Free A Most Unusual Match by Sara Mitchell Page B

her stomach thawed as the rest of the waitstaff efficiently drew attention away from her.
    Another lady made some remark about the superb quality of the meal and queried if anyone planned to attend the concert at Convention Hall the following night. Someone else across from her responded, and the atmosphere smoothed into gaiety once more.
    Later, while coffee was being served, Edgar Fane leaned over to Thea, his voice pitched so only she could hear. “I have obligations for the rest of the week, but I must see you again. Will you join me for a private dinner, next Tuesday night? Just the two of us this time?”
    Another eddy of dizziness warned Thea to stall; she ignored it. She had survived an evening with Edgar Fane and his friends, so the worst of the attacks must be under control. “I’d be honored—as long as you fetch me yourself, and leave Mr. Simpson to whatever other duties he performs for you.”
    â€œAh. Humor, principles and pride. Miss Pickford, I just might come to find you irresistible.”
    Panic leaped through her like a sword flashing in moonlight. “Then beware, Mr. Fane,” she retorted, and tossed her head. “At the moment, I am not inclined to reciprocate.”
    Â 
    Devlin loved rainy days. He could think better, more clearly, on days when rain drummed on the roof and splattered on the earth.
    Or at least he could until Miss Pickford-Lang erupted into his life. Something about the elusive lady didn’t fit, either her dogged pursuit of Edgar Fane, or the secrecy and lies. All clear markers of malfeasance, yet Devlin was ready to stake his reputation on her innocence. Restless, he prowled the two-bedroom suite he’d rented in the Cottage Wing of the United States Hotel, alternatively casting glances through the windows at the rain and the writing table covered with documents, reports and reams of information he’d been analyzing for—he tugged out his pocket watch—for six tedious hours.
    Dev wearily plowed a hand through his hair. I could resign, turn the Hotel Hustler case over to somebody else. Despite pouring heart, soul and a significant stash of his own money into this case, Operative Stone had precious little to show for his efforts.
    The fleeting impulse to quit trampled him like stampeding hooves. Dev rolled his head to relax the knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders.
    â€œYou’re such a sap,” he muttered aloud. Then, jaw set, he picked up the daily report he’d been working on for the last few hours. “…concluded the female Miss Lang, aka Pickford, in need of closer surveillance, due to unflagging interest in E. F. Will await instructions while maintaining present persona.”
    Was it possible to sound more priggish? With a muffled imprecation Dev tossed the weekly report back on the heap of papers, snagged his umbrella from the stand by the door then strode from the room. Back in Virginia he never used the contraptions; here they offered a valuable aid to anonymity.
    When he reached the entrance to Congress Park he realized it had been his destination all along—a place to satisfy his hunger for green spaces, for a patch of earth that retained at least a partial resemblance to nature as God created it. Dev paid for his ten-cent ticket, skirted the elaborate Arcade and the few visitors sipping hot coffee in one of the colonnade cafés and headed toward the center of the park. Due to the rain, pathways and lawns were deserted. He might have been tramping across a wooded meadow at StoneHill, except for the blurred outline of the music pavilion with its quaint domed roof. Weather permitting, the band played concerts there every afternoon. Today, happily, weather did not permit. Unable to resistthe novelty of having the space to himself, Dev headed for the ramp over the pond.
    Then between the decorative cast-iron posts, he spied a solitary figure seated in one of the band chairs. Disappointment ripped