Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

One of the anglers near the end of the landing was a woman, dressed in some sort of striped skirt, yellow overblouse and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Lake breezes stirred the blue-and-yellow ribbons tied around the crown and dangling provocatively down the woman’s back. She was alone, the closest other fisherman a dozen yards away. When she half turned, Dev caught a glimpse of her face. The punch of disbelief—and elation—left him disoriented.

Theodora Pickford. Fishing alone, from the dock where Edgar Fane would shortly disembark?

Why should he be surprised? Dev shook his head. Though supposedly engaged to a supposedly beloved British aristocrat, the Jezebel had professed an interest in Devlin—and Edgar Fane—from the moment Dev met her.

On the other hand, he might be judging her too harshly. He wasn’t in the best of humors, after all. And all right, he admitted to himself that the memory of their encounter in the barn burned in his brain like a brand.

His father, dead before Devlin’s tenth birthday, would have thanked God for “arranging” this encounter, proclaiming it divine assistance. Dev however saw no reason to interpret Miss Pickford’s presence here as anything other than deliberate design on her part, and luck on his. No divine intervention, no proof that God invested any interest in the species He’d created, and perhaps now regretted.

Absently Devlin kicked a pebble, his gaze on Theodora Pickford’s distant silhouette. He was an independently wealthy man with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and a restless soul. Two years earlier he’d gone to Washington looking for a half brother, and instead of returning home to StoneHill Farm, he’d become a Secret Service operative. On a good day, Devlin liked to think his path to the nation’s capitol two years ago had been part of his destiny. That he had something to offer a world far beyond the boundaries of StoneHill, something grander, something…ordained. Something that kindled the internal jolt of satisfaction he felt when a herd of horses cantered over to greet him.

He’d never expected to experience that jolt just from looking at a woman who most likely he’d be arresting one day soon.

He retraced his steps to his livery horse. Late-afternoon sunlight sheened the lake in gold and tinted streamers of wispy clouds a deep rose-pink. Steadily chugging toward the landing, the narrow-nosed steamer skimmed across the water, returning Miss Pickford’s unwitting human catch to shore.

Perhaps he should warn Edgar Fane.

Instead Dev settled back against the tree trunk and watched. Sweat trickled down his temple; absently he swiped the droplets away, lifting his face to the light breeze, and waited. The Alice arrived at the landing and passengers swarmed onto the dock, their voices loud in the peaceful late afternoon. With scarcely a glance they streamed past Miss Pickford and the other anglers. Miss Pickford suddenly began a wild struggle with her fishing pole. Several passengers paused to observe, and over the swell of a dozen conversations Dev heard her breathless voice.

“I’ve been here for hours, and was about to give up. Oh—” Her upper body jerked, then steadied as she wrestled against the taut line. “No, no, don’t help me. It’s very exciting, isn’t it? I hope it’s a largemouth bass. My grandfather is…” The rest of her words faded into the general babble.

A small crowd gathered, blocking Dev’s view. He un hurriedly ducked beneath the gelding’s neck to better monitor Fane’s passage to shore, noting the instant the man’s attention turned from the boat captain to Miss Pickford. Poor fool, Dev thought. Fane laughed and took a step toward the siren seducing him with her fishing antics, even as a shapely debutante decked out in a ridiculous mimicry of a sailor suit wrapped possessive fingers around his forearm.

Without warning, Miss Pickford emitted a cry of surprise, her arms stretching taut while she fought to haul in her catch, which suddenly soared out of the water in a graceful arc and landed wetly six inches from Edgar Fane’s feet.

“I caught it!” she exclaimed, at last turning to face her spellbound audience. “Did you see? What kind of fish—oh.” Even from twenty feet away Dev could read the emotions tumbling across her face—surprise, sheepishness, amusement…and guilt. “Why…it’s a—a shoe! I’ve been fighting for ages, over a shoe?”

Laughter tittered through the group. Dev wandered closer.

“How embarrassing.” Miss Pickford addressed Fane, a becoming shade of pink tinting her cheeks the same hue as the clouds. “I beg your pardon. Did my shoe ruin yours?”

The artful question, with its tint of good-natured humor, secured Edgar Fane’s unswerving interest, Devlin noted. Miss Pickford had cast her lures with masterful expertise.

“Not at all.” Fane leaned to pick up the “catch.” “At least, not compared to this poor old thing.”

“I suppose we could ask the cook at Briggs House if he’s willing to try a fillet of sole?” Miss Pickford ventured, and the entire crowd burst into appreciative laughter.

“Ha! Not only a lovely angler, but a humorist, as well. I’m delighted to meet you, Miss—it is Miss, I hope?”

“Well…unofficially I do have a fiancé, but he’s in Europe at the moment.” After an appropriately timed pause she added, “My chaperone might not approve, but this is 1897, after all. Practically a new century, time to dispense with so many cumbersome formalities.” And the chit had the audacity to offer her hand. “Miss Pickford. I’m very glad my catch didn’t land in your face.”

“Miss Pickford. Edgar Fane, at your service.” He bowed, the gesture courteous but mocking. “Tell me, Miss Pickford, do you also bowl and don bloomers to ride a bicycle? Play tennis and golf? I’m intrigued by this new concept of femininity, unashamed to engage in all manner of outdoor sport. We must get together. Here’s my card. Simpson? Where are you, man? Ah…this is Simpson, my personal secretary. Simpson, I’m hoping Miss Pickford will dine with me one evening this week. Can you check my schedule, and make arrangements? Miss Pickford? I look forward to sharing more of your exploits.”

And with a final lingering perusal he left her with his secretary and joined the rest of his guests. They clattered down the landing and dispersed into various buggies and carriages, the secretary following a moment later. The pier was soon deserted save for Miss Pickford and a couple of other fishermen who steadfastly kept their backs to her. One of the trolleys that ran from the lake to the village clanged its pending arrival at the Briggs House hotel. Devlin’s attention never diverted from the lone woman who stood at the end of the pier. She stared out over the lake, fishing pole drooping lifelessly in her hand. Nearby, the remaining anglers began gathering their equipment, likely intending to catch the last trolley.

Suddenly Miss Pickford leaned down, scooped up the shoe and heaved both it and the fishing pole into the lake. Then she whirled and marched down the landing, passing within a dozen paces of the tree where Devlin waited, a silent, cynical witness to her performance. Eschewing the trolley, she set out walking along the edge of the road back to town.

What kind of woman walked four miles when transportation was readily available? Certainly she’d hoped to secure a ride in Edgar Fane’s private omnibus, but with that hope dashed she had nothing to gain now but blisters.

“Shortsighted a bit, weren’t you?” Devlin commented aloud after she disappeared around a bend in the road. He climbed into the runabout. “Well, let’s see what kind of line you’ll try on me.”

Ten minutes along the road, however, he still hadn’t overtaken her. The sky was deepening to twilight, the trolley long gone and only three other horse-drawn conveyances and several bicyclists had passed; serve him right if Miss Pickford had accepted a ride in someone else’s buggy. His report to headquarters would have to detail the account of how Operative Stone allowed both parties he’d been shadowing to slip through his fingers. Grimly he searched both sides of the road, slowing the horse to a plodding walk. Even so, in the gathering darkness he almost missed the flash of color behind a clump of bushes.