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A Most Unusual Match
Sara Mitchell
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesOne of the earliest fiction authors in the inspirational market, Sara Mitchell is the critically acclaimed author of fifteen novels.Her 2001 historical Shenandoah Home earned a Romantic Times Top Pick rating; the sequel, Virginia Autumn, was a 2003 Christy Award finalist and winner of the RWA Georgia's Maggie Award of Excellence in the historical category; and her Love Inspired Historical Legacy of Secrets won the 2008 RT Reviewers' Choice Award in the Love Inspired Historical category.From inspirational romance, to historical fiction, to complex historical suspense, Sara Mitchell's books have touched the lives of readers all over the world. Her hallmark traits include exhaustive research, a command of language and characters with emotional depth. She currently writes for Steeple Hill's Love Inspired Historical line, creating stories that take place in the late 1890s.In all her works, Sara infuses the same passion and faith with which she tries to live life. It remains her hope that ". . . God's grace enables my books to touch hearts and honor Him. Along with," she adds with a smile, "providing a few hours of happily-ever-aftering."When she's not writing and making a mess of her office Sara enjoys rummaging around cluttered antique shops, researching historical photos, shopping for bargains in any kind of store that is NOT crowded and playing her 1870s rosewood Steinway piano. She gave up on sewing, knitting, crocheting, scrapbooking and regular exercise. She has learned, however, to embrace gardening on a small scale, unless she encounters grubs or slugs. Earthworms are fine.She and her husband of 39 years live in Virginia. They are the parents of two adult daughters. Sara loves to hear from readers, and you may reach her through Web site.
“I prefer horses to people,” Devlin said. “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…” Her voice trailed into silence.
“And when nothing worked, you got desperate.”
“Desperate,” she repeated. “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.”
“I don’t know what to think of you, Miss Pickford. Is that your real name, by the way?”
“It’s actually my mother’s maiden name.” He slid the question in so neatly Thea answered before she realized it. “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.”
SARA MITCHELL
A popular and highly acclaimed author in the Christian market, Sara’s aim is to depict the struggle between the challenges of everyday life and the values to which our faith would have us aspire. The author of contemporary, historical suspense and historical novels, her work has been published by many inspirational book publishers.
Having lived in diverse locations from Georgia to California to Great Britain, her extensive travel experience helps her create authentic settings for her books. A lifelong music lover, Sara has also written several musical dramas and has long been active in the music miniseries of the churches wherever she has lived. The mother of two daughters, Sara now lives in Virginia.
Sara Mitchell
A Most Unusual Match
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Do not say, “I’ll pay you back for this wrong!”
Wait for the Lord, and He will deliver you.
—Proverbs 20:22, NIV
He hath…sent me to heal the brokenhearted,
to preach deliverance to the captives,
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty them that are bruised.
—Luke 4:18, KJV
To Melissa Endlich, my dear editor, for her consummate editorial skill, and her faith in me.
Thanks for everything.
Acknowledgments
Profound thanks to the following, all of whom were gracious with their time and generous with their information. Any historical errors are entirely the author’s doing.
Once again to the staff members in the U.S. Secret Service Office of Government and Public Affairs, and the staff of the U.S. Secret Service Archives, for their courtesy and invaluable assistance.
Saratoga Springs, New York
Mary Ann Fitzgerald, City Historian, Saratoga Springs
Allan Carter, Historian, Saratoga Racing Museum
…and all the other wonderful individuals up in Saratoga Springs I spoke to a time or two, or exchanged emails with.
Jekyl Island
Gretchen Greminger, Curator, Jekyl Island—spelled “Jekyll” from the 20th century onward! (so nobody will be confused….)
Clint and the rest of the staff at the Jekyll Island Museum.
Gretchen, many, many thanks for helping me perfect the plot and make it work! You’re a perfect example of a peach of a Georgia gal!
God’s blessings to one and all.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Saratoga Springs, New York
June, 1897
Theodora Langston watched Edgar Fane stroll across the lobby of the Grand Union Hotel. A half smile lurked at the corners of his mouth, while a swelling crowd—mostly ladies—clustered about him. His gray fedora tipped forward jauntily and one pale hand lightly swung a brass-handled walking stick, tapping the marble foyer with each step. Mr. Fane epitomized a gentleman out to enjoy his season at Saratoga Springs. He had the right, seeing he was a son of one of the richest men in the country.
Thea watched him, and her heart burned with hatred.
As he passed the marbled pillar where she stood, the indifferent gaze passed over her as though Thea were part of the pillar. Edgar Fane, she had discovered over the past ten days, preferred his female admirers long and willowy and adoring, or dainty and luscious and adoring. She could feign adoration, but since her unextraordinary face and physique failed to capture the scoundrel’s interest, Thea would have to try a different strategy. She had spent the last of her deceased grandmother’s trust fund on this crusade, and would not abandon her quest until Edgar Fane was behind bars, where he belonged.
Her troubled glance fell upon Grandmother’s ruby ring, snug on Thea’s engagement finger. She was accustomed to ink from a printing press, not fancy rings. Still, the facade of wealth was necessary to gain access to the higher echelons of Saratoga Springs society. Justice did not come cheaply. The ring might be real, all the lavish gowns she’d purchased from Bloomingdale’s with the rest of the trust money might be the latest fashion, but she was living a lie.
She could hear her grandfather’s voice as though she were standing in their library on that rainy afternoon a month earlier. Thea, you mustn’t think such things about him. He had sounded so gentle. Gentle, and defeated. Mr. Fane proclaimed his innocence with equal vehemence. No proof of malfeasance on his part has surfaced.
You are innocent, but you’re the one they arrested, you’re the one those awful Secret Service operatives treated like a common criminal!
I was the one who tried to deposit counterfeit funds.
But it was Edgar Fane who had paid Charles Langston with those bogus funds.
The burning hatred inside Thea seethed, cauterizing her heart. No use to pray for forgiveness, or ask for divine help. Her grandfather could pray all he wanted to, but Thea doubted God would oblige Charles Langston with an answer. Because of Edgar Fane, her grandfather’s faith had dimmed to the stub of a barely flickering candle. As for Thea, life had finally forced her to swallow an unpalatable truth: She could not trust anyone—God or man—to see justice served. If she wanted Edgar Fane to be punished for his crimes, she’d have to do it herself.
For all her life she’d played a part—the good child, the grateful girl, the admirable woman—while inside, insecurity and anxiety clawed with razor-stropped spikes. Now she was about to embark on her most ambitious role. She did not enjoy the risk and the public nature of the charade, but she was confident of her success.
The crowded hotel parlor seemed to lurch, and Thea braced herself against the grooved pillar until the sensation dissipated. She never should have used her mother’s maiden name, a constant reminder that no matter whether her present life be truth or lie, she remained the abandoned daughter of a wayward youngest son and a vaudeville singer from the Bowery. No surprise that for most of her childhood she struggled with dizzy spells.
As for faith, life had finally forced Thea to swallow an unpalatable truth: something was lacking in her, something missing from birth that made her unlovable to everyone but her grandfather.
Despite Charles Langston’s attempts to give her the life of a privileged young lady, perhaps she was Hetty Pickford’s daughter after all.
The high-pitched whinny of an alarmed horse cut through the noisy road traffic on the Saratoga Springs Broadway. Moments earlier Devlin Stone had emerged from the Indian encampment arcade, where he’d spent the past two hours shadowing a suspect. Scarborough disappeared into one of the sidewalk eateries, and Devlin let him go, instead searching the street until he spotted a foam-flecked bay hitched to a surrey in front of the Columbian Hotel. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones by the curb and the horse’s head strained against the checkrein. The driver, stupid man, yanked on the reins while shouting an unending barrage of abuse.
Anger flaring, Dev approached just as the terrified horse reared in the traces and plunged forward straight toward a pair of young boys on bicycles. Dev leaped in front of them. “Move!” he ordered, whipping off his jacket.
