A Most Unusual Match. Sara Mitchell

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Chapter Seven

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