A Most Unusual Match. Sara Mitchell
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eyes as well as her mouth, and nobody would believe her to be anything other than genuine. Nobody except an undercover Secret Service operative whose belief in humanity had just endured another drubbing.
“Oh, you know Mr. Van Eyck. Playing cards at the Casino,” Mrs. Van Eyck babbled along. “Annoying, when the weather is fine, isn’t it? My dear friend Esmeralda—I introduced you the other day, did I not? Her husband’s second cousin is distantly related to Queen Victoria, you know. I was quite mystified to learn your fiancé was unacquainted with him. You did tell me your intended is an earl?”
“I did, but you may have forgotten that dear Neville feels tremendous responsibility for all his family properties. They’re scattered all over the British Isles, not to mention a villa in Italy, so he’s rarely in London.”
Why, the minx was lying! The slightly elevated voice, restless movement of her hands, dilated pupils—subtle signs but clear indications all the same.
More likely her absent fiancé was a butcher from Cleveland, or some gout-riddled banker twice her age. She might even be lying about having an intended at all. The particulars could be supplied with time. All that mattered for the moment was that Miss Pickford had an association with one of the suspects on Devlin’s list, that she felt no qualms in wandering about without escort or chaperone and that she was a liar.
Too bad for you, darling, Dev thought. He detested liars, personally as well as professionally.
Unless the liar happened to be himself.
His conscience grumbled as it always did when he thought of the deceptions necessary in his undercover work; Dev reminded it that he had sworn an oath to defend the United States against all persons engaged in practices designed to undermine the country’s economic sovereignty. This girl might be another bored society belle, but she was also clearly hiding something. And if that something was of a criminal nature, she might be in league with the Hotel Hustler himself, given the winsomeness of her charm.
Casually he stepped around Mrs. Van Eyck, placing himself within touching distance of Miss Pickford.
“Miss Pickford! Good afternoon.” He doffed his straw boater and bowed, his smile deepening at her look of consternation. “What a stroke of good fortune to find you in this crush. I just arrived from London last night. Neville was overjoyed to learn my visit to Saratoga would coincide with yours. He planned to send you a telegram—did you receive it? Well, never mind, what matters is the special message for you, that he asked me to pass along in person.” He leaned forward, adding in a dramatic whisper, “We should probably retire to somewhere more private. Since Mrs. Chudd is happily reading in the parlor, so much the better.”
“How thrilling,” Mrs. Van Eyck cooed, “to have something more…physical…than a telegram or letter bringing word from your beloved.” Her eyes twinkled. “Do join me later, Miss Pickford, and share everything this handsome messenger imparts. Young couples in love liven things up. Brings back happy memories of myself and Mr. Van Eyck, three decades ago.”
“I don’t think…” Miss Pickford began as she fumbled to open a brightly colored Chinese fan. “I didn’t receive a telegram.”
“Well, it’s doubtless waiting at the desk. We’ll fetch it later.” Devlin clasped her elbow in a display of seeming gallantry which also effectively edged Mrs. Van Eyck farther away. “Is this heat too much for you? Let me escort you over to that patch of shade under the elms.”
“Yes, of course.”
Beneath the flimsy lawn overblouse he could feel the tensile strength of her slender forearm. A twitch of puzzlement feathered the base of Devlin’s neck. For an accomplished flirt and a liar to boot, at close quarters Miss Pickford struck him as…fresh, unspoiled, even. Untainted by the slight aura of dissipation that hovered around Saratoga. He could lose himself in those expressive dark brown eyes. Her bones were those of a finely bred Arabian instead of the massive draft horses he bred and trained at StoneHill.
Something didn’t fit here.
Grimly he focused his attention back on the plump, perspiring Mrs. Van Eyck. “Forgive me for absconding with your friend. I wouldn’t intrude except I’m planning to attend the races—the first is at one forty-five, I believe. Before that I’m to meet someone at Hathorn Spring, so have little time to spare. Miss Pickford? Shall we?”
Two spots of red now burned in the young lady’s magnolia cheeks, but the tangled emotions swimming through her eyes jarred Devlin. He’d expected anger and possibly a show of outrage….
“I’ll try to see you later, Mrs. Van Eyck,” Miss Pickford promised, twisting her neck to address the older woman and in the process managing to discreetly free her arm.
“Dear Neville is a dreadful tease. This past spring he sent a young fellow dressed like a medieval troubadour to my house. I was treated to a ballad—poorly sung, I’m afraid—about all of Neville’s goings-on that week.”
Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips curled in a smile as she moved the fan back and forth in front of her face, possibly to disguise a significant “tell”: the corners of her eyes didn’t crinkle, which told Devlin her smile, like Miss Pickford, was artificial.
“How droll,” Mrs. Van Eyck offered after a pause.
“Yes, isn’t it? Um…I’ll speak with this gentleman, then how about if I meet you at the Congress Spring Pavilion? Say, in a quarter of an hour?”
Between the two of them, Mrs. Van Eyck didn’t stand a chance. After a final sideways perusal of Devlin, she retreated.
“You’re quite good,” he began, “though might have been safer promising to meet her at—”
“I much prefer to converse with a gentleman if I know his name, especially when he claims to be acquainted with my fiancé.” She stood still, fan now dangling forgotten from her wrist. One hand was planted on her hip, but the other had curled into a fist at her side.
So she wanted to prolong the game, did she? “Ah. How remiss of me. Devlin Stone, of StoneHill Farm, Virginia, at your service, Miss Pickford.”
“I thought I detected a Southern drawl.” For a moment she seemed to hesitate before tossing her head. A fine pair of amethyst earrings dangled in the sunlight. “Well? What is the message dear Neville requested you to deliver? You have a meeting with someone and races to attend, after all. You’d best get on with the delivery before you’re late for your appointment.”
“You’ve got me, ma’am.” Devlin swept an astute appraisal over her person, noting how the pulse in her throat now fluttered faster than the second hand on his pocket watch. He wished he didn’t admire her nerve as much as he did her creamy skin. “I’ve actually never met your dear Neville. I overheard your conversation with Mrs. Van Eyck, and couldn’t resist the opportunity to meet a lovely lady.”
“I doubt that very much, Mr. Stone.” Humor flitted across her face—the second honest emotion she’d revealed.
“Mrs. Van Eyck is devoted to her husband. She might be diverted by the dimples in your cheeks, but she would never dream of establishing a liaison with a strange man, no matter how attractive. Now if you’ll excuse me, I did promise to meet her. I’ll pass along your regrets.”
She stepped back into a bar of sunlight while Devlin struggled to untangle the mess her wit, and her poise, had made of his mind. For the first time he noticed the scattering of faint pockmarks that marred the creamy complexion in several places. For some reason, after her magnificent charade the slight imperfections tilted his opinion in favor of charity instead of contempt.
Ruthlessly Dev squashed the emotion. “Before you leave, do you think you’ll be running into Mr. Fane again soon? He’s an attractive, personable fellow, isn’t he? And one of the country’s richest men. I wonder how your fiancé would feel, knowing of your interest in someone whose reputation with the ladies is ofttimes…less than gentlemanly?”
She gawked at him. “You know Edgar Fane?”