Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  Kyria unfurled her fan and started forward. Thisbe had little choice but to trail after her. Within ten steps, one of Kyria’s admirers popped up, bringing them to a halt, and soon the men had formed an impenetrable semicircle around them.

  Thisbe was as bored as she had predicted. Kyria’s men all talked nonsense, and Kyria kept vanishing to the dance floor. Some of the remaining swains politely asked Thisbe to dance, but Thisbe had never been a skilled dancer, and she found circling the floor in such close proximity to a strange man more duty than pleasure.

  After a struggle around the floor with a man whose head only reached her bosom and whose dancing skills were as poor as her own, Thisbe avoided the band of men around her sister and headed to the refreshment table. As she turned away, glass in hand, she was startled by the sound of her own name. “Miss Moreland.”

  She turned to see the young man she had met at the last lecture with Desmond. What was his name? “Good evening.”

  He crossed the floor to her. “I’m sorry. I should have said Lady—”

  “Please do not, Mr. Dunbridge.” The name came to her in a flash. “I prefer Miss Moreland.”

  “I wasn’t sure. It’s such a different setting.” He gestured toward the nearest empty chairs. “Would you like to sit?”

  “Yes, that would be nice.” She smiled. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “You are?” His eyebrows rose a little.

  He must expect her to resent a friend of Desmond’s. In fact, there was a flickering hope inside her that he would let drop some news about Desmond. “Yes, it’s good to meet someone who can talk about more interesting things than his club or his horse.”

  Carson chuckled, and lines of laughter crinkled at the corners of his bright blue eyes. He was a handsome man in a fashionable, aristocratic way. Thisbe wished that he appealed to her, that she didn’t prefer a dark mop of hair and rumpled suit.

  They sat and talked for a while. It was, as she had said, more entertaining to discuss theories and experiments than social chitchat, but, disappointingly, he didn’t raise the subject of Desmond. Finally, she was reduced to asking about him. “How is Mr. Harrison? Have you seen him?”

  “Apart from a few bruises, he seems to be well enough,” Carson said, mouth curving up slightly in that odd amusement all men seemed to find in knocking each other about. “He won’t speak of how he got his bruises, which leads one to believe perhaps a lady was involved.” Carson paused invitingly. When Thisbe offered no response, he went on, “Desmond is devoted to his work. He does little else.”

  It was perfectly useless information, but she could hardly ask the things she wanted to know: Is he sad? Does he miss me? Or is he in fine spirits and glad to be free?

  “Well.” He rose to his feet. “Regrettably, I should take my leave. I have already occupied more of your time than is proper, I fear.”

  “Oh.” Thisbe glanced around. Two of the nearby women were watching them with great interest. “Yes, of course.” She stood up.

  “Perhaps, if it were welcome, I could ca—”

  “Dunbridge, my boy.” A blocky gentleman strode toward them, his face wreathed in a smile.

  Carson’s lips twitched with annoyance, but he quickly smoothed out his face and turned to the other man with a deferential smile. “Mr. Wallace. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Oh, yes. Never miss one of Roddy’s revelries.” He looked pointedly in Thisbe’s direction.

  “Miss Moreland, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Zachary Wallace. Professor Gordon is fortunate to have Mr. Wallace’s interest in our research. Mr. Wallace, Miss Thisbe Moreland.”

  “Ah, Miss Moreland. Pleasure to meet you.” He beamed at Thisbe.

  “How do you do?” She nodded in greeting. So this was the patron of Desmond’s project. He was expensively dressed; even as immune to fashion as she was, Thisbe could see that. He was ostentatious, with rubies flashing here and there, and his fashionable affectation of a cane boasted an ornate golden lion’s head. He didn’t really appear the sort of man who would be interested in spiritual matters—or scientific ones, either—but she supposed she shouldn’t judge one on appearances.

  “Yes, yes,” Wallace went on, though no one had asked a question. “Such a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?” Why?

  He said chuckled in an indulgent way. “A female scientist—can’t expect to go unnoticed now, can you?”

  “I see.” It was hardly the sort of recognition she wanted. Nor had she realized her attempts to publish had caused even a ripple among the male-dominated Royal Institution and its members.

  “I had hoped young Harrison would have introduced us.”

  Thisbe simply looked at him, having no response to that. Desmond had talked about her to his patron? Was her relationship with him gossiped about throughout the scientific community? It was an embarrassing thought.

  “Our Desmond has an uncommon attachment to scruples,” Carson murmured.

  “Be that as it may, it is a delight to meet you now,” Wallace continued. “We must have a chat soon.”

  “Indeed,” Thisbe replied vaguely. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I must find my sister.”

  “Carson must bring you to my gala next week,” Wallace said quickly. “A small thing, of course, compared to this, but, I hope, enjoyable. It will give us a chance to talk again.”

  “Of course, sir,” Carson agreed. Thisbe smiled politely.

  “I’ll send you an invitation,” Wallace said to her. “The duke and duchess, too.”

  “I’m afraid my parents don’t socialize much,” Thisbe disclosed.

  “And the dowager duchess, of course. Is she here tonight? I would love to meet her, as well.”

  “Um, yes, she’s here somewhere.” Thisbe made a show of glancing about the room. “I don’t see her right now.” Thisbe could imagine all too well how her grandmother would react to this too-friendly man. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

  “Of course. Excuse me, sir, I must escort Miss Moreland.” Carson bowed and offered her his arm.

  As they walked away, Thisbe said drily, “I didn’t really need an escort to cross the ballroom.”

  “I know.” Carson grinned. “But it was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. I apologize for our patron. He can be...very enthusiastic.”

  “Mmm.”

  “But I do hope you will allow to me escort you to his party. They are rather extravagant affairs—he invites all of us.”

  It was, she suspected, a not-so-subtle hint that Desmond would be there. It wasn’t Desmond’s idea of fun any more than it was hers, but if the man who paid the laboratory’s bill asked, he would attend. Desmond’s presence was a very good reason not to go. She said, “Yes, I should like to, thank you.”

  The party turned out not to be endless, despite Thisbe’s grim conviction to the contrary halfway through it. After they got back to the house, she went straight to her room, grateful to rid herself of the elegant ball gown and all the accoutrements Kyria and her grandmother deemed necessary to attend a dance—bracelet, pendant, hair ornaments, elbow-length gloves, fan, even a minuscule card and pencil.

  Later, hair down and her headache easing, clad in her nightgown and heavy robe, she sank into her chair with a sigh and began to brush out her hair. It was warm and comforting here in front of the low fire, and the smooth sweep of the brush through her hair was soothing.

  That was the last time she would follow Kyria’s advice on recovering from a broken heart—as if Kyria had ever suffered from that malady herself. It hadn’t helped a whit; the only difference was that now her feet hurt as well as her heart.

  Thisbe rose and went to the mantel, where she had placed the kaleidoscope Desmond had given her. She had thought of putting it away in a drawer, where it wouldn’t tug at her heart each time
she glanced at the fire, but that would have made it too easy for the twins, who were fascinated by the instrument. More than that, though, she knew she kept it there because it was all she had of Desmond.

  She picked up the instrument, then looked into the light of the fire, turning the front of it so that the flames tumbled into a myriad of designs. She thought of the moment Desmond gave it to her. The look in his deep, dark eyes. The kiss that followed.

  She shouldn’t have agreed to go to Mr. Wallace’s party. It had been a relief when Wallace joined them, for she was almost certain Carson was about to ask permission to call on her. But then she had committed herself to his party and in doing so gave Carson permission to call on her, anyway.

  It wasn’t that Mr. Wallace was a terrible person. He just...made her uncomfortable. He’d been too eager to have her attend his party, too desirous of meeting her parents and grandmother. She couldn’t help but feel that he wanted something from her—in all likelihood, the entrée into the upper echelon of aristocratic society that friendship with the dowager duchess could provide.

  She didn’t want to have to fend off Wallace’s attempts to ingratiate himself. And she didn’t like parties, anyway. She would be as bored and out of place as she had been this evening. There would be a crush of people, and she would know no one there but Carson. And Desmond.

  Of course, that was the sole reason she had agreed. She wanted to see Desmond, even if it was across the room. That was another foolish thing. Seeing him wouldn’t fill the emptiness within her, wouldn’t vanquish the longing for his touch. It was bound to make it all worse. Yet somehow she could not quell the desire to see him.

  Kyria, of course, was elated that Thisbe was being squired to another party. Kyria was certain that her plan had worked, and Thisbe didn’t want to burst her bubble. It was irritating, though, that her grandmother was also pleased with the idea: “Dunbridge has little name to speak of, but his family is old and there’s never been a scandal. You’ll find better, but at least you’re on the right path.”

  It didn’t help Thisbe’s mood that she continued to have that strange dream. It was always the same—the fire, the helplessness, the woman with her insistent appeal for help. It always jarred Thisbe awake, sweating and scared, and even though she was now familiar with the dream, it took a long time to go back to sleep.

  Lack of sleep left Thisbe with eyes that were shadowed enough that even her father noticed. Coming upon her in the library one evening, he paused in the midst of searching for the book he wanted and asked, “Thisbe, dear. Are you all right?”

  “Of course, Papa.” Thisbe smiled and set aside the tome—she’d read the same page three times now, anyway. Rising, she went over to kiss him on the cheek. “You needn’t worry about me. I just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

  “That boy—what is his name?”

  “Desmond,” she said evenly. “But it’s nothing to do with him. I keep having a nightmare.”

  The duke’s mild face wrinkled in concern, and he put his arm around her, steering her toward the sofa to sit. “Tell me all about it, as you used to.”

  “I’d forgotten that.” Thisbe smiled faintly at the memory of her father sitting down on her bed and holding her after a nightmare. It had felt so safe and warm in his arms. “I would tell you about my scary dream, and you’d chase it away with a tale of Greek heroes.”

  “Ah, yes. Heroes’ tales always have to do with fear.”

  “This one wasn’t about monsters or being lost or any of the usual things.” She related her dream in detail, and added, “It doesn’t seem very big in the telling, does it?”

  “It doesn’t matter how long or how threatening dreams are—it’s the emotion they bring up in one that makes them frightening. Let’s see...” He adjusted his glasses, gazing thoughtfully down at the carpet. “Fire. I would imagine that’s common—everyone is scared of fire.”

  “It’s not really the fire that frightens me. I feel so helpless. I can’t move. It’s as if I’m paralyzed or bound. And her panic washes through me, but I haven’t the least idea what it is she wants. I can’t do anything.”

  “Hmm...” the duke mused. “She doesn’t give you much to go on, does she?”

  “I doubt it means anything. I’m not like Grandmother—I don’t see the future.”

  “Egad, I should hope not,” he said in alarm. “But I wasn’t saying that your dreams are omens of the future. I find that my dreams have something to do with what I’m feeling.”

  “But I’m not frightened of anything.”

  “I remember when I was courting your mother.” The duke leaned back, his whole face brightening as it always did when he talked about Emmeline. “I had the most dreadful dreams.”

  “Really? I would have guessed you’d have happy dreams after falling in love.”

  “One would think. But mine were about running, trying to find something and not getting anywhere, or being lost in the fog and unable to find my way. Sometimes I dreamed that your mother was in danger, and I couldn’t get to her. Horrid things.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “After I married her, they went away. So, you see...” He gave her a significant look. The duke had a habit of not concluding his arguments, thinking that everyone else followed his reasoning.

  “The nightmares were no match for Mother?” Thisbe ventured.

  He chuckled. “Nothing is. But the thing is...I realized they were because I was scared I wouldn’t win her. What if she didn’t love me? What if something happened to her? What if my mother scared her off? I was so happy during the day, being around Emmeline, thinking about her, I didn’t notice it. But at night, the dread crawled out and overwhelmed me.”

  “Then why don’t I have sad dreams?”

  He looked at her with sympathy. “I don’t know. Perhaps you admit the sorrow, but there’s something more beneath it.”

  “The helplessness? Because I have no control over it?” Thisbe sighed. “Oh, Papa...” Tears welled in her eyes and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “You wouldn’t like giving up without a fight.”

  “How can I fight the fact that he doesn’t love me?”

  “Are you certain? Because I saw that boy’s face when he gazed at you, and that was the way I looked at Emmeline.”

  “You still do.”

  “Yes. I always will.”

  “That is what I want—the kind of love you and Mother have,” Thisbe told him. “If Desmond loves me, he doesn’t love me enough. He’s not willing to risk everything, not willing to fight for me. I wouldn’t give him up because of some silly prophecy. I’d make sure nothing harmed him.”

  Henry chuckled. “No doubt you would. You’re so like Emmeline.”

  “Me?” Thisbe asked in surprise. “I’m not like Mother. Kyria is the one like Mother.”

  “Kyria looks like Emmeline more than you do, that’s true. But here.” He tapped his chest. “And here.” He tapped his forehead. “Inside, you’re very much like Emmeline. Thisbe...” He leaned forward earnestly. “Beautiful as your mother is, that wasn’t what made me fall in love with her. It was the strength and spirit that fairly shone from her. Her determination, her fierce conviction in herself and her beliefs. She never let anything stand in her way.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Not even my mother.”

  “But I’m not like that. I’ve never fought to right wrongs or make the world better. I’ve never stormed the barricades.”

  “Your interests are not the same, of course. That’s only natural. But you have the same qualities. Look at what you’ve done—you plagued that poor German chap until he let you study with him. You’ve fought to be recognized as a scientist. You’ve written papers.”

  “Which they wouldn’t publish,” Thisbe interjected.

  “But that didn’t stop you. You continue to write, to study, to experiment. I’ve never
known you to give up on anything. I can’t imagine that you will surrender here, either.”

  “But how can I fight this? I can’t make him ignore Grandmother’s warning. I can’t make him love me.”

  “Maybe not, but you can change his thinking. You can make him understand what you feel. I don’t know his mind, but it sounds to me as though he’s a lad who is nobly sacrificing his feelings on the altar of your safety. He’s naive, perhaps—certainly wrongheaded. He sees his own hurt, but does he know yours? Have you told him what you feel for him? Have you explained your pain and sorrow? Your will to fight?”

  “Yes, I—” She hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  “That part is still in your hands, and I know you too well to think you’ll let someone else decide your future. If you truly want Desmond, you’ll find a way to bring him back into your life.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DESMOND APPROACHED THE party sunken in gloom. This was the last place he wanted to be. Neither food nor drink appealed to him. Sleep did. One would think he would sleep more now that he no longer rose early to go to the shop so he could spend time with Thisbe. Instead, it had been a struggle to fall asleep, and once he did, his rest was fitful. He was plagued with nightmares, many of them involving Thisbe in imminent danger and himself unable to reach her. In one particularly horrid dream, it had been he who had plunged the knife into her, thinking she was an attacker.

  His was not a state in which to think clearly. He’d made a mistake on a telescope that required him to take the thing apart in order to correct it. His mind was blank and dull at the laboratory; he hadn’t the least desire to develop a spectroscope that would reveal a hidden world of spirits. Indeed, he had lost nearly all interest in that hidden world.

  A gala given by Mr. Wallace had even less appeal. Wallace included Gordon and his workers, as well as other scientists, in one of his parties now and then. Desmond supposed the man sought to prove he was a true man of science, not just a dabbler—though it seemed unlikely to Desmond that such a status would impress any of Wallace’s peers. More likely, Wallace sought to impress the scientists with his importance. Not that there was any need to do that, either; Wallace’s checkbook had already done that.