Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

Thea weathered the blow—it was justified. “I didn’t think a harmless fabrication would hurt anyone…” Her voice trailed into silence.

“And when nothing worked, you got desperate.”

“Desperate,” she repeated. “Have you ever been desperate, Mr. Stone? About anything?”

“Yes. But never enough to cheat, or beg or deceive.”

“Then you’ve never been desperate.”

“I don’t know what to think of you, Miss Pickford. Is that your real name, by the way?”

“It’s actually my mother’s maiden name.” He slid the question in so neatly Thea answered before she realized it. “Please don’t ask for my real name. I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“Ah.” Another one of those flicks of blue light came and went in his eyes. “We’re in accord, then. I don’t want to be lied to.”

A popular and highly acclaimed author in the Christian market, Sara’s aim is to depict the struggle between the challenges of everyday life and the values to which our faith would have us aspire. The author of contemporary, historical suspense and historical novels, her work has been published by many inspirational book publishers.

Having lived in diverse locations from Georgia to California to Great Britain, her extensive travel experience helps her create authentic settings for her books. A lifelong music lover, Sara has also written several musical dramas and has long been active in the music miniseries of the churches wherever she has lived. The mother of two daughters, Sara now lives in Virginia.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Do not say, “I’ll pay you back for this wrong!”

Wait for the Lord, and He will deliver you.

—Proverbs 20:22, NIV

He hath…sent me to heal the brokenhearted,

to preach deliverance to the captives,

and recovering of sight to the blind,

to set at liberty them that are bruised.

—Luke 4:18, KJV

To Melissa Endlich, my dear editor, for her consummate editorial skill, and her faith in me.

Thanks for everything.

Profound thanks to the following, all of whom were gracious with their time and generous with their information. Any historical errors are entirely the author’s doing.

Once again to the staff members in the U.S. Secret Service Office of Government and Public Affairs, and the staff of the U.S. Secret Service Archives, for their courtesy and invaluable assistance.

Saratoga Springs, New York

Mary Ann Fitzgerald, City Historian, Saratoga Springs

Allan Carter, Historian, Saratoga Racing Museum

…and all the other wonderful individuals up in Saratoga Springs I spoke to a time or two, or exchanged emails with.

Jekyl Island

Gretchen Greminger, Curator, Jekyl Island—spelled “Jekyll” from the 20th century onward! (so nobody will be confused….)

Clint and the rest of the staff at the Jekyll Island Museum.

Gretchen, many, many thanks for helping me perfect the plot and make it work! You’re a perfect example of a peach of a Georgia gal!

God’s blessings to one and all.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Saratoga Springs, New York

June, 1897

Theodora Langston watched Edgar Fane stroll across the lobby of the Grand Union Hotel. A half smile lurked at the corners of his mouth, while a swelling crowd—mostly ladies—clustered about him. His gray fedora tipped forward jauntily and one pale hand lightly swung a brass-handled walking stick, tapping the marble foyer with each step. Mr. Fane epitomized a gentleman out to enjoy his season at Saratoga Springs. He had the right, seeing he was a son of one of the richest men in the country.

Thea watched him, and her heart burned with hatred.

As he passed the marbled pillar where she stood, the indifferent gaze passed over her as though Thea were part of the pillar. Edgar Fane, she had discovered over the past ten days, preferred his female admirers long and willowy and adoring, or dainty and luscious and adoring. She could feign adoration, but since her unextraordinary face and physique failed to capture the scoundrel’s interest, Thea would have to try a different strategy. She had spent the last of her deceased grandmother’s trust fund on this crusade, and would not abandon her quest until Edgar Fane was behind bars, where he belonged.

Her troubled glance fell upon Grandmother’s ruby ring, snug on Thea’s engagement finger. She was accustomed to ink from a printing press, not fancy rings. Still, the facade of wealth was necessary to gain access to the higher echelons of Saratoga Springs society. Justice did not come cheaply. The ring might be real, all the lavish gowns she’d purchased from Bloomingdale’s with the rest of the trust money might be the latest fashion, but she was living a lie.

She could hear her grandfather’s voice as though she were standing in their library on that rainy afternoon a month earlier. Thea, you mustn’t think such things about him. He had sounded so gentle. Gentle, and defeated. Mr. Fane proclaimed his innocence with equal vehemence. No proof of malfeasance on his part has surfaced.

You are innocent, but you’re the one they arrested, you’re the one those awful Secret Service operatives treated like a common criminal!

I was the one who tried to deposit counterfeit funds.

But it was Edgar Fane who had paid Charles Langston with those bogus funds.

The burning hatred inside Thea seethed, cauterizing her heart. No use to pray for forgiveness, or ask for divine help. Her grandfather could pray all he wanted to, but Thea doubted God would oblige Charles Langston with an answer. Because of Edgar Fane, her grandfather’s faith had dimmed to the stub of a barely flickering candle. As for Thea, life had finally forced her to swallow an unpalatable truth: She could not trust anyone—God or man—to see justice served. If she wanted Edgar Fane to be punished for his crimes, she’d have to do it herself.