A Most Unusual Match (14 page)

O
ctober arrived with a week of torrential rain, followed by skies blue enough to drown in, and air with an invigorating snap to it. Leaves lost their green luster, cloaking themselves instead in the first autumnal hues of the season. On a bright morning Devlin stood in the south pasture with Jeremiah, watching sunbeams dapple the hides of their small herd of Suffolk punch horses.

“Looking good, aren't they?” Jeremiah ruminated around a piece of straw he'd been chewing. “But I still miss the Clydesdales. They had…presence.”

Stifling a smile, Devlin tucked his hands in the waistband of his trousers. They'd shared this conversation weekly for seven years. “Absolutely. But the country needs smaller horses for lighter loads, and logging.” Starlight, one of the mares, wandered over; Dev fed her a carrot and idly ran his hand over her smooth chestnut belly and down her short sturdy forelegs. “At least nobody ever complains about leg feathers.”

“Including me. Pain in the backside to keep clean.”

They both laughed, then settled into companionable silence. Starlight wandered back over to the herd, and
Devlin allowed the freshness of the morning to settle his restless soul.

Then Jeremiah tossed aside the straw and looked him square in the eye. “Charles and myself had a long talk last night. He's wanting to know why there's no ring, and no talk of a wedding. He's also thinking it might be best if he and Thea returned to Staten Island while you make up your mind to ask the question.”

The hairs at the back of Devlin's neck rose. For a week now he'd sensed a reticence in Thea, but he'd made the mistake of ignoring it. As a boy he poked sticks into ant-hills just to watch thousands of ants erupt in furious commotion, but he was long past the age where he invited turmoil. “That's probably just Charles's version. He's the one feeling restless. He's nervous around horses, so there's nothing much he can do around here except beat you at chess.”

“He's turned into a gardener of sorts.”

“So Thea tells me. She's tried her hand at hoeing and planting herself, when she's not helping out in the stables.”

“Unlike Charles, she's a good instinct for horses, Dev. Amazing, when you study how things turned out with the pair of you. But something is plaguing her mind. Might be because the man she loves won't commit himself to her, for keeps.”

The tranquil peace of the morning evaporated. “If I put a ring on her finger, I'll have to tell her I'm a Secret Service operative. When I do, I also want to be able to tell her I'm resigning. I can't do that yet, Uncle J.”

“Confound it, boy, why ever not? You ought to have told her long ago, to my way of thinking. I've run myself to the bone these past couple of years, waiting while you chased after confidence men and worked the wanderlust
out of your system. Now you're back home, with a good woman who won't up and skedaddle on you—”

“This has nothing to do with Sylvia and my mother.”

“Bah! And the sky ain't blue today. Devlin, your place is here, and you know it. What's keeping you from sending in your resignation?”

Swiveling, Dev strode across the pasture, his thoughts black as Percy's ears.
Not much,
he wanted to yell. Just word from his “reporters” that a man's home in Philadelphia had been burglarized, and one of the stolen items was an Edgar Fane painting. Just that two days after the burglary, two Hotel Hustler C-notes surfaced in Steven Clarke's bank, though nobody knew who had deposited them so no charges were filed. Just that Fane still sought information about Devlin Stone so Dev had been “advised” to remain at StoneHill to avoid further jeopardizing the investigation. And the final gut-twisting news: an unscrupulous private detective now on retainer to Fane had bullied alarming tidbits about the Langston family out of local residents.

“Only a matter of time,” Lawlor had warned him two days earlier, when Devlin was in Stuarts Crossing, “before he discovers your Miss Langston is the ‘Miss Pickford' who was arrested in Saratoga Springs. Then, my friend, you'll both be frosted six ways to Sunday.”

Devlin's choices might have put everyone and everything he loved in mortal danger, and his uncle wanted to know why he hadn't asked Theodora to be his wife?

Above him, the vast dome of an endless sky seemed to press down until he could hardly draw a deep breath; the soft outline of the mountains, worn to forested humps over tens of thousands of years, bore silent witness to pitiless reality—not even nature could halt time.

Over the past month Devlin had begun talking to God,
cautious, stumbling efforts that left him feeling foolish, yet strangely at peace. The thought came to him now that maybe trust in God was akin to Devlin's love for his horses. The animals trusted a two-legged creature who didn't speak their language but nonetheless intuitively knew how to communicate with them, using as the foundation patience, gentleness and love. He understood their basic nature was different from his own, and he respected those differences.

All right, then. He'd try—no sense shying away from the word—he'd try some more praying, this very moment, before Jeremiah's questions provoked Devlin into losing his temper.
God? If You understand, You need to find a way to let me know what I should do. I've dug a hole here, but I can't come clean and confess right now. Especially to Thea.
God might know for sure what her response would be, but Devlin didn't. He was terrified she would bolt—straight into Edgar Fane. The burden was Devlin's alone, and his knees were buckling beneath its weight.

For some reason his eyes stung. A whisper of wind whirled around him, raising goose bumps on his flesh. Then it infiltrated the pores of his skin in a scalding rush, scrubbing raw the pretenses of pride in which he'd clothed himself. He was afraid, and ashamed, because he felt like a failure. A failure as an operative, a failure as a man, to not protect the woman he loved and the home that had been his legacy. Thea's possible reaction to his identity was not the true reason he had kept his mouth shut.

If his uncle weren't standing twenty feet away Devlin would have dropped to his knees. Instead he stood, hands fisted at his sides, and suffered through the agony of self-condemnation. Yet even amidst the worst of it, some nascent core in his spirit flickered to life, a paradoxical awareness of power and humility that built into a steady
flame. Like an unschooled horse, yielding his will was neither swift, nor simple. But when the yielding achieved mutual harmony instead of brutal dominance, well, the possibilities shook his soul.

“Dev? Devlin! You all right, son?” Jeremiah's hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Confound it, should've kept my mouth shut. Bessie's right. Might as well plow a field with my tongue.”

For a moment Devlin was unable to respond; he could hear his uncle's voice but could not see him clearly. It was as though Devlin had emerged from the bottom of a rushing stream and water still blinded his eyes.

“Aw…” Jeremiah's voice deteriorated into mumbles. He wrapped a sinewy arm around Devlin's shoulders. “Never mind. We'll work it through somehow. That's the important thing here, Dev. We're family. We'll work our way through it, together.” Jeremiah glanced behind Devlin, in the direction of the barn. “Your sweetheart's headed this way, carrying a basket. After we help ourselves to whatever Bessie's cooked up, how about if I help Nab with the training this morning? Good. Glad you agreed without an argument.”

Without a backward look he headed across the pasture toward Thea.

“What's happened?” she asked, the moment Jeremiah was out of earshot. “Here. Bessie made something called johnnycake. Eat while you talk, it won't offend me. Were you and your uncle having a disagreement?” Hastily she added, “If you were, of course you don't have to tell me if— Oh!”

“Best way I know to hush up idiotic notions,” Devlin said when he finally ended the kiss.

“Only temporarily,” she answered on a breathless laugh.

His gaze caressed her glowing face, the love inside him inextricably tangled with the need to protect. This morning she wore a practical tweed skirt and shapeless corduroy jacket. She'd plaited her hair in a haphazard braid; already errant strands dangled everywhere. But to Devlin she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Ambivalence finally conceded the battle. His decision was after all the only one he could make and still call himself a man.

A man who had called out to God, and God had answered.

Things would work out, Thea would understand when Dev was finally able to explain….
She had to understand.

The glow had faded from her cheeks. “Is something wrong with Starlight? One of the other mares?”

“The mares are all fine.” He plucked the basket of yeasty buns off her arm, then threaded his fingers through hers. “Let's go sit under that oak over yonder. Seems like ages since we've had an opportunity to enjoy a solitary moment together.”

The shadows lifted from her face. “I think everyone else at StoneHill agrees. Grandfather claimed a twisted knee, Bessie refused to let me help with the laundry and thrust this basket in my hands. When I asked one of the stable hands in the barn where you and Jeremiah were this morning, he pointed out this pasture, and winked. And you saw your uncle, practically galloping away from us.”

“Then let's not disappoint them.”

They reached the shelter of a towering black oak, and Devlin spread his jacket over fallen leaves and trampled-down grass. Thea sat, arranging her skirt in a graceful circle around her as Devlin sank beside her, the wicker basket between them. Thea handed him a bun. “We better
eat all this johnnycake I brought so Bessie won't fuss.” Then she added, her tone a shade too casual, “I've been needing to talk with you about something anyway.”

Devlin returned his square of the hot bread uneaten to the basket. “You can't return to Staten Island. I won't let you go. If that's what you needed to talk about, you may as well save your breath.”

One mink-brown eyebrow lifted. “Now whose imagination runs away with them?
If
I chose to leave, you couldn't stop me.”

“Not by locking you in a room, no,” Devlin agreed despite the anvil crushing his chest cavity. “You won't go, because I love you, and you love me. And I think it's time we made it official.”

He removed Thea's half-eaten johnnycake so he could hold her unsteady hands in his. “There are probably more romantic places, and a dozen more romantic phrases. But when I look at you, surrounded by everything else I love, I no longer believe our meeting was an accident. I can't imagine not having you in my life, and I should have asked this question weeks ago.” Briefly the crease appeared in his cheek. “But I was more afraid of the problems than the promises we'd just made to each other. So…Theodora Langston, will you marry me?”

Inside his, her hands stilled, then clung. She swallowed several times, opened her mouth, then chewed her bottom lip instead. For Devlin, the whole universe halted its rotation. He could hear the pulse pounding away in his ears, all sensation drained from his limbs into the rich earth and a dozen anvils now squeezed his chest while he waited for her answer.

“Are you sure you trust me enough not to run back to New York, like your mother?” A single tear overflowed. “We haven't talked about it, since we…since the day we
confessed our feelings to each other. But sometimes I still see what looks like fear in your eyes. I love StoneHill almost as much as I love you. But I need to know you believe that,” she finished, adding hoarsely, “Please ignore these tears.”

Devlin shoved the basket out of the way and hauled the maddening woman into his arms, where she belonged. When she laid her head against his chest he pressed one hand against the silken softness of her hair, holding her there. “Whatever emotion you thought you saw had nothing to do with comparing you to my mother, or Sylvia,” he promised thickly. “I
love you.
Marry me?”

“I've discovered I'm entranced with horses. I want to learn everything about them. I want to be your helpmeet there, not take over Bessie's domain.”

“You can dress in dungarees and currycomb every horse every day. Bessie can remain queen of the kitchen.” He wrapped her braid around his hand and tugged, tilting her head back until their lips were inches apart. “First you have to marry me. Then you can make all the demands you want.”

A delicious smile curved her lips, the dark chocolate eyes turned dreamy. “I've always wanted to wear a pair of dungarees and ride a horse like Annie Oakley.” Abruptly the arms she'd wrapped around his ribs squeezed, then her lips pressed against his. “Yes,” she breathed. “I will marry you, Devlin Stone.”

For a golden hour, they sat beneath the grand old oak and dreamed.

And Devlin believed love was enough.

F
or Thea, October splattered over the Blue Ridge Mountains and StoneHill with a splendid lack of decorum. Days passed in a colorful blur, and most of the time she was able to ignore occasional twinges of anxiety. At night she fell into bed exhausted, her life full of newfound responsibilities and a sense of camaraderie she'd never before experienced. Devlin had given her the care of two horses—a dappled gray Percheron with intelligent eyes and a sweet disposition, and a mischievous Suffolk punch filly scarcely a year old. Under the careful eye of every stableman, including Devlin and Jeremiah, each day Thea gained confidence in her growing skills.

Bessie, however, also insisted on teaching her how to make some of her most famous recipes. “Because, miss, the day will come when you won't have me. You can hire a housekeeper, but a cook as good as me's hard to come by.”

Her grandfather quit making plans to return to Staten Island, instead arranging for Mrs. Chudd to move permanently into their house until Charles decided whether or not to keep or sell. StoneHill, Thea mused fancifully, had
become their Shangri-la, or perhaps El Dorado. At least, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Then another letter arrived, from her old friend who had married years earlier and moved to New Jersey. For months, Pamela had dutifully informed Thea whenever she heard a thread of gossip about Edgar Fane. In today's letter, however, she included some unsettling news, about:

Along with admonishments, almost every letter from Pamela also included an entreaty for Thea to come home where she belonged. Pamela believed she and her grandfather to be rusticating in some southern backwater nobody had ever heard of, until they recovered from the “troubles of last year.” Thea had not confided otherwise. Risky enough, to be writing her at all. They had both attended Union Academy College for Women; of all her friends, Pamela was the only one Thea trusted to secretly send information concerning Edgar Fane, and to keep her correspondence with Thea—as well as StoneHill's address—a secret.

So many secrets.

Perhaps her friend was right. It was time to give up on her hopeless quest for justice and focus instead on a future with the man she loved. Edgar Fane was beyond reach, and she needed to leave retribution where it belonged—with God. Revenge, she had learned at too great a cost,
ultimately harmed the person seeking it. That long-ago afternoon at the Saratoga Springs police station, trapped within her own web of lies, she had listened to Edgar Fane—and seen herself. Enlightenment produced a shame almost as debilitating as her brief sojourn in a cell.

Devlin had freed her from that jail, loved her and given her his heart. But only Thea could make the decision that would free her soul.

She and Devlin had shared much in the past weeks about the Lord's Presence in their lives. “He reminds me of how you used to talk to God, when I was a girl,” she'd told Charles just this morning. “As if God cares about him, and even communicates with him. Devlin's
praying,
Grandfather.”

“And how does a praying man for a husband strike you, Taffy T?”

“For some reason, that strikes me just fine. I think I've discovered a—a similar hunger. This past year, it's been dreadfully wearing, believing God is no more than an indifferent Creator, indifferent to human suffering. But…” But she'd been angry at God; she'd spurned Him to pursue her own course. She had abandoned Him.

Charles pinched the end of his nose, then gave her a sheepish smile. “There will always be ‘buts.' Most of them can be turned into faith, instead of flaws.” And patting her knee, he rose. “But for Edgar Fane's interference in our lives, you never would have met Devlin.”

“That's what Devlin says.”

“Snared yourself a wise man.” Chuckling, he left to go see how many autumn apples had fallen from the trees in StoneHill's orchard.

Now, as Thea stared down at the letter in her hands, she allowed a decision tugging at her for days to transform into certainty. She needed to release the past, along with
her secret plans to pursue Edgar Fane. Nothing was worth the love of a man whose smile held the power of the sun whenever he looked at Thea. The man who had forgiven her own deceptions and seen beyond her flaws. To Devlin, she was beautiful. Worthy. Loved.

The way Jesus loved her.

All right, Lord.
For months He'd been nagging her with wisps of remembered scripture, about His ways and His timing and His justice.
All right. I give up. Forgive my hard heart…restore the joy of salvation. Do as You will…
“But here's my final ‘but,' Lord. Please, help me choose the right path?”

In a burst of energy she ripped Pamela's letter into confetti-sized pieces, and went to collect a couple of apples to feed her two horses.

 

Edgar strolled into Caruthers, a seedy gambling casino two blocks off Atlantic City's famous Boardwalk. Faded velvet draperies and crystal chandeliers were choked in a haze of cigar smoke. Ill-dressed patrons hunched around tables and roulette wheels, while aging ladies of pleasure pretended enjoyment in their duties.

Suppressing a shudder of distaste, Edgar walked over to a table near the center of the crowded room, where five men sat in a semicircle, playing blackjack against the house dealer. Only one player glanced up at Edgar's approach. The dealer shot a look toward the two bulky bodyguards who stood five paces behind Edgar, and kept his mouth shut.

“Good evening,” Edgar said in his best Oxford-educated voice. “Is one of you Richard Langston?”

“Who wants to know?” a florid individual with squinty eyes demanded.

“Are you Mr. Langston?”

The man leaned back in his chair and jutted out his chin. “Any snoot who waltzes over and interrupts my concentration, he better be willing to give me
his
moniker before I answer a question.”

“Now, Billy. No need to get testy.” Rising, the only man who had acknowledged Edgar's presence adjusted his necktie and straightened his frayed cuffs. “I'm Richard Langston. What can I do for you, Mr….?”

“I'll explain everything.” Edgar swept the room with an assessing look. “Is there somewhere we can enjoy a private discussion, Mr. Langston?”

“Mr. Langston owes the house two thousand dollars,” the dealer said. “And house rules require him to stay until he wins the money back, or pays in cash before leaving the table.”

“House'll have to wait its turn,” the squint-eyed man said. “You ain't leaving my sight, Langston, unless you fork over the thousand you owe me.”

“How 'bout my five hundred? Cripes, man, did you pay this bloke to help you wiggle out from paying up? You been begging me for two weeks now ta give ya more time.”

“Gentlemen,” Edgar interrupted the jackals. Behind him, the bodyguards stirred uneasily but, obeying explicit instructions, did not approach. Next, Edgar made a production of withdrawing a small leather-bound notepad and gold pen from his coat pocket. “Other than two thousand for the house, how much does Mr. Langston owe each of you?” He pointed his pen at the most belligerent of the group. “Starting with you. A thousand, wasn't it?”

While Richard Langston's complexion deepened to the hue of boiled tomatoes, Edgar wrote down responses and tallied his quarry's total losses: over seven thousand dollars. “Not a good season this year?” He clapped Langston's shoulder. “I can change that. Allow me.” He drew out
his calfskin bill book and to the riveted attention of the watchers, counted out bills onto the worn felt that covered the table. When he finished, he planted one palm firmly over the money. “Now, Mr. Langston, if these gentleman will write receipts to verify your gambling debts to them are paid in full, that should free you up to join me for a private discussion.”

“What extortionist interest will you require, in turn for this generosity?” Langston looked him in the eye, but he was sweating.

Good. The man still clung to some remnants of intelligence. Shabby gentility combined with a weak mind and bad habits offered little challenge. “You're a gambling man, Mr. Langston. You decide.”

To give him credit, Langston chewed through the proposition. Finally, after a lingering study of the other players and Edgar's watchful bodyguards, he turned to Edgar with a shrug. “As a gambling man, the odds strike me as more favorable toward an unknown benefactor than my known acquaintances.” He paused, and a reckless grin spread over his face. “How about double or nothing? One round, just me and you?”

“No.” Edgar scooped up the seven thousand dollars. “Now or not at all, Langston. Think carefully. I'm neither a fool, nor a gambler. Before I stepped foot in this establishment I learned enough to provide for my own protection.” He delivered the coup de grâce. “I also learned I'm the only person willing to arrange for yours. At least one of the men at this table, along with that pudgy gentleman lounging at the bar—to whom you owe another two thousand from a poker game a week ago, correct?—and finally, the management of this place, all plan to deprive you of whatever monies you possess at the end of the evening. If
your pockets are empty, most likely you'll pay with your life.”

“I…see. It's possible you're in cahoots with them all, and this is an elaborate hoax. On the other hand, you might be telling the truth. I like the odds of the latter.” Langston nodded once. “I accept your offer. Now…mind telling me who the devil you are?”

Without comment Edgar handed over his calling card. Richard Langston's smooth pale face drained of color; he blinked twice, then like a hound brought to heel without another word followed Edgar and the two bodyguards across the momentarily silent room, and out into the brisk salty air.