Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

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.

The two boys scrambled for safety but the horse swung his head around, ears flat and teeth bared. Devlin grabbed the driving reins just behind the bit, then flung his jacket over the blinkers to completely blind the horse.

“Easy, boy…calm down, you’re all right. Nobody’s going to hurt you now.”

“Hey! Whadaya think you’re doing?” the driver yelled, sawing on the reins in a vain attempt to regain control.

With his free hand Dev reached for his pocketknife. “Probably saving this animal’s life, and unfortunately yours,” he responded in the same soothing tone as he lifted the knife, slicing both reins twelve inches from the bit. “There you are, fella. No more pressure on your mouth. That’s it…just relax.”

He dropped the knife back in his trouser pocket, unlatched the checkrein. The driver’s complexion had gone from the boiling flush of rage to dirty-sheet gray. Good. Devlin held his palm in front of the horse’s nostrils, waiting until a hot fluttering breath gently blew over his fingers before he slowly removed his jacket. A single quiver rolled through the flanks, but the horse stood still, watching Devlin.

“Good boy. You’re all right.” He applied light forward pressure and the horse docilely allowed Dev to lead him across Broadway onto a calm side street.

Devlin turned to the driver. “Get out of the buggy.”

“I’m not paying for the harness you ruined,” the man complained, climbing stiffly down from the surrey.

“How about you shut up and hand me the rest of the reins?” Before Devlin pummeled the bounder himself.

The lash of temper did the trick, for without further argument the man complied. In seconds Dev formed a makeshift hackamore, and secured the end to a hitching post.

“You know horses well enough,” the driver observed grudgingly. “Guess I owe you. Don’t know what spooked the stupid animal.”

“Try having a piece of metal crammed in your mouth, then have someone yank on it until it bleeds.” Devlin eyed the other man with disfavor.

“Yeah…well, I don’t usually do my own driving.” He glanced at the now-quiet horse, a flicker of admiration warring with the sneer. “Anytime you want a job as coachman, look me up.” He reached into his vest pocket and tugged out an ivory calling card.

“No, thanks. I’d have to be around you.” Devlin rummaged for a fifty-cent piece, flicked it so the coin fell with a soft thud onto the packed dirt inches from the man’s shiny shoes. “Enjoy a cup of coffee at the Congress Spring Pavilion. I’ll return this animal. Where’d you rent him? The livery on Henry Street? By the way, you are right about one thing.” He waited a moment before continuing, “I strongly suggest you do hire a driver. Because if I catch you mistreating a horse again, rest assured you’ll feel a lot worse than the animal.”

The driver bristled anew. Then, jaw muscles working, with his heel he ground the coin into the dirt, swiveled and stalked off down the street.

An hour later, mostly recovered, Devlin stood on the piazza of the Grand Union Hotel, surrounded by a herd of chattering humanity instead of a spooked horse in a herd of Broadway traffic. He wished, not for the first time, that he was back in Virginia, surrounded by his own horses, none of which had ever known the cruelty that poor livery hack endured. The pasture would be lush and green, and if he looked up he would see the ancient Blue Ridge Mountains against a summer sky instead of rows of massive white marble columns supporting a structure billed as the largest hotel in the world.

Over the aroma of ladies’ French perfume and men’s sweat he caught a whiff of popcorn. Maneuvering his way between a cluster of ladies debating on whether to visit Tiffany’s before or after a promenade along Broadway, Devlin shouldered his way over to the vendor to buy a bag of popcorn.

Bright summer sunshine poured over Saratoga, onto the twenty-plus thousand tourists enjoying a season at the place touted as “America’s Resort.” An ironic smile hovered at the corners of Devlin’s mouth. How many of the guests would scramble for the first train leaving the depot if they knew an operative for the U.S. Secret Service prowled among them?

Perhaps he should have flashed his badge at that lout earlier—except Dev was here undercover, the badge and credentials safely hidden in his own hotel room.

Of course few operatives—if any—could spend an entire season playing the part of a wealthy gentleman of leisure. In the first place, Congress would never approve the funds. To Devlin’s way of thinking, such shortsightedness plagued a lot of government officials. He’d only been with the Service for two years, and at the moment did not feel adequate to match wits with the Hotel Hustler.

In only three years, the invisible thief had cost unsuspecting dupes somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty million dollars—and nobody could figure out how he managed it.

The previous autumn, Service hopes had soared when a call came in from the chief of the New York City office; they’d arrested a man at the bank where he tried to pass bills matching the Hustler’s work. Infuriatingly, the man denied all knowledge of counterfeiting, claiming the false bills had come from Edgar Fane. Corroborating evidence could not be found either to support his claims or prove his guilt, and they’d been forced to release Charles Langston. Edgar Fane hadn’t even been arrested, much less charged. Another dead end in this impenetrable maze.

Counterfeiters were a despicable bunch. Pervasive as flies, they swarmed the country, mostly in cities, undermining the national currency. A few of them had committed murder. Over the last decade, for the most part the Service had done a crackerjack job closing down the worst of the gangs.

But the Hotel Hustler had them stumped.