Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  “I do care. I’ve devoted a great deal of time to it, tried countless arrangements of lenses and mirrors, different crystals. I work on it every day. But this isn’t a matter of hard work.”

  “No, it’s a matter of disloyalty,” Gordon snapped.

  Desmond drew back as if he’d slapped him. “Sir. I have never been disloyal to you. I have always done my best to repay what you’ve done for me, to work the hardest and the longest, to be the most thorough.”

  “What else would I call it when you refuse to do the one thing I desperately need? Wallace will leave me, take away all his funds. I’ll never be able to prove my theories. Without the Eye, I’m doomed.”

  “Sir, I’m sure it’s not so dire a situation.” Desmond had never seen the man like this. “You’ll see.”

  “No, I won’t see.” Gordon’s voice was stained with bitterness. He sighed and walked away, taking out his handkerchief to clean his spectacles.

  Desmond watched him. What a tangle this all was. It was sheer happenstance, cosmic bad luck, that had landed the problem of the Eye in his lap at just the same moment he had met Thisbe. Perhaps his aunt was right, and he had been cursed from birth.

  He had only made everything worse by not telling the whole story to Thisbe as soon as he realized who she was. Maybe she would have believed him if he told her that he had no idea of her identity. After all, she had concealed that from him—how was he to know?

  But he had been so frantic to keep Thisbe from suspecting that he had deceived her that he had created even more deception. If she was to find out about the Eye now, after all this time had gone by without Desmond telling her, her reaction would be even worse. He had been in her home, met her family; he had kissed her, held her—all the while keeping this secret. What else could she think but that he had also been deceiving her from the first?

  When she told him today about her fears that her grandmother would be taken advantage of, it had been like a knife to his ribs. She would despise him if he told her the truth now. He would lose her forever, and that was not a risk Desmond was willing to take.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS Desmond left, Thisbe herded the twins back inside despite their protests. In the twins’ rooms, she found one of the upstairs maids, looking glum. Clearly, she had been assigned the task of looking after the boys. Thisbe handed them over and went to her grandmother’s bedchamber. It wasn’t surprising to find the dowager issuing contradictory orders to her hapless maid as the unfortunate woman emptied the drawers and cabinets.

  “Grandmother, what are you doing?” Thisbe was sure she knew the answer.

  The duchess drew herself up to her fullest height, tilting her chin up, and proclaimed, “I am leaving this house, my home, as she wishes.”

  It was never a good sign when Emmeline became “she.”

  “I am sure Mother didn’t tell you to leave Broughton House.”

  “I know when I am not welcome,” Cornelia replied darkly.

  Thisbe turned to the duchess’s personal maid. “I’d like to talk to my grandmother alone, please.”

  “Yes’m.” The woman bobbed a grateful curtsy and hurried out of the room before the dowager duchess could issue a countercommand.

  “Really, Thisbe, you have no right to be ordering Goodwin about.”

  “Yes, I know. But would you rather have the servants privy to our family disagreements?”

  Cornelia gave a little moue of distaste. “Well, what do you have to say? More of her babble about equality?”

  “No. I have no interest in interfering in your long-standing disagreement with Mother. But I am asking you not to leave the house in high dudgeon over it.”

  Thisbe was certain that her grandmother had no intention of departing; she hadn’t even had her trunks brought down from the attic. A threatened departure happened at least once every visit. Cornelia enjoyed creating a disturbance, blaming Emmeline and being pleaded with to stay. That task had once fallen to Thisbe’s father, but in recent years, Thisbe had taken it off the duke’s shoulders. If her pleas didn’t work, she would send in Theo to cajole their grandmother.

  “I am sure my mother had no intention of tossing you out of the house. You know how it will distress Papa. He so dislikes for you and Mother to disagree.”

  “Of course he does. He’s a good son. But he is under her control.”

  “Mother does not control Papa. But he loves her very much, just as he loves you, and if you leave, it will make him terribly unhappy.”

  “I will not have that woman giving me orders.”

  “What did Mother say?” Thisbe knew her mother did her best to be pleasant to the dowager duchess, but sometimes her temper got the best of her. “Did she tell you to leave?”

  “She told me she would not allow your guests to be insulted in that way,” Cornelia said, indignation rising as she remembered the conversation. “She said she expected me to be polite and not say wicked things to innocent young men.”

  “I’m sure what she meant was that she was shocked you said something so untoward, given that she knows you are a very proper woman. One who is always appropriate and courteous.”

  “Ha! As if a country squire’s daughter knows more about proper behavior than I. My father—”

  “Yes, Grandmother, I know.” Thisbe found her own patience wearing thin. “Your father was a count, and he was a very important man. Your mother’s line was equally highborn. But do you think your mother and father would have approved of your rudeness?”

  “I wasn’t rude! I was truthful.”

  “Sometimes one cannot be both truthful and polite. As I remember, you told me that when I asked Lady Montgomery why she had killed squirrels to wear on her arms.”

  Cornelia chuckled at the memory. “It was a mink, I believe, but that stole was a ghastly mistake. Poor Dorothy had no taste whatsoever, I’m afraid.”

  “But she was your friend, and I shouldn’t have spoken so.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Cornelia narrowed her eyes at Thisbe. “But don’t try to cozen me, young lady. It’s not the same thing at all. I am concerned for your safety. There’s no room for manners when my granddaughter is threatened.”

  “Grandmother...” Thisbe kneeled by the duchess’s chair, gazing up at her with her most pleading expression. “Mr. Harrison is not a threat to me. He’s a kind, wonderful man, and I’m certain he would never hurt anyone. You should have seen how good he was with the Greats.”

  “Those monkeys.” Cornelia’s eyes twinkled and her mouth curved up, belying her words of disapproval.

  “Yes, and he had them quiet and interested. He’s very intelligent and educated and—”

  “Pshaw!” The duchess waved off Thisbe’s words. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about lineage. He’s not one of us, Thisbe. I could see it at once.”

  Thisbe gritted her teeth. “That doesn’t make him a bad man. It doesn’t mean he’s going to kill me.”

  “Mmm.” Her grandmother tilted her head to one side, considering. “I didn’t say he would kill you—I didn’t see that. But I saw that you would die because of him. It’s an entirely different thing, but the outcome is the same. You must stay away from this young man.”

  “Grandmother...there’s no way you could know that.”

  “I know you scoff at my abilities, just like the others. You shouldn’t. Nor should Olivia. Sadly, I don’t believe Kyria has the talent. Most likely it’s that red hair.”

  “Red hair! Of all the nonsensical—” Thisbe caught herself. Why was she arguing about the mechanics of something she didn’t believe in?

  “You know that I have the power. You’ve witnessed it. Remember the puppy?”

  “Yes, I remember the puppy. You said Rajah would die.”

  “You see?” Her grandmother leaned back with a self-satisfied smile. “I saw death on him. I
saw that gate.”

  “But it was a month after you predicted it. And it wasn’t even the same gate. You saw the garden gate and it was the one to the road.”

  “Those are minor details. It was an open gate, and I saw the mark of death upon him. I asked my mother about it that night, and she said I was right.”

  Thisbe refrained from pointing out that the opinion of a ghost was not the most accurate proof of a vision. “What exactly did you see when you looked at Desmond?”

  “There was a dark aura clinging to him, a veritable black cloud of death. And it was linked to you. It was oozing across the space between you and touching your arm. Clearly, in the future, it would overwhelm you.”

  “But you didn’t see me die, did you? There was no knife or gun or any vision of the act.”

  “I cannot command these things, Thisbe. They simply come to me—they’re drawn by my unique power. Sometimes I catch only glimpses, things too vague to even mention. I saw Charles Berkwyler on a horse, but I didn’t know what that meant. I thought it was quite frivolous, as they sometimes are. But less than a year later he died in a hunting accident.” She gave Thisbe a meaningful look.

  “But he was shot!”

  “That’s what I’m trying to explain. One has to interpret the meaning. Clearly, riding a horse had to do with hunting—Berkie was wild about the fox hunt. It meant that he died while hunting.”

  “Then couldn’t the vision you had mean something else, too?” Thisbe argued. “Perhaps it doesn’t mean death—it’s sadness or loneliness or...something.”

  “It’s death,” Cornelia said flatly. “Why do you think black is the color of mourning? Even if it had been red or purple or pink, I would have known it meant death. It simply permeated the air.”

  “But you don’t know that it means that I am going to die. Desmond told me that his mother died giving birth to him, so perhaps it means that he...comes from death. Or perhaps it was that I was fated to die early but Desmond has pulled it away from me. Or that I should be with him, that he is the person who can protect me.”

  Her grandmother shook her head sadly. “I can see that you are going to ignore my warning. You are bound and determined to let this fellow hang about, no matter what the consequences.” She used her cane to push to her feet. “Clearly, your mother refuses to do anything to protect you. The two of you are so headstrong that you will insist on allowing him and his deadly aura to invade this house.” The dowager duchess paused, tilting her head in the disconcerting way she had, then nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “See what, Grandmother?” Thisbe rose to face her.

  “The first duke has reminded me that I have a duty. It’s very unusual for him to stray so far from the drawing room, you know, so it is of the utmost importance. I am the only one who realizes the danger. I cannot leave, no matter how poorly your mother treated me. I must remain to protect you.”

  “I’m glad.” It was one of her grandmother’s more innovative reasons to back down from one of her decisions. “But, please, promise me you will not be unkind to Desmond.”

  “I am never unkind. But I agree—I don’t think it is the poor chap’s fault. I won’t shun him. After all, I must be with you to keep you from harm.”

  Thisbe nearly groaned at her grandmother’s words. Perhaps she shouldn’t have tried to mend the breach between the two duchesses. Well, she would just have to find a way to get around her grandmother.

  Thisbe went to her laboratory; work usually soothed her. But today she had trouble keeping her mind on what she was doing. She was not disturbed by her grandmother’s prediction. Thisbe didn’t believe in portents or omens. However, the way her grandmother dwelled so much on death was disturbing. Not just the belief that she could converse with ghosts or her “visions” of impending death, but also her conversations with her friends. They were marbled with death—who had died unexpectedly, who was about to die, who ought to die but was stubbornly hanging on.

  It hadn’t struck her as odd before. After all, the dowager duchess was aging; she was bound to know many people who had died. That was something old women did, wasn’t it? Sit about gossiping about their friends’ illnesses and deaths?

  But, really, when Thisbe thought about it, her grandmother wasn’t that ancient. She and most of her circle were in their sixties. Surely, their peers weren’t dropping all around them. And surely, no other woman her age went to that many funerals. It was as if the dowager duchess collected experiences with death.

  The Moreland family had more than their fair share of peculiarities. But most of the time it was simply that they broke societal rules—like Aunt Penelope going off to France to be an opera singer, or Thisbe herself becoming a scientist, or Uncle Bellard’s collection of tin soldiers. Such things were unusual, not insane. Talking to people who weren’t there was a step beyond that.

  The most disturbing thing was that incident with the dog. She would never forget the way the dowager duchess had bent down to pet Rajah a month before he died and said, “Poor dear, you’ll be gone soon, won’t you? They really should be more careful with that garden gate.” Nor could Thisbe forget the icy chill that ran down her spine when she heard how Rajah had died.

  It had been as eerie a moment as the time Thisbe caught her grandmother talking to an invisible person. As eerie as her foretelling Thisbe’s death today.

  It was all nonsense, of course. Her grandmother was prone to conveniently “interpret” her visions to mean whatever she wanted them to, like Mr. Berkwyler’s hunting accident. The incident with Rajah had been coincidence. It wasn’t uncommon that a dog might die because a gate had been left open.

  Her grandmother had said that about Desmond because she thought him “not one of us.” She didn’t want Thisbe to fall in love with him. It had nothing to do with premonitions. Still, Thisbe couldn’t stop thinking about that puppy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE FIRE COMPLETELY encircled her now, the air thick with black smoke. Her nose was filled with the acrid scent of it. She struggled to breathe. Only seconds had passed since they’d lit the fire, but already the wall of flames was so close to her that her skin burned even though the fire had not yet touched her. The logs popped and sizzled, sparks leaping out. It would be only moments before one of those sparks landed on her skirts, and then she, too, would go up in flames. Panicked and desperate, she tried to twist away, but she was held too tightly.

  Through the smoke, she could see her enemy: his cold smile, the even colder eyes, his face set in satisfaction. He had won. She had failed. Even in her last desperate attempt to thwart him, she had failed. He’d ruined her. He’d sent her to this horrible death. All for power.

  She hated him with all her heart. Hated him with as fierce a force as she loved her family. Her own power was diminished now. She could not prevent the agony that lay before her. But perhaps she had enough for vengeance. She dug deep inside, pulling on the dark that dwelled in her, feeding on her pain, her rage.

  The sky grew darker, the wind picking up. She felt the dark hunger surge within her, the power rush through her veins. The wind tossed the flames, and they caught the hem of her skirts. In an instant her clothes were on fire. An unbearable pain seized her...

  * * *

  THISBE BOLTED UPRIGHT, pain stabbing through her leg. She reached down, gripping her calf. A cramp. That was all it was. She massaged the knotted muscle and ignored the smell of smoke that was still in her nostrils. She forcibly brought her nerves back into order, choked down the terror in her chest. Nothing had happened. It was just that blasted dream again.

  It had been bad enough the first time; this one was even worse. Fire and pain in fuller measure. Had the cramp in her leg been the cause? But the cramp, painful as it was, didn’t compare to the agony of her dream. Nor did it account for the sweat that covered her body or the throbbing in her feet.

  Why was she having these terr
ible dreams of being burned at the stake? It was beyond bizarre. And who was that man? There had been such evil in his eyes. Thisbe shivered at the memory.

  The cramp had eased a bit, and she slid out of bed to walk out the rest of it. But when her feet touched the ground, she let out a little grunt of pain. The bottoms of her feet were obviously sore. Lighting the candle, she sat down and lifted a foot to examine it.

  Her jaw dropped and she stared in astonishment. There were three blisters on the sole of her foot.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, there was a carriage in front of the laboratory when Desmond left work. As Desmond walked away, the door of the carriage opened behind him, and a voice called, “Harrison.”

  Desmond turned. A gentleman leaned out of the door of the carriage. He held a gold-knobbed cane in one hand, and he used it to gesture at Desmond to come closer. With an inward sigh, Desmond started toward the man. “Mr. Wallace.”

  “Please, get in,” Wallace said politely. “Too cold to stand about outside.”

  “Yes, sir.” What else could he say to the man who controlled the purse strings their project needed? Desmond climbed in and sat down facing the professor’s patron.

  Zachary Wallace was a thickset man with a square face and pugnacious jaw. Desmond had heard that the man had made his fortune in coal mining, though his build was more one of a miner than an owner. No aristocrat, he was nevertheless swimming in money. His suit was finely tailored, and a gold watch chain stretched across his waistcoat. He had a gold ring on one hand, and on the other an onyx signet ring. Rubies flashed in his stickpin and cuff links. Against the cold, he wore a heavy coat with dark fur decorating the collar, and kid leather gloves. A hot brick wrapped in cloth sat on the floor, warming his feet.

  Desmond had been in his presence a few times when Wallace had come to the laboratory, but he had never spoken to the man. Now, as Wallace began to talk, beneath the patina of upper-class tones Desmond heard a hint of an underlying Yorkshire accent.