A Most Unusual Match (4 page)

H
e retraced his steps to his livery horse. Late-afternoon sunlight sheened the lake in gold and tinted streamers of wispy clouds a deep rose-pink. Steadily chugging toward the landing, the narrow-nosed steamer skimmed across the water, returning Miss Pickford's unwitting human catch to shore.

Perhaps he should warn Edgar Fane.

Instead Dev settled back against the tree trunk and watched. Sweat trickled down his temple; absently he swiped the droplets away, lifting his face to the light breeze, and waited. The
Alice
arrived at the landing and passengers swarmed onto the dock, their voices loud in the peaceful late afternoon. With scarcely a glance they streamed past Miss Pickford and the other anglers. Miss Pickford suddenly began a wild struggle with her fishing pole. Several passengers paused to observe, and over the swell of a dozen conversations Dev heard her breathless voice.

“I've been here for hours, and was about to give up. Oh—” Her upper body jerked, then steadied as she wrestled against the taut line. “No, no, don't help me. It's very exciting, isn't it? I hope it's a largemouth bass. My
grandfather is…” The rest of her words faded into the general babble.

A small crowd gathered, blocking Dev's view. He un hurriedly ducked beneath the gelding's neck to better monitor Fane's passage to shore, noting the instant the man's attention turned from the boat captain to Miss Pickford.
Poor fool,
Dev thought. Fane laughed and took a step toward the siren seducing him with her fishing antics, even as a shapely debutante decked out in a ridiculous mimicry of a sailor suit wrapped possessive fingers around his forearm.

Without warning, Miss Pickford emitted a cry of surprise, her arms stretching taut while she fought to haul in her catch, which suddenly soared out of the water in a graceful arc and landed wetly six inches from Edgar Fane's feet.

“I caught it!” she exclaimed, at last turning to face her spellbound audience. “Did you see? What kind of fish—oh.” Even from twenty feet away Dev could read the emotions tumbling across her face—surprise, sheepishness, amusement…and guilt. “Why…it's a—a shoe! I've been fighting for ages, over a
shoe?
”

Laughter tittered through the group. Dev wandered closer.

“How embarrassing.” Miss Pickford addressed Fane, a becoming shade of pink tinting her cheeks the same hue as the clouds. “I beg your pardon. Did my shoe ruin yours?”

The artful question, with its tint of good-natured humor, secured Edgar Fane's unswerving interest, Devlin noted. Miss Pickford had cast her lures with masterful expertise.

“Not at all.” Fane leaned to pick up the “catch.” “At least, not compared to this poor old thing.”

“I suppose we could ask the cook at Briggs House if he's willing to try a fillet of sole?” Miss Pickford ventured, and the entire crowd burst into appreciative laughter.

“Ha! Not only a lovely angler, but a humorist, as well. I'm delighted to meet you, Miss—it is Miss, I hope?”

“Well…unofficially I do have a fiancé, but he's in Europe at the moment.” After an appropriately timed pause she added, “My chaperone might not approve, but this is 1897, after all. Practically a new century, time to dispense with so many cumbersome formalities.” And the chit had the audacity to offer her hand. “Miss Pickford. I'm very glad my catch didn't land in your face.”

“Miss Pickford. Edgar Fane, at your service.” He bowed, the gesture courteous but mocking. “Tell me, Miss Pickford, do you also bowl and don bloomers to ride a bicycle? Play tennis and golf? I'm intrigued by this new concept of femininity, unashamed to engage in all manner of outdoor sport. We must get together. Here's my card. Simpson? Where are you, man? Ah…this is Simpson, my personal secretary. Simpson, I'm hoping Miss Pickford will dine with me one evening this week. Can you check my schedule, and make arrangements? Miss Pickford? I look forward to sharing more of your exploits.”

And with a final lingering perusal he left her with his secretary and joined the rest of his guests. They clattered down the landing and dispersed into various buggies and carriages, the secretary following a moment later. The pier was soon deserted save for Miss Pickford and a couple of other fishermen who steadfastly kept their backs to her. One of the trolleys that ran from the lake to the village clanged its pending arrival at the Briggs House hotel. Devlin's attention never diverted from the lone woman who stood at the end of the pier. She stared out over the lake, fishing pole drooping lifelessly in her hand. Nearby, the
remaining anglers began gathering their equipment, likely intending to catch the last trolley.

Suddenly Miss Pickford leaned down, scooped up the shoe and heaved both it and the fishing pole into the lake. Then she whirled and marched down the landing, passing within a dozen paces of the tree where Devlin waited, a silent, cynical witness to her performance. Eschewing the trolley, she set out walking along the edge of the road back to town.

What kind of woman walked four miles when transportation was readily available? Certainly she'd hoped to secure a ride in Edgar Fane's private omnibus, but with that hope dashed she had nothing to gain now but blisters.

“Shortsighted a bit, weren't you?” Devlin commented aloud after she disappeared around a bend in the road. He climbed into the runabout. “Well, let's see what kind of line you'll try on me.”

Ten minutes along the road, however, he still hadn't overtaken her. The sky was deepening to twilight, the trolley long gone and only three other horse-drawn conveyances and several bicyclists had passed; serve him right if Miss Pickford had accepted a ride in someone else's buggy. His report to headquarters would have to detail the account of how Operative Stone allowed both parties he'd been shadowing to slip through his fingers. Grimly he searched both sides of the road, slowing the horse to a plodding walk. Even so, in the gathering darkness he almost missed the flash of color behind a clump of bushes.

“Whoa…” he murmured, and set the brake, his gaze riveted to the bushes. There, another glimpse of creamy yellow, the same shade as the overblouse Miss Pickford had been wearing.

Then he heard a low moan.

 

Panting, Thea propped herself on her hands, but the motion triggered another bout of nausea; she retched, sides heaving, perspiration mingling with the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes. Not since the night she'd visited Grandfather in that dreadful jail had she suffered from an attack this vicious. Stupid, stupid,
stupid
not to have realized what might happen if her little scheme to attract Edgar Fane worked.

Or more precisely, didn't work. The blackguard might have noticed her, but she hadn't garnered sufficient interest for an invitation to return to the hotel with the rest of his more favored guests.

Listen to yourself, Theodora.
Her entire life now re flected the moral virtue of a…a vaudeville singer.

Which punishment in Dante's
Inferno
did she deserve, for becoming that which she most despised? The dizziness intensified, sucking her down, down into the depths. God would never forgive her, because she would never forgive herself.

“What the—” a man's voice exclaimed, and strong hands closed around her shoulders.

“Don't…” Thea managed before her stomach heaved again and she gagged.

“Easy. Shh…don't fight me, you'll make it worse.”

The deep, now-familiar voice soothed, but humiliation scorched rational thought. Better a party of drunken fishermen had stumbled upon her than this man. “Mr. Stone…” Thea managed in a hoarse whisper, “please leave me alone. I'll…in a moment I'll be fine. I just need…” The effort to converse overwhelmed her. She could only close her eyes and allow those competent hands to do whatever they pleased.

A musky yet pleasant aroma drifted through her nostrils
as he gently eased her back down on the warm earth. Instead of scratchy meadow grasses her cheek was cushioned by some sort of fabric. She tried to lift her hand, but flashing lights stabbed behind her closed eyelids. “Can't…please. Leave me alone.”

“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.

“M
iss 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?