A Most Unusual Match. Sara Mitchell

ring was my grandmother’s,” she retorted in a tone frosted with ice. The wobbly-kneed girl he’d ministered to had metamorphosed into the most dangerous of all species: an angry woman. “You made me want to trust you, and I’m ashamed of myself for that. Thank you for your kindness. I won’t trouble you further. If we have the misfortune to meet again, I promise to ignore you. And for your information, Neville was an earl.”

      She made as if to leap from the cart. Dev grabbed her arm. “Sorry.”

      “You ought to be. Let me go.”

      “Not until you accept my apology.” Beneath his fingers her arm tensed. In a soothing motion he slid his hand down to her wrist, keeping the grip gentle, yet unbreakable.

      “Besides, I would never abandon a lady I’d just rescued until she was safely home.”

      “Even if the lady wishes otherwise?”

      “A dilemma, to be sure, Miss—what did you say your real name was again?”

      “Lang—” Her lips pressed together.

      A glaring beam from a nearby streetlight illuminated her face, allowing Devlin to witness the battle of emotions. Lang… Something tingled at the back of his neck, an elusive fragment of knowledge that vanished when her pursed lips softened in a Mona Lisa smile. She was disheveled, her attire wrinkled and soiled; dirt was smeared across one cheek. Yet that half smile somehow captured his heart and it swelled like a hot air balloon.

      Panic skittered through him. “Ah. So it’s Miss…Lang. Strange. Neither name really fits you.” All the newly restored color leached from her complexion. Insensitive clod, he reprimanded himself. “I’ll escort you to the lobby. Shall I have a bellhop fetch Mrs. Chudd to help you to your room?” He distracted her with verbal rambling while casually monitoring the pulse in her wrist. “How about if I call on you in the morning, say ten o’clock? I believe the band is scheduled to play a medley of popular tunes. Have you enjoyed the pleasures of Congress Springs Park?”

      “Yes, I love the park. It’s very peaceful, even with all the other people. Mr. Stone, I accept your apology. But I don’t think it’s wise for us to meet again. I don’t want to encourage your false impressions of me, and I don’t want to—could you please let go of my wrist?” She waited, her dark gaze unwavering, until Dev complied. The Mona Lisa smile flickered, then she passed her tongue over her lips and cleared her throat. “Thank you. I wish…I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

      And before he could think of an appropriate response, she jumped out of the runabout and marched off toward the hotel. Though she garnered several strange looks from evening strollers, she sailed past with the regal poise of a duchess.

      A man was in a wheelbarrow full of trouble when watching the back of a woman made his pulse rate spike and his fingers tingle.

      Chapter Nine

      The invitation from Edgar Fane arrived two days later. Thea read the lazy scrawl of words, with every breath a dull spike lodging deeper in her chest. So. Her wish had come true at last, but the fulfillment was tinged with the taste of gall: Dinner at Mr. Canfield’s Casino was not the scenario she had envisioned.

      The Casino might enjoy a reputation for first-class cuisine, and it might be patronized by the country’s wealthiest and most powerful personages. But for Thea the dignified red brick building also housed a glittering palace of iniquity, a den of vice, preying upon weak minds with more money than common sense. From local gossip she’d learned that reformers had managed to close down the gambling there for a couple of years, but like the racecourse it had reopened for this summer’s season.

      She should have known a wretch like Edgar Fane would entertain guests at a gambling palace.

      Her father loved gambling more than anything else on earth, including his family. He’d been playing roulette the night he’d met Thea’s mother. After winning a small fortune, he convinced himself, and her, that together they’d change the course of each other’s lives. In a way, he was right. The unwelcome appearance of a baby nine months later introduced an equally unwelcome dose of reality.

      Her father dumped Theodora with a letter of apology on her grandparents’ doorstep, then disappeared for three years. Only the infrequent postcards reassured the family that he was alive. Charles and Mathilda Langston loved her as their own; until she died Mathilda never gave up believing the prodigal son would see the error of his ways. But some of Thea’s earliest lessons, learned snuggled in Grandfather’s lap, included the evils of gambling.

      Apparently she had shed that particular lesson along with her conscience. Life, she reminded herself defiantly, was an uncertain stew of happenstance.

      So for thirty-six hours Thea suffered a Coney Island roller-coaster ride of elation, fear, guilt and determination. Now the time was at hand, and she would not, would not permit the shy, morally upstanding little girl she used to be to dominate her thoughts. Tonight she planned to practice every feminine wile she’d gleaned from years of reading literature and talking to many of the authors of it who enjoyed “rusticating” on Staten Island. By the end of the meal Edgar Fane would…he would—

      Mrs. Chudd poked her head through the door to Thea’s room. “Bellhop’s here. A Mr. Simpson is waiting for you in the lobby,” she announced in her flat nasal voice.

      “Have the bellhop tell Mr. Simpson I’ll be right down.” Nerves cramped her stomach and chilled her skin.

      “Mrs. Chudd? Won’t you come along? It would be more appropriate.”

      “Got no use for rich food.” She skimmed a long look at Thea, her pale eyes briefly flickering with curiosity. “You been fine all month, ferdiddling on your own. So I’ll stay here, same as usual.” Jaw jutting, she nodded twice, started to turn away. “Not having a spell, are you?”

      “No.” Thea forced her lips to stretch in a rubbery smile, and beneath the satin-and-lace evening gown locked her knees. “I’m fine.”

      “Humph. Then I’ll fetch my knitting, finish this sweater for my grandnephew. You might want to be careful what you eat.”

      “Ah, Miss Pickford. You’re a vision to behold,” Mr. Fane declared upon meeting her and Mr. Simpson at the entrance to the Casino’s dining room. He himself looked very much the wealthy gentleman in his black evening suit and blinding white waistcoat. “Quite a dramatic change from the intrepid angler who reeled in a shoe.” Mischievous brown eyes twinkled; to avoid looking at him Thea glanced around the crowded dining room.

      “I’ve ordered us filet of sole for the entrée,” he continued easily, a secret laugh embedded in the words. “I hope you approve.”

      Thea finally managed to tear her awestruck gaze away from the rows of stained glass ceiling panels, and the equally glittering rows of tables full of guests, all of them staring at Thea and Edgar Fane. Either win him now, or justice will be denied forever. She squared her shoulders, lifted a hand to lightly brush her grandmother’s cameo brooch, a steadying touch to bolster her resolve. “I trust all the laces have been removed from my catch so they don’t get caught between our teeth,” she replied.

      Mr. Fane threw back his head and laughed out loud. “I think I’m going to like you very much, Miss Pickford. Who knows? You might turn out to be the catch of the day.”

      “Mr. Fane, I might say the same about you.”

      He laughed again, then led her between rows of circular tables to the back of the room, where a party of ten—six ladies, four gentlemen—watched their approach with the intensity of a pack of jackals about to tear into the carcass. “I’ve asked some friends to join us,” Mr. Fane explained. “Less…intimate, and safer for you at this stage of our acquaintance.” With a flourishing bow he pulled out one of the empty chairs. A folded card with “Miss Pickford” written in formal script sent an oily shiver down Thea’s spine. He gestured to the woman seated beside her place.

      “This