A Most Unusual Match (9 page)

T
hea's latest spell of vertigo gave her no respite until lunchtime the next day. Mrs. Chudd ministered to her efficiently but without warmth, dosing her with cool sips of springwater or draping her face with damp, mint-scented cloths until Thea drifted off to sleep. When she woke, her companion silently helped her dress in a loose-fitting house gown and ordered a light brunch for them both.

“I'm better,” Thea pronounced with relief when she managed to sit up enough to finish a bowl of soup by herself. Slowly she turned her head from side to side, smiling when the room did not dip and sway. “I think it's over.”

“Humph. Bad one, this time.”

“Yes, it was. But as you see, I'm quite recovered.”

“Still planning to chase after that Mr. Fane?”

Thea laid her soupspoon down, stood and carefully walked over to the window, which overlooked the garden court. Near the center of the lawn, a group of children and their nannies were being arranged by a photographer for a group picture. Sunshine poured through the trees in golden streamers, birds flitted among the branches. A block away, a train whistle blew and on the piazza directly below, the hotel band warmed up its instruments. It was
a lively, cheerfully
normal
scene, and bitterness coated Thea's throat like ashes. For the first time she couldn't banish a niggle of doubt about the ultimate nobility of her mission.

Devlin might be right: instead of making herself God's instrument of justice for Grandfather, she'd been challenging the Almighty of the universe to do something about Edgar Fane. On Thea's terms—not the Lord's.

“I don't know what to do about Edgar Fane,” she said. Turning, she added slowly, “But I can't give up.” Not yet, not now when she was finally making progress. “What did you think of him?”

Mrs. Chudd sniffed. “Too much teeth in his smile. Knows his manners, though. Not my business, but you weren't reared this way, missy.”

“No, I wasn't. Times change. So do circumstances.” Resolute once more, Thea headed toward the large armoire in the corner of her room and flung it open. “I think I'll go for a walk, clear my head. I don't need any further help, Mrs. Chudd. Perhaps we can dine al fresco for supper when I return.”

With a short nod the woman departed into her own chamber. Moisture burned Thea's eyelids. More than anything, she would like to have buried her head in Mrs. Chudd's shoulder, given and received a hug and thanked her for her help. But Mrs. Chudd cared little for affectionate displays or words of praise, having rebuffed Thea sufficiently their first week at Saratoga to ensure the distance between them was firmly established.

Swallowing hard, she changed her attire and left the morbidly quiet room. As she wandered downstairs to the main level, she entertained a fledgling hope that Devlin would be waiting in the lobby. He'd promised to watch
over her, whatever that entailed. Thoughts of him set her pulse to galloping like one of the racehorses.
Devlin.

All right, these hopes were for giddy schoolgirls, but for an hour of her life she was going to be one. She had survived the disastrous dinner with Edgar Fane and the misery of a vertigo spell, and now she planned to savor every memory of the previous afternoon with Devlin. The words he'd spoken. The clasp of his hard hand. The creases in his cheeks when he smiled that smile.

Most of all…that kiss, and the heated warmth of his lips. Her palms tingled even now from the memory of his broad shoulders and strong arms, corded with muscles so unlike any of the pallid, intellectual young men she'd known back home on Staten Island. However, Devlin had awakened shrouded chambers of her heart not merely because of his masculine physique, but because he'd looked at her as though…as though she were someone precious, someone desirable.

Nobody had ever looked at Theodora the way Devlin Stone had, that afternoon in Congress Park. Many had praised Thea for her agile mind and her business acumen, her hostess skills and her cordiality. And if Charles Langston insisted on training his granddaughter to do so, why of course she could run a publishing company as well as any man, they told her.

Until Devlin, not a single gentleman ever thought to remark on her desirability as a woman.

Devlin thought she was
tempting.
Thea hugged the word, and the incandescent memory of their kiss. After this walk she would address the consequences of her evening with Edgar Fane, analyze the few bits of information she'd gleaned, then decide the most judicious course to follow. But for one golden moment of time, she wanted to
forget everything but the man who was dangerously close to capturing not only her imagination but her heart.

Late in the afternoon, she returned to the hotel, weary but refreshed in spirit. Devlin had not popped up at the Columbian Spring Pavilion to share a cup of water, or the Indian Encampment, where she'd peered at native bead-work, pawed at trinkets and souvenir glasses, watched tourists miss most of the shots at a target shoot. After a wistful hour, Thea bid the schoolgirl daydream farewell and simply embraced the freedom of enjoying herself. She didn't dwell on Devlin's absence or Edgar Fane's perfidies, or her doubts. For the first time in over a year, she dabbled without guilt in the trivialities of life.

Her heart, on the other hand, had been firmly leashed and muzzled. Thea Pickford was an illusion, a will-o'-the-wisp destined to die like the last of the summer roses. Charles Langston wasn't the only one who had lost everything. Courtesy of Edgar Fane, Theodora Langston had nothing to offer an honorable man like Devlin Stone. Her family's reputation was irreparably tarnished, her inheritance was gone, along with the small publishing company Grandfather had owned for half a century. The company Thea had been trained to run when he retired.

In fact, the next time she and Devlin crossed paths, if they ever did, it would be a kindness to confess the depth of her iniquities. He'd already suffered enough from the betrayal of his fiancée.
God…if only You kept Your promises like Grandfather used to believe, then I wouldn't be in this imbroglio.

If only He would administer justice to Edgar Fane, and grant her a droplet of peace.

Somewhere a clock bonged the hour of five o'clock. Thea quickened her pace, aggravated with her inability to control this obstinate pining to believe in the God who
loved humanity enough to sacrifice His Son for them.
Her present conduct precluded mercy.
So why appeal to the Almighty in the first place? He had never invested a presence in her life. From a theological perspective, her willful choice to hound Edgar Fane until he was behind bars pretty much guaranteed God would turn His back on Thea altogether. Certainly Jesus never stalked villains to proclaim their villainy.

But somebody had to do something about Fane. Thus far he spread his evil wherever he chose, claiming victims like wooden ducks at the shooting gallery in the Indian Encampment.

Evil. It was an old-fashioned word, difficult to apply to the debonair gentleman with his dark eyes and easy charisma—until Cynthia Gorman's interruption in the morning room. Shivery foreboding jigged down Theodora's spine. For over a year she had devoted every waking hour to a course of action, but not once had she seriously considered the possibility of personal danger. Then she'd glimpsed the look in Edgar's eyes when Cynthia walked out of the room, seen the banked eagerness of a wolf waiting for the opportunity to slake its killing hunger.

The next time Thea inveigled an invitation from the man, she would armor herself with more than determination.

A policeman stopped her at the entrance to the Grand Union. Tall and gangly, with reddish sideburns showing beneath his policeman's helmet, he inquired curtly, “Miss Theodora…Pickford?”

“Yes? What is it, Officer?”

“Been waiting for over half an hour. You were to have returned by five.”

Perplexed, Thea darted a glance behind him, into the hotel. “You've spoken to my companion, Mrs. Chudd? Has something happened to her?”

“No, miss. I need you to come with me to Police Headquarters, at Town Hall. Right now, if you please.” He lifted a white-gloved hand. “It's right down the street.”

“All right.” Thea paused, then added firmly, “After you tell me why.”

The policeman's face darkened. “Chief Blevins's orders.” He glanced around at the curious gazes of passersby, then leaned down a bit, bringing a hand up to stroke his gingery red mustache at the same time he muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Miss, there's been an…incident. Your name has been introduced as a person of interest. I'd rather not say more, not here.” He stepped back, somber and unflinching in his blue serge uniform and round policeman's helmet.

An incident? What did that mean? Obviously nothing good, or he wouldn't be so uncommunicative. “Very well.” Thea thought about demanding that Mrs. Chudd be allowed to accompany her, but squelched the urge. Arguing with the police tended to achieve the opposite result one desired. “I do need to have a message sent to my chaperone so she won't worry.”

“Already taken care of.”

He gestured with his arm, and Thea fell into step a little ahead of him, uncertainty beating the air around her like thousands of bat wings. In her experience, the only reason for the police to demand your presence was because they believed you'd committed a crime.

By the time she and the impassive officer completed the two-block walk to Town Hall, uncertainty had metamorphosed into fear, and Thea could scarcely feel her feet inside her dust-coated walking boots. The stone lions guarding either side of the building looked as though they were about to pounce upon her, and she climbed the shallow steps on trembling legs. Heart racing, mouth dry, she
suddenly realized in scalding clarity that this was how her grandfather must have felt when a New York City detective and two Secret Service operatives knocked on the door the previous autumn.

At the end of a long hallway the officer opened a door; Thea squared her shoulders as she entered a room crowded with sober black suits and blue serge uniforms, a rumpled clerk who gawked at her through wire-rimmed spectacles—and Edgar Fane.

A starburst of satisfaction spiked through Thea's fear. She inhaled a quick breath of relief, in her agitation completely forgetting the Theodora Pickford persona who knew nothing of Mr. Fane's perfidies. “You've arrested this man, then? You need me to testify? I'll be glad to tell you everything Mr. Fane—”

“My dear Miss Pickford,” Mr. Fane interrupted, stepping in front of the speechless officer. The expression on Edgar's face belied the ice pick precision of his words. “More lies will only exacerbate your situation. You wove your web skillfully, and I'm deeply chagrined by my gullibility.”

With the timing of a theater performer he waited until all gazes were riveted upon them. “I've abased myself before these officers of the law, honestly admitting my attraction for you. It's no secret I enjoy the company of ladies. But I have never misled a single one of them about my intentions, including you, Miss Pickford. Ah. Your look of shocked bewilderment is excellent, though a waste of time. Come now, let's be done with pretense. You worked so hard to gain my attention this past month, didn't you? Several acquaintances have remarked on your attempts. Well?”

“You're twisting the circumstances.” Thea turned to the group of silent officials, but her tongue felt glued to the
roof of her mouth. “He's…it's not what he's saying. I—I did try to attract him, yes. But—”

“But you discovered last night it was all for naught. If only I had known… Now my friend has paid too dear a price for your wicked schemes, for assumptions I never encouraged.” His voice choked; he tugged a pristine silk handkerchief out and dabbed his temples.

“What are you talking about?” Thea cried, searching the grim faces gathered around her. “If anyone is guilty of deceit, it would be—”

Guilty of deceit.
Further denials and charges died un voiced. A chasm yawned at her feet; she tried without success to swallow a gelatinous lump threatening to choke her.

“You see?” Edgar Fane spread his arms in a gesture that triggered a groundswell of murmurs and foot-shuffling among the police officers. “Even now she seeks to spin her webs. Miss Pickford, or whatever your real name is, the game is up. If you'll confess at once to this heinous crime, and spare us all needless hours of suffering, I will in turn see that you are fairly treated.”

“I've committed no crime.” Her voice rose. “You're twisting everything around, just like…just like…”

“Silence!” A different policeman, older, with thinning gray hair neatly parted and authority stamped across his lined face, pointed an index finger at Thea. “You will have your day in court, Miss Pickford. For now, the magistrate deems probable cause, you are being charged on suspicion of murder and I am placing you under arrest.”

“I
'm under arrest?” Thea sputtered. “For—for
murder?
” The words made no sense, as if the man had spoken them backward, with all the syllables rearranged. She swept a loathing glance over Edgar Fane. “This is ridiculous. Based on the testimony of one person? Of
this
man?” Across a waist-high railing, the clerk busily wrote something onto a piece of paper. The scratching noise of the pen hurt her ears. A sensation of unreality infiltrated her skin until she felt disembodied and stripped of all emotion.

Then she saw the smug triumph hovering around Edgar's mouth. Temper flared to life. “What have you done to corroborate his charges? Who is the victim? Exactly when was I supposed to have committed the crime? And for goodness' sake, why have you allowed Mr. Fane to poison your minds? If a murder has been committed,
he's
the person you should be placing under arrest! Why don't you question him?”

“Miss Pickford, you will please show respect, and moderate your tone of voice. Legal counsel has been notified on your behalf, and will arrive shortly. But aggressive displays of temper cannot be tolerated.” The authoritative policeman nodded once, and before Thea realized what was
happening another policeman took her wrists and fastened them together with a pair of heavy metal handcuffs. “Mr. Fane is present because he identified the victim, and after apprising us of pertinent facts issued his complaint under oath. Due to the gravity of this case, Chief Blevins further ordered that every word spoken in this room be faithfully transcribed, including yours, Miss Pickford. Mr. Fane is well-known hereabouts. Over the years he and the rest of his family have established many friends in the village of Saratoga Springs. You, on the other hand, cannot offer such a history.”

Thea's outrage fizzled into silence. Until last year, she had believed truth always protected innocence. Truth, ha! Truth was a multifaceted prism of many colors and multiple sides, not a windowpane. She stood mute, teeth grinding, while this gravel-voiced officer of the law recited Edgar Fane's distorted version of events.

“At approximately ten o'clock last night Mrs. Cynthia Gorman interrupted your evening together with Mr. Fane, at the Franklin Square residence occupied by him for the season. Mr. Fane grew alarmed by your irrational anger over her brief appearance to retrieve her parasol.” He cast a baleful look at Thea. “A behavior corroborated just now by your tirade, in full view of this department. According to Mr. Fane, last night without cause or provocation you threatened Mrs. Gorman with dire consequences if she did not at once leave the dwelling where Mr. Fane currently resides.”

“Lies!” Thea exclaimed. “Those are bald-faced lies! She stopped by to fetch her parasol, but it was Mr. Fane who was angry, not me. You should have seen
his
face. Wait—no.” Cold chills racked her limbs. She felt as though she were fighting her way through a thicket of needle-pointed briars. “Are you telling me that Mrs.
Gorman
is the victim? Mrs. Gorman is…dead, and the man who committed the deed is standing right here in this room, yet
I'm
the one wearing handcuffs?”

The room erupted in a barrage of angry orders and accusations and shouts for silence. But it was Edgar Fane, the epitome of wealth, power and gentility in his dove-gray morning suit and silk tie, who finally restored a semblance of order.

“It's quite all right. I am not offended, gentlemen, and appreciate your spirited defense of public order.” He gestured to Thea. “She is angry because she's been caught. She's afraid of the consequences. Over the years I've had plenty of experience with her sort, I'm sorry to say. The picture of innocence, but it's all the act of an unstable, desperate woman who took advantage of my trust. I almost feel pity for her, except Mrs. Gorman was like a member of our family.”

Thea lunged forward. “You monster! You're a liar. A
liar!
”

Rough arms hauled her back, squeezing her elbows in a painful grip that took her breath away.

Another officer approached, double rows of buttons gleaming dully down his uniform. “One more display of histrionics and I'll add defamation of character and attempted assault to the charge of murder,” he warned. “Do you understand?”

Chest heaving, Thea managed a nod. Abruptly her legs began to tremble and she swayed. The policeman holding her up shifted his grip until it supported, rather than restrained. “What about the defamation of my character?” she asked in a soft but clear voice.

A tornado of silence sucked all the air from the room.

Then Fane laughed. “You see why I was captivated by her? Impulsive, passionate. Cheeky, and courageous.
I admired you, Miss Pickford, but you never should have allowed greed to blacken your soul beyond redemption.”

Anger and a thirst for revenge had blackened her soul, not greed. But what did it matter now? “I didn't kill Mrs. Gorman,” she stated dully. “You have no proof. I have a companion who can vouch for me. Why haven't you questioned her?”

“A companion who until last night never accompanied you anywhere,” Mr. Fane murmured. “Chudd's her name. There is a possibility Miss Pickford hired this woman off the street—she's a sullen, unsuitable creature who deserted her charge immediately after dinner, by the way. In fact, Mrs. Gorman saw her in my library, where she was sound asleep. Such a woman's word is worthless.” Shaking his head, he rocked a little on his feet before adding, “There's also the matter of Mrs. Gorman's jewelry, all of which is missing. Perhaps if we searched Miss Pickford's and this companion's rooms at her hotel?”

“The chaperone will be questioned, the room searched once a search warrant has been issued. Mr. Fane, with all due respect we must wait for—”

“Sorry.” He smiled, that charming, oh-so-convincing smile to which not even police officers were immune. “I appreciate your duty, Chief Blevins, and in no way wish to trample upon it.” Fingers steepled, he added lightly, “However, do not forget that I am the one who made a gift of her to you, saving this department time, expenditure of funds, correct? The need for manpower is already stretched to the limit at the height of the season, is it not? Mrs. Gorman's death is a terrible blow. I merely need to see for myself that Miss Pickford understands she cannot escape the consequences.”

The chief cleared his throat. “I have allowed you license, Mr. Fane. But I cannot permit further badgering. Miss
Pickford is entitled to legal counsel, and will have her day in court.”

“Of course, of course. By the way, if money is an issue, I am willing to pay her legal fees. As you say, she is entitled—”

“I refuse to accept a nickel of financial assistance from that man, nor will I accept the services of any attorney he hires. Any money he offered would be as—” Barely in time Thea managed to choke back accusations concerning counterfeit money. Who would believe her?

She was innocent, yet about to be dumped in a jail cell. Just like Grandfather. Not fair. Not right.
Not right!
She longed to hurl the charge at every one of these blinded, unreceptive faces. Where was justice? Where was…God? No, why ask? She was the one who had turned her back on God.

“Could we let her sit?” the officer who had escorted her to police headquarters asked. “She looks a mite unsteady on her feet.”

A chair was produced, and not unkindly, Thea was pressed down onto the hard wooden seat. Someone thrust a tin cup of water into her hand. Her teeth chattered against the rim, but she managed to choke down a sip.

And Edgar Fane watched, satisfaction stamped over his handsome face. “Not so confident now, are we?” he said, the hard brown eyes boring into hers. “You believed Cynthia to be your competition, even though she went out of her way to treat you with kindness. Secretly you hated her—I witnessed it all, remember. Your hatred, and the fear when you finally realized the depth of my affection for her and that all your schemes had failed.”

He surveyed the circle of stolid faces surrounding them. “I realize now I shouldn't have tried to befriend a young woman out of kindness, nor confided to her my
true feelings for Mrs. Gorman. There's not a man among us who hasn't shuddered before the wrath of a woman scorned. Admit to your crime of passion, Miss Pickford, and let's be done.”

Mutely Thea shook her head. Edgar leaned over her, his low voice an undertow that sucked her into a whirlpool of horror. “I'll never forget the sight of her lifeless body, and the marks on her neck,” he said. “Paid some cutthroat to garrote her, right? Did you use some of the jewelry you stole from her body to pay him?”

“All right, Mr. Fane. That's enough, eh?”

Abruptly he swiveled on his heel and stalked away. “Almost, Officer. Almost enough. Chief Blevins, I appreciate your bending the rules. If there's any other paperwork you need me to sign, you know where to find me.”

“You're leaving Thursday, for Boston?”

“The clerk already has the address where I can be reached. But first I'll make a trip down to New York City, where Mrs. Gorman's mother resides. Oh—one last thing. You'll want to talk to my secretary, Simpson, about the ‘Pickford' name. He did some preliminary investigation on the girl and found some discrepancies, though regretfully I told him not to bother with a more in-depth search. She looked so innocent. Even now, it's hard to believe….”

Vaguely Thea listened to the steady tread of footsteps fading into the distance. She heard a door open and close. He was gone, but his taint still coated her in its deadly mist.

Edgar Fane was gone, and she had no one to blame but herself for the willful self-destruction that might end with her own neck in a hangman's noose.