Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

But if she couldn’t procure justice, and restore Charles Langston’s faith, she saw no reason to waste time on her own.

As for Devlin Stone, she would ignore the prickle of attraction, maintain her distance with the laughing quips and smiling rebuffs that had thus far served her well with other flirtatious men. By the time Theodora Langst— The mental lapse stabbed her like a hatpin. For the rest of the way to the track she mentally repeated her assumed name—Theodora Pickford, Thea Pickford…Miss Pickford—and envisaged herself the privileged heiress whose beauty, grace and supreme self-confidence had won the love of a dashing Englishman. Is Neville a baron, or an earl? Inside her frilly lace gloves Thea’s palms turned clammy; she gripped her lace parasol more tightly.

Her cause was just, her purpose noble, she reminded herself staunchly in a mantra repeated often these past weeks. The only person who would be hurt by her actions was the man who deserved it. Sometimes the end did justify the means.

It was ten minutes until post time when the load of passengers descended onto the velvet green lawns surrounding the racetrack. The crowd streaming into the grandstands looked to number in the thousands, not the hundred or so Thea had naively anticipated. Spotting Mr. Stone would be more difficult than she’d anticipated. Stalling, she opened her parasol and hoped she looked as though she expected her escort to appear any second. Beneath broad-trunked shade trees, jockeys fidgeted while trainers saddled the horses for the next race. Striped tents fluttered in a stray breeze, shading hundreds of race goers. Dust filmed the air. At one end of the sweeping slate-roofed grandstands she noticed a separate, open-sided structure full of odd-looking little stalls on stilts.

“What’s going on over there?” she asked a passing gentleman studying a copy of the Daily Saratogian.

“Betting ring, ma’am. But that one’s only for the gents. Ladies’ betting is up on the top landing, rear of the grandstand. You a maiden filly, right? Well, you’re in luck. Track was closed last year. But you can see for yourself the people have spoken, and the sport of kings is back at Saratoga. You go on up there, purchase yourself a ticket. Rensselaer looks good in the Travers. Good luck to you, miss.”

“Thank you,” Thea said faintly, staring after the man.

Older, shadowy emotions stirred inside, greasy splotches of childhood memories. One of the cards her father had sent to her years ago had been postmarked “Saratoga Springs.” Now, though surrounded by faces full of excitement and nervous anticipation, for some reason she had to fight the urge to weep. In the distance a bell clanged several times, and the surge of humanity pressed upon her, sweeping her up in their rush to reach the stands.

Theodora, you dinglebrain, what were you thinking? She would never reach the stands, much less succeed in locating Devlin Stone in this sea of faces.

Abruptly she turned, elbowing her way through all the bodies rushing in the opposite direction. Breathing hard, she at last reached a broad dirt avenue, and her gaze fixed upon the less-peopled stables to the southeast of the track. Perhaps over there she could snatch a moment or two of privacy, just enough to stiffen her spine again and set her to rights. She wasn’t deserting the field of battle, nor abandoning her quest. She just needed to hush a few unpleasant voices from her childhood, and to come up with a more workable plan to locate Devlin Stone.

Upon reaching the stable area Thea was disconcerted to find herself confronted by a stern-faced man, standing with folded arms under the boughs of a massive pine. At her approach he shoved back the rim of his bowler hat and looked her over.

“You an owner, miss? Not supposed to let race goers wander hereabouts unescorted.”

“I’m…I’m looking for my escort, a Mr. Stone?”

She was taken aback when the suspicion on the man’s face relaxed into friendliness. “Ah, he’s been here for a bit. Nice feller, told me about his horse farm in Virginia. Sure has that Southern drawl, though.” He tugged out a brightly patterned handkerchief and dabbed his sweaty forehead, then gestured toward the stables. “Go ahead, miss, but mind your step and your skirt. It’s not as busy, now the racing’s commenced. But you stay clear o’ that aisle.” He pointed. “Trainers are bringing out the horses for the next race, owners are jawing at the jockeys, the horses can be fractious. So don’t go bothering them none, else you’ll get us both in Dutch.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind. And I’ll be very careful.” Flummoxed by her extraordinary luck, Thea smiled at the guard, closed her parasol and strolled with thudding heart toward the cool shadowed aisles in stables devoid of activity. Several grooms glanced over at her distractedly but nobody challenged her presence. By the time she reached a row of stalls near the back, the only person she had encountered was another groom, dozing on a fruit crate, his cap pulled over his eyes. All the stalls in this row were empty.

Earthy scents surrounded her, of hay and oats and leather and manure, all overlaid by the lazy heat of sunshine on old wood.

Gradually the knots in Thea’s stomach unsnarled; she slipped down the cool, deserted aisle, then with more confidence approached the next row of stalls. A couple of stable boys touched their caps to her as she passed; some curious equine heads poked over stall doors, ears perked, nostrils whiffing. One horse, a chestnut with a white stripe down his forehead, nickered softly. Thea had never been around horses much, but after the tumultuous activity elsewhere, the tranquility here tugged her heart. Soon she found herself edging close enough to gingerly pat the chestnut’s muzzle, which was softer than a fur muff. Warm air gusted from flared nostrils as the animal nudged her hand. Delighted, for a moment she savored the interaction, the unfamiliar scents swirling pleasantly around her. Then the horse retreated back into his stall, and with a lighter step Thea continued down the aisle. For the first time in her life she began to understand the compulsion to participate, even with only binoculars and betting tickets, in a sport where a rider harnessed himself to the horse and flew like the wind.

When she turned the next corner her gaze froze on the figure of a man standing a dozen paces away, his back to Thea. One of his arms draped companionably around a horse’s neck, and Thea could hear the soft Southern cadences of his voice speaking to the animal. The pose struck her as almost intimate, and she found herself unable to shatter the peacefulness of the moment. Instead, drawn by a yearning that caught her even more off guard, Thea crept closer until she could hear Mr. Stone’s words.

“…treating you like they should? You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you? For a Thoroughbred, that is. I’m used to something more substantial, say a Suffolk punch, or a Percheron? Magnificent horses, they are, and easily twice your size. But you’d put ’em to shame on a racetrack. Ah…easy, son. Touchy spot? Sorry. How about here, on the poll… Yeah, you like that, do you? That sweet spot between your ears, where the cranium meets the vertebrae.”

Mesmerized, Thea watched the calm authority of his hands, deftly moving over every part of the racehorse he could reach from forehead to neck, moving only his arms. Never had she known a man could build such a connection with a beast that most likely weighed over a thousand pounds. Unlike the friendly but aloof horse that had allowed her brief pat before turning away, the horse with Mr. Stone had lowered his head over the stall door. The two of them looked as though they were, well, talking to each other.