A Most Unusual Match (16 page)

“N
o. No…no…no!” The words blurred on the page, then sharpened into brutal clarity.

The rest of the words blurred. Thea shook her head, fought to breathe but there was no air, her lungs severed from a brain that continued to deny the evidence of her
eyes. The bundle of papers slipped from her hands to fall with a soft rustle onto the desk. With the somnolence of a sleepwalker she stared down at them, at the condemnatory heading—
Daily Report of Agent. United States Secret Service.

“God, You can't do this to me. It's a mistake. It can't be true.” In a burst of frantic motion she pawed through the pages of the report, her heartbeat a concussive hammer against her rib cage.

Then she found what she was looking for—the signature.

Roaring filled her head and the neat inscription magnified, then receded down a dark tunnel. Thea stared at the name until the faintness passed, and hurt ignited in a conflagration of heat and red-tipped blackness. Devlin Stone, wealthy gentleman, horseman, breeder…the man to whom she had pledged her life, her love,
the man she had trusted with her whole heart
…Devlin Stone was an agent for the United States Secret Service. He could even have been one of the men who had her grandfather arrested a year ago.

“Thea? We found the ledger under a book in the library. Bessie sent me along to—” Charles's voice checked, and Thea heard him cross the room. “What's wrong?” He touched her shoulder as he peered down at the desk. “Heavens, what a mess. Well, I'll help you straighten things out a little. Devlin will never know.” He reached to straighten the sheaf of reports, and went still. “Oh. Oh, my dear…”

All five of her senses felt as if they had been scraped over a washboard, leaving her raw, hypersensitive to every nuance. When she was able to speak, the words sounded strangely guttural. “You knew already. Devlin told you.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “He told me. Three nights before he left for Georgia. I gather there is some risk, what
he's doing. He wanted me to know, because, well…” He hemmed and hawed, finally adding gently, “Thea, my dear, try to imagine how difficult this—”

“Does Jeremiah know? Bessie?”

In the lemony-yellow glow of a banker's lamp the lines on Charles's face deepened. “Yes,” he admitted, his expression resigned. “Everyone knows. They also know how you feel, about the Service, and Edgar Fane. Taffy T…”

“Don't call me that again. The gullible little girl finally grew up.” Like waves against rocky cliffs, the outrage of betrayal crashed over her. “You lied to me—
everyone
lied to me! How could you? How could Devlin?” She snatched up the first page of the report and thrust it beneath Charles's nose. “Did you know your son is part of this investigation? Your only living son, my
father?
The man who dumped his infant daughter and dragged the family name through the dirt of countless gambling halls is now in league with the very man who ruined you!”

Charles abruptly sank down into the office chair and covered his eyes with his hand. “I lost my son before you were ever born. As for his involvement with Edgar Fane, Devlin doesn't know what Richard is doing with, or for, him,” he said, the words leaden. “Regrettably, if gambling money's included, I know Richard will do anything Edgar Fane demands. More troubling is Edgar's motivation for tracking him down at all. Devlin was disturbed enough to confide in me. He fears for your safety, and we both feared your reaction to the revelation that he's an operative for the Secret Service.”

With every word, the hurt metamorphosed into anger. No, not anger—rage. A live monster with serrated teeth, beyond the scope of her experience. Not even her hatred of Edgar Fane or the news about her father matched the out-of-control emotions tearing through her, ripping open
her heart, crushing preconceptions along with her bones. Devlin…Devlin. Eyes burning, she stared at her grandfather. “You feared my reaction?” Her tongue had difficulty forming the words. “So you both chose the coward's way out, hoping I'd—what? Never find out? Never discover that the two men I love most would rather lie to me than risk trusting me with the truth? While speaking our marriage vows to honor each other, would Devlin be breaking them with a secret life he refused to reveal?”

“Thea, the man's been torturing himself for weeks, waiting for a time and a way to explain, one which wouldn't precipitate this very sort of response. Try to understand from his perspective. You'd endured a horrific experience and spent your first weeks here wandering about like a shadow of yourself. And you've spent an entire year hating the Secret Service almost as much as you do Edgar Fane. You concocted a dangerous, implausible scheme, one which only by the grace of God didn't—”

“Don't you dare bring God into this!” A small metal postage-stamp box sat on top of a pile of bill receipts. Thea snatched it up, leveled a final scorching gaze upon her grandfather, then hurled the stamp box against the pine-paneled wall on the opposite side of the room. “That's what I think of yours and Devlin's avowals of faith in a loving God.” Breathing hard, she stood, smothering in hurt darker than black tar until a strangled sob worked its way free. “After all these months together Devlin still didn't trust me enough to share the truth about his profession? Yes, I would have been upset, but why couldn't both of you have tried to understand how difficult the revelation would be for
me?
He says he loves me, he believed God brought us together until I believed, too. Ha! Jesus promised His truth would set us free, but Devlin never felt
free
to share it, did he? And you…you…” Blindly she shook her head.
The rage withered. The hurt expanded. “No. It's me, isn't it?” She pressed a fist over her heart. “It's me. I'll always be the daughter of a gambler and a saloon singer. No matter how hard I try, I'm never enough to be worthy of
anyone's
love.”

Charles heaved himself to his feet. “My dear, please. Don't. You know we both love you. We just wanted to do what we thought was best. For the first time in over a year you were happy. I promise I was going to tell you—Devlin planned to tell you himself, if he returns—” He stopped dead.

“What do you mean,
if
he returns?” Thea braced her palm on the desk. A film of perspiration broke out all over her skin, and an ominous wave of dizziness glazed her vision. “Grandfather? What else haven't you told me?”

He took her hand; never had he looked so old, not even on the night he'd been incarcerated. “Child, Devlin did not apprise me of what he plans to do. But I believe he's gone to this Jekyll Island alone, undercover, not only because he's honor bound to obey orders. Apparently the Service has been trying to learn the identity of this Hotel Hustler for years. Devlin is convinced now it's Edgar Fane, and proof is finally within their grasp. But Devlin also convinced his superiors that Fane needs to be more closely investigated for the murder of that woman in Saratoga. Now do you begin to understand? You are likely the last person to have seen Mrs. Gorman alive other than her killer. For the authorities to have a case against Edgar, your testimony is vital. Yet for the past three months, my dear, Devlin has fought tooth and nail to keep your presence at StoneHill a secret, insisting the Service secure evidence on the counterfeiting charges alone because the risk to you was too great. After hearing about Richard, I have wondered if Edgar Fane is trying to lure you out of
hiding, using your father as the bait. A despicable tactic…” He faltered, the tendons in his throat quivering.

Thea pulled away, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don't care about my father.” Under any other circumstances she would have been ashamed of the self-deception. “Fane's tactic won't work. Devlin should have told me. He should have allowed me the opportunity to make the decision.”
If he died, she'd never forgive him, or herself.

Charles inclined his head. “I agree with you. No matter what you think, Thea, I'm on your side, and told Devlin so at the time. But I will not condemn a godly man for following a noble course of action. He's gone to this Jekyll Island because he's honor bound to do his job. But I also believe even more strongly his primary motive is to protect you from a decidedly
un
godly man with enough money and power to hunt you down until he finds you. Thea? Are you hearing me?”

“Yes. I hear you saying it's acceptable for Devlin to protect me at the expense of his own life.”

“I can appreciate how you might look at it that way.” The lines crisscrossing his high forehead deepened to furrows. “Devlin loves you, and he's doing whatever is necessary to keep you safe. Alive. He's also a professional with a job to complete. Which means he's a man on a rack.”

“He still lied to me about his true identity.” Charles gave her a sharp glance but Thea stolidly averted her face. “I need to call Dr. O'Toole. Jeremiah's waiting.”

“Bessie's taken the ledger to the barn. Theodora, Devlin's shared the best part of himself with you. His tactics might have proven faulty, but his motives are pure. I'll be honored to have him for my grandson-in-law. You don't want to believe anything but the worst right now, but after you've had a bit of time to recover from this conundrum I expect you to behave like the astute woman I reared you
to be.” He exhaled a wearied sigh. “These reports were never intended for your eyes, or mine. I don't know where you found them, but—”

“A secret drawer in his desk. It was by accident.” Bitterness clogged her throat like gall. “Or perhaps it wasn't an ‘accident' at all. Perhaps God wanted me to find them. Have a taste of Jesus' ‘truth.'” She knew now what truth her grandfather believed, and likely the bitter taste would linger for a long time. “Of course, Jesus already knew better than to trust any man. Did you know that's in the Bible, Grandfather? How's that for truth?” With benumbed fingers she folded the reports up and tied them back together with the string, stuffed them inside the box and shoved everything back in its hiding place. “There. All gone, like they never existed.”

She couldn't feel her feet, and shuffled backward one step, then two. “Sort of like me. Right now, I feel…invisible, as though my hopes and dreams, my heart, never existed. I finally believed what you wanted me to believe—that God should be Edgar Fane's judge, not me. I believed Devlin, that God had brought us together, had filled our hearts with love for each other, and Him. I was at peace. Until today. Tell me, Grandfather, what kind of God dangles peace in your face, then yanks it away? You want me to behave like a rational, intelligent human being, allow the man I love to hug his secrets, and perhaps die because of them. So what kind of God makes you give your heart to a man, then takes him away, perhaps forever? And what kind of man asks you to be his wife when he doesn't trust you enough to tell you who he really is?”

“Perhaps you need to reassess your understanding of the nature of God, Theodora? And the freedom human beings enjoy to make their own choices? You needn't look at me like that. I'm through lecturing, I promise—except for
one final bit of counsel. Yes, I know you've not asked for it. One of the perks of old age is the prerogative to annoy loved ones with unsolicited advice. You're hurt right now, feeling betrayed. But be careful how you throw rocks at Devlin. The very nature of his profession demanded silence when you first met, the same way you demanded mine and Mrs. Chudd's when you played
your
dangerous game of deception.”

A stronger blast of vertigo struck, making her stagger, but Thea lifted her chin and faced her grandfather down. “When I realized I was in love with Devlin, I confessed everything. For the past four months, I've been trying to relearn how to live a faith
you
seemed to have cast aside. Now I see why. It's impossible, isn't it, to believe God cares when everyone in your life betrays you?”

“Thea…I hadn't wanted to tell you this, but I believe you should know. You're not the only person Edgar Fane has been searching for all these months. He's also hunting for the Devlin Stone who secured a Miss Pickford's release from the Saratoga Springs jail. Devlin's undercover, but he's there alone, risking exposure for—”

“He shouldn't have gone alone! Does the Secret Service think so little of their operatives they sacrifice them like chess pieces? Excuse me, Grandfather. I'm not very good company right now. Perhaps by suppertime I'll be able to transform myself into that astute, understanding woman, and you'll be able to tolerate my company.”

She walked out of the study without looking back; when she reached her bedroom she locked the door, then dragged down a pair of suitcases and began to pack.

Jekyll Island, Georgia
Late November, 1897

D
evlin finished raking the dirt floor of the new stables, then trod down the aisle between the forty-six completed stalls, absently patting one or two equine heads that nickered a greeting as he passed. Most of these stalls, purchased in advance by owners for their private use, were unoccupied; few Club owners arrived on Jekyll Island before January. Boatloads of staff, however, commenced arriving as early as October to prepare the land as well as the buildings for the season. Yet access to the island was so closely scrutinized Chief Hazen had had to secure special permission from the Club's new president in order for Devlin to go undercover.

Over the past days, in between studying the plain but elegant Queen Anne-styled clubhouse, and shadowing Edgar Fane on a couple of his painting expeditions, Dev played the stableman, and helped construction workers install cypress shingle siding on the almost-finished stable complex. Many of the longtime crew eyed him cautiously, but some of the Irish construction laborers could talk
the ears off a mule; he'd learned quite a lot about this southern hideaway to some of America's most prominent millionaires.

Jekyll Island was no Saratoga Springs choked with grand hotels, shops and amusements, visited by tens of thousands every year. Instead, the tiny island across the sound from Brunswick had been purchased by a French family in the late eighteenth century. They built themselves a home where they raised cotton until the War Between the States erupted. Twenty years later the island was bought and a private, very exclusive club was established whose list of first members read like New York's social register.

Yankees, Devlin mused sourly to himself, were the ones with all the money after the War.

One of several tiny islands dotting the Georgia coast, on the eastern side Jekyll boasted a sandy beach facing the Atlantic, while a serene intermingling of marsh, creek and river on the western side framed stunning sunsets. In between, Spanish moss–veiled forest, open fields and shimmering ponds offered a winter paradise to those who paid handsomely for the privilege. Strangely to Devlin, the place was considered a
family
retreat, not a men's club. Activities consisted of benign pastimes like bicycle jaunts and carriage rides and hunting parties; in the evenings, instead of raucous festivities, owners enjoyed elegant dinners, followed by billiards, games of whist—and talking.

A safe haven for political and economic machinations perhaps, but hardly a hotbed of vice—until Edgar Fane chose to spread his poison here. Lost in thought, just outside the stable entrance Devlin absently picked up a hammer one of the workers had left behind and laid it on top of a stack of pine boards. It was late afternoon, and thin wisps of cloud smeared the deepening coral of the western
sky. If it weren't for Richard Langston's presence, and the timing of Fane's visit, Dev would be enjoying the sunset at StoneHill, preparing the horses for winter and basking in Thea's love.

Lord? Keep her safe. Help me find the proof I need to bring this evil man to justice.

A chipmunk darted across the path, eyeballed Devlin with a bright reproachful look, as though a heavenly Voice were chiding him.
All right, Lord. You judge Fane's heart. Just help me find the proof so we'll know one way or another what to do with him here on earth. Justice, Lord—not vengeance. Due process of law.

Perhaps he wasn't so different from Thea after all. Dev might cloak his thirst for justice beneath the mantle of the law, but he still planned to stay on this island until he could handcuff Edgar Fane and formally charge him with crimes against the United States government.

And stuff a few of his bogus bills down his silver-tongued throat.

Sorry again, Lord.

What Devlin wanted most, however, was to go home, to StoneHill. To Thea. She deserved complete honesty; he needed forgiveness and reconciliation. The restlessness that had led his feet into service for his country had come full circle, evolving to a profound reverence for the blessings God had provided. Home, his horses, his family and friends. Most of all, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

Have to resolve this thing with Fane.
Only God knew for sure how fragile Thea's safety remained, with Edgar Fane still free.

One more request, Lord? Help her understand why I had to come here….

Fane normally arrived at Jekyll Island after New Year's
Day. His decision to depart Atlantic City in the family yacht two months early—and only four days after the discovery of Hotel Hustler counterfeit bills in Philadelphia—offered the Service a rare opportunity, well worth the risk, especially after one of the baggage handlers who'd trundled cartloads of trunks to the clubhouse confirmed Richard Langston's presence with Fane.

“Pleasant gent—tipped me a fiver. But he din't look like he was that glad to be here. I ain't never seen him afore, neither, so's mayhap he allus looks like a lost hound dog. But I did hear Mr. Fane call him—what was it now? Linford? Lane? No—Langston, that's it!” He beamed a toothless smile at Dev, content with the quarter tip he'd just received.

Stable hands wouldn't be able to afford a fiver.

On one of Devlin's first nightly reconnoiters inside the slumbering clubhouse, he'd also verified the guest's name in the register: Richard Langston. Unfortunately, no opportunity had yet presented itself for Devlin to search their rooms. A ferryload of nonmember guests had arrived to spend the Thanksgiving holiday, with a bevy of curious children constantly underfoot. Servants and staff, some of whom lived on the Island year-round, knew everything about everyone, and they were everywhere. There was also the problem of the assistant superintendent, a dedicated and observant man, who would definitely question a stable hand's presence anywhere in the clubhouse other than the servants' dining hall. If Devlin did not succeed in breaking into Fane's chambers and finding some Hotel Hustler bills within the next twenty-four hours, he would be forced to telegraph Washington, using the telegraph room…which would mean his life as Daniel Smith, stableman, would be over.

Nobody could predict the consequences if Devlin were
forced to reveal the Secret Service's suspicions concerning Edgar Fane. But after four days of futile undercover surveillance Devlin was desperate enough to risk a telegram, because the presence of Thea's father alarmed him on a visceral level impossible to ignore. He didn't dwell on issues of his own personal safety should Fane learn his real name.

“My good man, I need to hire a driver and buggy,” a cultured voice spoke behind him. “But I can't seem to find anyone hereabouts.”

Slowly Dev turned around—to face Edgar Fane himself. Behind him a colored servant carried an easel and a box of artist supplies. Dev hunched his shoulders and touched the brim of his old cloth cap. “Try the carriage room, down yonder,” he said, exaggerating his drawl. He pointed, keeping his gaze respectfully averted. “It's a big 'un. This here's a brand-new stables. Forty-nine stalls when she's all finished, brand-new carriage room.”

“Yes, I know that already. Imbecile.” Fane swiveled on his boot heel and stalked off, muttering another imprecation about stupid cracker hicks and where on earth was all the help. The black man flashed Devlin a sympathetic white-toothed smile and a shrug before following after Edgar.

Very slowly Devlin's coiled muscles relaxed. Casually he stepped off the path, under the lengthening shadow of a palmetto, and flexed his cramping fingers while he watched. Moments later a shiny black buggy rolled out of the barn, one of the liveried drivers guiding the horse off down Shell Road until they disappeared into a stand of moss-draped oaks. Twenty minutes later Dev slipped inside the Clubhouse through the servants' dining room. Confidently he nodded to a cluster of chambermaids and some rough-looking men in dirt-smeared work clothes
eating an early supper, then sauntered through the kitchen, snitching a piece of carrot from the chopping table and grinning at the flustered cook's helper.

He ducked inside the butler's pantry until the housekeeper marched past, her arms filled with unfolded napkins, then wandered down the quiet corridor, carefully peering inside the barbershop…reading room…card room, until he finally located his quarry—Richard Langston—disinterestedly shooting balls in the billiard room. He'd learned the first day not to think of Langston as Thea's father, or he'd go after the man like flies on horse dung.

Here at last was the opportunity he'd been waiting for through this interminable week: both men out of the rooms, and most of the guests with their younguns still outside enjoying the mild southern weather.

He would risk ten minutes.

Devlin darted up the U-shaped staircase to the chambers on the second floor, where Fane had rented two large rooms at the end. And discovered a chambermaid just unlocking the door to Fane's room, her cleaning supplies stacked on the floor at her feet.