, but never the same place?”

Dev gloomily nodded. “Before I came up here I spent a week examining two dozen different bogus bills recovered from the New York job so I'd at least know what to look for. I thought I'd come up with a good scheme, hunting in his own turf, so to speak, without draining the Treasury coffers. But unless Lunt ponies up some names…” There was little value in self-flagellation, so Devlin shut his mouth and shrugged his shoulders.

“Gotten a few stinging telegrams and a letter or two from Washington, hmm?”

Brian's easy sympathy soothed, lightening the yoke of too much responsibility and too few results. “I'm not the chief's favorite operative at the moment. He's wanting Lunt to be the Hustler, and I wish I could agree. But I don't. The Hustler's too smart to be caught publicly in a lie, with the goods scattered for all to see.”

They paused in front of the Town Hall, and Brian glanced at the two stone lions. “I like your guard dogs. We could use a pair of 'em downstate, somewhere in our little village.”

For the first time in days, Devlin laughed. “I'm sure the architect would be flattered by the prospect.” A noisy party of tourists was approaching; the two men exchanged looks. “I'll leave you here,” Dev said in an undertone. “I have an errand to run. Good luck with Lunt.”

“Aye. Don't you worry, lad. You might be the best at sniffing out a liar, but I'm the best at the art of nonviolent, perfectly legal interrogation.” With a wink and jaunty tip of his bowler, Brian Flannery strolled up the steps into the building.

The hands of the clock in the bell tower read seven minutes past six.
A quick quarter of an hour,
Devlin thought. That's all he would allow himself to focus on something other than a table piled with counterfeit bills. Long enough to make sure Thea had survived the aftermath of her evening with Edgar Fane. She'd be wondering where he was, because he'd promised to watch over her. A man ought to keep his promises…especially when the man's honor slipped its leash and he kissed an innocent woman without asking permission.

She'd kissed him back, melting against him, holding him with fervent abandon. And her eyes…dark, mysterious and luminous—the expression in those lovely eyes would be lodged forever in his head.
A need he'd ignored for twenty-four interminable hours slammed into Dev. Need, mixed with that pinprick of fear. Inside the hotel, he bounded up the stairs two at a time.

Mrs. Chudd answered his knock, her countenance as welcoming as a hailstorm.

“I'm here to see Miss Lang.”

“Wrong room.” She started to close the door in his face.

“Wait. You are Mrs. Chudd?” As a precaution he planted a large booted foot in the doorway.

“Who's asking?” A tall, spare woman with mouse-brown hair and a formidable Roman nose, Thea's chaperone eyed the foot in the door, then favored Devlin with a disapproving scowl. “Your name?” she repeated, crossing her arms.

“My name is Devlin Stone, and I've had the pleasure of Miss Lang's company on several occasions these past weeks. Could I—”

“Don't see how, when you don't even know her name.”

“Ah.” Jaw muscles clenched, Dev fought for patience. However rude her manner, this woman was doing her best to protect Thea. “How about I stopped by to inquire about Miss Theodora Pickford?”

Relief flickered across her face before suspicion re turned. “Police send you?”

The police?
He felt mule-kicked, breath backed up in his lungs and ringing in his ears. “No, ma'am. I'm just a friend.” He finally noticed the signs of strain in the lines on either side of Mrs. Chudd's mouth, and the beads of perspiration dotting her upper lip. “I'd like to think I'm a good friend, someone Miss Pickford trusts. Where is she? What's this about the police?” Foreboding stirred greasily in his gut. “Mrs. Chudd, I know Pickford isn't her true surname, and I know she had dinner last night with Edgar Fane. I know she hates him as much as she fears him. I want to help her, I promise. Just…let me see her. Please.”
The police?

For an interminable stretch of time Mrs. Chudd contemplated the floor, one bony-fingered hand rubbing circles over her elbow. Finally she lifted her head. “You wait here. I've got a note. I'll just fetch it and you can deal with the mess,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Girl's got herself in trouble, I say, and only herself to blame.”

Five minutes later Devlin left her standing openmouthed in the doorway as he sprinted back down the hall.

A crowd had gathered outside the Town Hall, with a line meandering up onto the piazza. Most of the men wore black tie and tails, and the women's costumes were frothed-up creations of silk and lace with jewelry sprinkled from head to toe—something going on in the opera house on the upper floor, Devlin remembered, slowing his step and pasting a bland smile on his face to deflect curious eyes. Urgency pounded with a heavy fist but he sauntered, absently nodding as he made his way down the hall to police headquarters.

He opened the door.

Thea, her wrists handcuffed, was being led by a policeman toward the doorway to the cells.

 

If she focused on minutiae she could survive—the heavy weight of the handcuffs, the Wanted posters on the wall, the brass doorknob. A battered spittoon. Panic swelled when a large-knuckled hand closed over the knob and turned it.
They were going to put her in a cell, a dark cell devoid of light, like her grandfather.
He'd been a broken man ever since. No matter how hard Thea tried, she hadn't been able to piece him back together. If she couldn't help the only person in the world who loved her, how could she hope to help herself?

“This way, miss.”

She jerked, staring up at the flushed freckled face. “Won't be so bad,” he said. “See, I'm putting you on the end, in a cell by yourself. Only got two other inmates, see—and one o' them's being interrogated elsewhere.” He paused, adding in a gruff rumble, “Sorry, miss.”

“Not your fault.” Her limbs might rattle like skeleton's
bones but at least she managed to keep her voice free of tremors. “I am innocent, you know. I didn't kill her.”

“Ha! They all say that!” the incarcerated man in the other cell called. He shook a fist through the bars. “What kind of copper are you, locking up a pretty little thing like that?”

“Shut yer trap, Girard, or I'll feed ya some brass knuckles.”

Thea shuddered; a strange buzzing filled her ears. When the door clanged shut and locked her inside the cell, her mind went sheet-blank. She stood in the middle of the floor, terrified to move because if she moved everything would be real, she would understand that she'd just been arrested for murder and nobody…nobody on earth or in heaven was going to stand up for her. She had been efficiently erased from life. Hope? Hope had shriveled into a dry husk.

Devlin had made her a promise. Like every other person in her life except her grandfather, Devlin Stone had let her down. They had exchanged a kiss and she'd made the mistake of allowing herself to believe. To hope she was someone of value.

Now she knew the truth: Theodora Langston should never have been born. Her life was a mistake, created from a moment or two of carelessness, and nothing she had done her entire life could atone for that inconvenience.

Belief in someone or something—love, hope, purpose—hurt too much.

Each movement was an effort; like a mortally wounded animal, Thea crept to the darkest corner of the cell. Back pressed against the unforgiving wall, she huddled in the arid wasteland of her misery.

T
he door to the outer offices opened; Thea didn't bother to lift her head. A low rumbling of masculine voices ensued, followed by the scrape of hurried footsteps.

“Miss Pickford? Thea? For the love of Pete, man, how could you do this to her?” Keys rattled in the lock and the cell door swung open. “Thea? It's all right, now. You're free. Officer, stand back, please. Last thing she needs is crowding. Blast it all, she's shaking like a leaf.” Unlike the anger-riddled words, warm hands closed gently around her arms, tugged her up, led her forward into the garish light and loud masculine voices. She winced away. The angry words softened to a coaxing drawl. “Shh, now. Don't struggle. I've come to take you out of here, Thea. Do you understand? The charges have been dropped. You're free.”

Thea blinked slowly, lifted her head. A man's face swam above her, a blur of angles and planes with unruly locks of hair that reminded her of Devlin.
God? Help me, please?
Fear had finally tipped her mind into hallucinations. She didn't believe in dreams with happy endings. She couldn't….

Yet the hands propelling her forward didn't feel like
a delusion.
Devlin?
Could this really be…? Somehow he had found her. He had kept his promise. The truth trickled through, dim but persistent. She tried to say his name, her voice a hoarse whisper. “D-Devlin?”

Somehow he heard. “Yes. It's Devlin.” He shifted, wrapping one arm around her shoulders in a comforting grip. “I didn't know you were here until I talked to Mrs. Chudd. I'm sorry, Thea. But it's all right—you're all right.” A husky note deepened his voice. “You're alive….”

“They think I killed Mrs. Gorman.”

“Not anymore they don't. Here we go, that's it, through the door. I've got you, and I won't let go.”

His hand closed over her fingers, which she belatedly realized had dug like frenzied claws into his forearm. “Sorry.”

Devlin whispered something she didn't catch, because the Chief of Police suddenly loomed in front of her and reflexively Thea shrank against Devlin.

“Miss Pickford.” Hands clasped behind his back, Chief Blevins regarded her in ponderous silence, then shook his head. “Mr. Stone has signed an affidavit. In it, he states that after your dinner with Mr. Fane, he observed Mr. Fane handing you and your companion into his carriage at approximately twenty minutes past ten. Mr. Stone followed the carriage back to the Grand Union Hotel, then followed you and your companion until both of you entered your room. At this point Mr. Stone kept watch in a small lounge with a view of your door. A private night security guard employed by the Grand Union has corroborated Mr. Stone's presence there on two separate occasions as he made his rounds, until approximately 2:15 a.m. this morning.”

“I don't understand.” Thea passed her tongue around her rubbery lips. She'd doubted, when all along, unknown and
unseen, Devlin had in fact been her bodyguard. Thinking hurt her head as well as her heart; sighing, she tried to focus on Chief Blevins. “I could have left my room, after two-fifteen.”

A glimmer of some emotion lightened the police chief's tired eyes. “Yes, you could have. But not, I think, for the purpose of committing murder. The physician who examined Mrs. Gorman's remains has determined that death occurred well before midnight. You're free to go, Miss Pickford. I'm sure you and Mr. Stone wish to discuss his reasons for standing guard over you. Before you leave, however, please accept my profound apologies for your ordeal.”

“Policemen don't apologize,” she murmured.

Chief Blevins stiffened, but he answered equably, “This one does.” His gaze shifted to Devlin. “You'll see to her care? When she's sufficiently recovered we might need to question her further about her last encounter with Mrs. Gorman.” He paused, adding heavily, “But without Mr. Fane present. Try to understand, see. He and his family are well-known in these parts. Their generosity and affection for Saratoga has long been enjoyed by all. There was no reason to doubt the authenticity of Mr. Fane's shock, or his accusations. I allowed him to question this young woman against my better judgment. It won't happen again.”

Tremors started inside Thea despite Devlin's comforting hold, which tightened further when she couldn't control the shakes. “Understood, Chief Blevins,” he said. “We'll discuss it in more depth later. Right now, I'm taking Miss Pickford to her hotel room. Could someone provide a buggy?”

Moments later Devlin lifted her inside a run-down piano box buggy. Fervently Thea rubbed her fingers over the worn seat, inhaled the odor of old leather and stale
perspiration, which smelled like a bouquet of roses because it meant she really was no longer in a cage. She was free. Safe.

Despite the mild summer night, after raising the top, Devlin tucked a scratchy woolen blanket around her, and only then did Thea realize she was still shivering.
Devlin came,
she repeated to herself over and over, struggling to believe the nightmare had ended. Struggling even more to comprehend that this man cared enough to bother.

He sprang into the seat beside her and lifted the reins. “Five minutes,” he promised. “Mrs. Chudd can fetch some hot tea and toast. Can you hold on that much longer?”

“Yes. But I don't need tea or toast. I need to talk. It's just…I can't seem to stop shaking.” A watery laugh trickled out, and she clutched the rough wool fabric, wishing it were his arm. “You came…you came for me.”

“Would have a lot sooner, had I known.” The buggy lurched into motion. “Thea…I really am sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Please.” She choked back tears. “I'm the one who needs to apologize to you, Devlin. I should have told you days ago who I am, and why I'm chasing Edgar Fane. But I was stubborn and foolhardy and…and afraid. If you knew who I was, if you knew my family, I was afraid you'd disappear. It's what I deserve, but I—I—”

“It's all right, sweetheart.” With disarming swiftness he shifted in the seat and leaned to brush a kiss against her snarled hair. “Rest. Later you can tell me whatever you need to. I'm not going anywhere.”

“You might change your mind, and I wouldn't blame you.” Her voice broke at last but shock and relief and terror finally undermined the last of Thea's equanimity. “Devlin, I need to tell you the truth. The truth. Have you ever thought about truth? Is there a truth that stays the
same, and no matter how a person twists and turns things about, the truth remains? Some of what Edgar told the police was true, but he—he twisted it into lies yet the police believed him. I told the police nothing but the truth, only they didn't believe me because I've told so many lies. Not because I wanted to deceive them, or all the people I've met here, or you. Most especially you. Devlin…” She covered her face with her hands. “God help me, I'm no different from Edgar Fane. Do you think God can forgive a liar? Can you?”

“Thea…” He spoke her name on a long, tired sigh. “For most of my life, I've hated liars. When my father died, my mother wanted to return to New York, but she also wanted me to appreciate my father's heritage—StoneHill Farm. She promised that if I waited in Virginia until I was eighteen, then I could come to New York, and choose for myself the life I wanted. She promised to write. Only I never heard from her again. Then there was Sylvia. After that, I pretty much funneled everything into a blind hatred for liars.”

He pulled the buggy up in front of the hotel.

They were both lost souls, but knowing brought desolation, not comfort. “I don't want to go inside yet,” Thea admitted. “I can't face other people, even Mrs. Chudd.” Couldn't face the self-excoriation, couldn't face Mrs. Chudd's indifference that contrasted too sharply with Devlin's solicitousness. “I…can we walk? I need to feel—” Her mouth worked, but she couldn't explain the atavistic need to at least reassert her physical freedom, to know she could walk or run or skip anywhere she pleased without fear a policeman would haul her off to jail.

Penance, however, still shackled her mind. “I need to ask your forgiveness,” she finally said, unable to look at him. “Even though I don't deserve it.” After this night
was over, he would vanish from her life because he hated liars.

“If you want to walk, we'll walk, sweet pea,” Devlin drawled, the lazy Southern voice wrapping Thea up like a hug. His movements unhurried, he helped her down. “Sounds like we both have some millstones to lay down, hmm?”

They wound their way through the night, around guests enjoying their own perambulations, past the brightly lit restaurants and hotels where music from the nightly ritual of hops and dances drifted through opened windows. Eventually they reached a quiet residential street, where Thea could feel the cool night breeze on her face. Above them, a star-spangled sky and a fingernail moon dispelled much of the horror of the last hours.

“I'm ready now,” she finally said. “I won't blubber all over you anymore, nor ask philosophical questions you don't want to answer.”

“Mmm. How about if I find your tears and questions irresistible, almost as much as I do you—no matter who you are? Which, by the by, I'd really like to know before I kiss you again.”

Thea stopped dead in her tracks, her heart rhythm bumping painfully against her ribs. “You're going to kiss me again? Why? I'm a liar, just like Edgar. You hate liars.”

“Absolutely we're going to share a kiss. As for the rest…well, you never let me answer your question.”

“What question?”

He laughed, and before the sound died his head lowered, his warm breath gusting against her cheek just before he pressed a light kiss against her lips. “The philosophical one. Where I try to explain why I'm thinking that God wouldn't be God if He didn't forgive a liar, when Jesus
reportedly forgave a murdering thief from the cross. If He could do that while dying in agony, well…I need to rethink my own attitude. Mostly I'm trying to change it because of you. While we're on the subject—don't ever compare yourself to Edgar Fane again. Unlike that double-tongued cur, you're not a liar by inclination, Theodora. I saw that, weeks ago. I just didn't understand the ‘whys.'”

“I don't know anymore.” The nearest streetlight was a block away. In the darkness, that brief kiss had taken on a life of its own. Thea wanted to lay her head against Devlin's sturdy shoulder and cling; she wanted to grab the lapels of his jacket and press her mouth against his for another kiss; more than anything, she wanted to be free of Theodora Pickford.

And she wanted to know if God could accept her as compassionately as Devlin.

Only one way to test them both…