Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  “Not me. I don’t know what the bleedin’ hell it is. But I know someone who wants it bad.”

  “I don’t know what it is, either,” Desmond responded, straightening from the wall and giving the man a push back. “I’ve never seen it. I don’t know anyone who has. I think the Eye is probably a figment of Mr. Wallace’s imagination. That is who you work for, correct?”

  “None of your business who I work for.” The man stepped back. He still held the knife in one hand, but carelessly. “All you need to worry about is getting me that Eye.”

  “I won’t. You’re wasting your time. More important, you’re wasting mine.” Desmond started around the ruffian, but the man held out an arm to block him.

  “Now, wait. He’s willing to pay you. More’n he’s ever paid me, I’ll tell you.”

  “Then perhaps you should get it for him.”

  The man snorted. “I’m no bleedin’ housebreaker. Anyway, it’s you he wants.”

  “Look. I told Gordon, and I told Mr. Wallace, and now I’ll tell you the same—I will not steal the Eye.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” The man made a fist and began to ostentatiously crack his knuckles. “People will do almost anything if they have reason enough.”

  “You intend to beat me into finding it? Don’t you think it would make the Morelands a bit wary of me if I came in all black-and-blue?”

  “Maybe you won’t be the one who’s black-and-blue. Have you thought of that?” The man’s eyes glittered even in the dim light from the street. “Maybe it’ll be someone else. Someone you’d hate to see hurt. Maybe that girl.”

  “Thisbe?” Rage shot through Desmond. He grabbed the lapels of the man’s coat and shoved him against the opposite wall. “Don’t you dare threaten her. You touch her, and I’ll kill you.”

  A mocking smile curved the other man’s lips. “That important to you, is she?”

  Desmond realized he’d made a terrible mistake, letting the man know how powerful a weapon Thisbe was. “I’m not doing it.” Desmond kept his voice flat and hard. “You think you can attack a duke’s daughter and get away unscathed? You’ll be in irons before you have time to turn around.” He let go of the man’s jacket and walked past him, then swung back and added, “Mr. Wallace should remember that I could go to the police and tell them everything.”

  Desmond walked away, and the thug didn’t follow. Would that threat be enough to stop Wallace? Desmond had no idea. He wouldn’t have suspected Wallace would go so far as to steal the thing, let alone try to coerce him into doing it. It was a bluff; surely, it was a bluff. If the man killed Thisbe, he would have lost his bargaining chip with Desmond. But he wouldn’t have to kill her; he might injure her to convince Desmond.

  A chill ran through Desmond, and he came to a halt, his heart pounding. This, he thought, was what the dowager duchess had meant: Desmond’s love would cause Thisbe’s death.

  She knew. The duchess had seen into the depths of him and found what his aunt had always known. Those whom Desmond loved died.

  Desmond remembered sitting at the hearth in their cottage, the heat of the fire at his back. Its flames flickered red and gold across Aunt Tildy’s face, a sight as mesmerizing as her low voice as his aunt repeated the tale of Annie Blue. “You’re her heir. You bear her mark—it’s the bargain she made with the devil. She was seduced by his promises of knowledge and power, and when she agreed to his wicked offer, the devil touched her. Right there.”

  His aunt tapped his back, where the red sickle-shaped mark lay beneath his shirt. “Annie gave him herself and her offspring, whichever ones he chooses. It don’t happen to all. I have no gift nor curse. Nor did your mam. But our grandma did. Aye, and she was blighted. Only one of her children lived. The Wicked One would come in the night and take away their breath. ’Twas she who told me about the curse.”

  His father had known it, too. He didn’t say it in the light of day, but at night, when he was deep in his cups, his words were always the same: “You killed her. I cannot look at you without seeing her lying there, pale as a corpse and holding you, making me promise to take care of you. Well, I did—I have. But I can’t love you.”

  Desmond had denied it all these years, shrugged it off as one of his aunt’s ludicrous tales, merely the expression of his father’s bitterness. He told himself that the birthmark on his back was only a birthmark, not some harbinger of doom. He reminded himself that women often died in childbirth.

  But he could not escape the memory of standing at the foot of his sister’s bed as she breathed her last, her husband on his knees beside her, grieving. Aunt Tildy had looked across at Desmond and nodded. She knew it, and deep in his soul Desmond felt the awful canker of truth, the truth that twisted through him now.

  Whoever he loved died.

  * * *

  THISBE GLANCED OVER at Desmond. He was craning his head, looking behind them. She had managed to escape her grandmother’s presence on the pretext of visiting the apothecary. Instead, she had met Desmond as they’d prearranged, but the pleasant time she had envisioned had been marred by Desmond’s strange behavior.

  He had been behaving oddly for days now. There was the day of the lecture, when he had been so stiff and silent and reluctant for her to see his laboratory. She had managed to dismiss that as jealousy of Mr. Dunbridge, and perhaps Gordon really had issued an edict against visitors. He wouldn’t be the first to guard his experiments closely.

  But Desmond had not been his usual self. He was quieter than usual—though that could be explained by the dampening presence of her grandmother—and Thisbe caught him gazing at her with a peculiar, almost wistful expression. Yesterday, when she walked him to the door, their only moment alone, and whispered her plan to meet him at the apothecary, he looked as alarmed as he did pleased, and he made her swear to take the carriage to the shop even though it was only blocks away.

  Today he was distracted, continually glancing around, his arm beneath her hand hard with tension. He was assiduous about walking between her and the street in a way that seemed far beyond the demands of courtesy.

  “Desmond, is there something wrong?” she asked at last.

  He glanced at her, startled. “No. No.”

  “You’ve been acting...differently.”

  “Oh. Beg pardon. I’ve, uh... I was thinking about some changes I could make in order to produce a spectrogram.” He launched into a discussion of prisms and angles and mirrors that left even Thisbe confused.

  “I don’t understand. You’re trying to see in a different dimension? How is that possible?”

  “Well, there’s the problem,” he admitted. “We are so limited in what we can perceive. What we can see or touch or hear or smell. But there’s so much else in the world besides that. Think of the discovery of chemicals in the sun. They were unseen, but one could figure them out through computation. So if I could figure out the right computation—”

  Desmond was so caught up in his argument that he scarcely noticed as Thisbe crossed over to a vendor’s cart to buy roasted chestnuts. The sidewalk was crowded, and Thisbe was edged toward the curb. Suddenly something hit her in the back, knocking her out into the street.

  “Thisbe!” Desmond jumped to grab her, but a man behind her caught her before she landed on the cobblestones.

  The stranger lifted her up and said, “Blasted street urchin.”

  She looked up at the man. “Thank you.”

  Desmond clamped his hand around her other arm, staring at the man.

  “Something should be done about those little ruffians,” her rescuer went on and turned to look at Desmond. “The lady could have been thrown into the street right in front of a carriage.” With a smile, he doffed his hat and walked away.

  Thisbe turned to Desmond. He was gazing after the man, a stricken expression on his face. “I’m all right. You needn’t worry. Desmond...you’re
hurting my arm.”

  “What? Oh.” He relaxed his hold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Oh, God, Thisbe.” He pulled her into his arms, heedless of the people all around them. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

  “I’m fine.” Thisbe smiled up at him. “It’s not your fault. It was a child running by. Nothing was hurt but my dignity.”

  Desmond became aware of the interested stares all around them, and he released her. “Sorry. I thought I could protect you, but clearly not.” He glanced around. “Where is your driver? He should take you home.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not made of glass. I shan’t shatter. Come, I want that walk in the park you promised me.”

  With an almost agonized look, Desmond agreed. He was quiet all the way to Hyde Park. It had begun to snow, white flakes drifting lazily down and settling on them. Thisbe was glad, for it meant fewer people in the park. There was no one in sight right now, and she was bold enough to take Desmond’s hand. Her even bolder thought was that she would very much like to kiss him. It had felt so good to be in his embrace for those few moments after she’d fallen.

  She steered a path toward a large fir tree that offered shelter beneath its branches. Desmond was in a brown study, hardly noticing where they walked. He hadn’t told her the truth before; she was sure of it. There was something wrong with him today. Thisbe leaned against him, wishing he would share his burden with her.

  He stopped and pulled her into his arms, his embrace hard and tight. He kissed her, his mouth demanding, almost desperate. Thisbe returned his kiss full measure, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body into his. Desire, thick and hot, poured through her, and she wished that she could feel his body more closely against hers, without the padding of their coats. She wished, shockingly, that she could feel his skin against hers. A shiver shook her at the thought.

  Desmond lifted his head and gazed down into her face. Color flared along his cheekbones, and his chest rose and fell in rapid pants, but the look on his face was not desire. It was...despair. “Desmond? What is it?”

  “I love you,” he said, the words seeming torn from him. “Oh, God, Thisbe, I love you more than anything.” His hand caressed her cheek.

  A different sort of warmth spread through Thisbe, a mixture of surprise and joy, and she began, “I lo—”

  “No.” Desmond raised a finger to her lips, stopping her. “Don’t say it, or I will never get through this.”

  “Get through what?” She frowned, puzzled, as his arms fell away from her and he took a step back. Was he about to ask for her hand in marriage? Her nerves began to dance; it was too soon, surely, too sudden, and yet...she knew she would say yes.

  “We cannot see each other anymore.”

  His words were so far from anything she had expected that Thisbe could only stare.

  “I thought it would be all right. I thought I could keep you safe. But I see now—I can’t keep you from danger. I am the danger.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “DANGER!” THISBE GAPED at him. “What are you talking about? How can you be a danger?”

  Desmond felt as if he were being ripped in two. But he had known what he had to do the moment he saw Wallace’s thug grab Thisbe’s arm. He had to protect Thisbe, no matter how painful it was. “Your grandmother was right. I will be the death of you, Thisbe. You cannot love me—I cannot love you.”

  “You’re talking about my grandmother’s prediction?” Thisbe’s voice rose in astonishment. “That’s mad. She can’t see into the future.”

  “Maybe not. But she can see me.” Desmond thumped his chest on the last word. “She looked into me somehow and saw it. I told myself it was nonsense. That I would protect you. But now, after what happened, I—”

  “Because I fell down?” Thisbe stared. “Because of that one silly accident, you think I’m going to die if I’m with you?”

  “It’s not just that.” He swung away, jamming his fingers back through his hair. How could he convince her? “Everyone who loves me dies.”

  “Everyone dies, Desmond.”

  “Not long before their time. My birth killed my mother. My sister, whom I loved more than anyone in the world, died at twenty in the same way. My aunt is dead. God only knows what has happened to my father.”

  “Desmond, women die in childbirth. It’s awful that both your mother and sister died, but it’s not unique to you. Your aunt and your father are older. It’s not that odd—”

  “No? Is your father dead? Your mother? Your aunts and uncles?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “But what? Even your grandmother and great-uncle are still alive. Do you think it’s really a coincidence that none of my relatives are?”

  “I don’t know. Such things happen, surely. It’s certainly not because of you.”

  “That is what I’ve always told myself.”

  “Yes, because it’s true. It’s reasonable. My grandmother’s prophecies are not.”

  “How do you know?” he asked. “How can you be so certain that she isn’t aware of the spirits of those who have died? That she can’t sense that death is drawn to me? My aunt sensed it, too. She saw it in me, just as your grandmother did. Thisbe, I saw my sister.”

  “Saw her? I don’t understand.”

  “After she died, one night she came and stood by my bed. I saw her as plain as day. Whatever my logical mind tells me, I cannot dismiss what I saw.”

  “It was a dream,” Thisbe countered.

  “No. It wasn’t. I saw her.” He sighed. “Thisbe, I bear a mark—Aunt Tildy called it the mark of death.”

  “A mark? You mean a birthmark? That’s nonsense—it’s just happenstance. A random occurrence.”

  “I know all this sounds foolish to you.” He should tell her the whole story—reveal everything he knew about the Eye and the men who wanted it, explain why she was in danger. She would be sure to stay away from him then; she would hate him for deceiving her. But his throat closed when he thought of it. He could not bring himself to admit what he had done. He could not bear to see the disgust on her face. It was hard enough to give her up without making himself a thorough villain in her eyes.

  “Yes, because it is foolish,” Thisbe replied. “How can you claim to love me and then toss me aside?”

  “Don’t you see? It’s because I love you. I cannot let anything hurt you.”

  “You mean, anything other than you?” Thisbe’s eyes glittered.

  Her words pierced him. “Thisbe, no...”

  “I don’t care about your superstitions. I’ll brave it.”

  “I know. You would brave anything. But the consequences are too great. I cannot gamble with your life.”

  “I see.” Thisbe drew herself up to her fullest height. Her eyes were the brightest green he had ever seen, her lustrous black hair dotted with snowflakes, her cheeks high with color. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and he drank in the sight of her, storing it away for the future. “Well. Then...I shall go home.”

  Desmond started forward, but she stopped him with a flash of her emerald eyes. “No. I don’t need an escort. I’m sure the coach is right outside the park. I am perfectly fine alone.”

  There was nothing he could do but watch miserably as she walked away and trail along after her to make sure she reached her carriage safely. Thisbe climbed into the waiting vehicle without a backward glance, and it drove away. She was gone. He stood there a moment, staring bleakly into the rapidly increasing snow. Finally, he turned and made his way to the laboratory.

  Only Professor Gordon was there. He raised his head as Desmond approached.

  “I have a message for Mr. Wallace,” Desmond told him.

  Professor Gordon’s eyebrows rose. “Mr. Wallace?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure whether you know about the ultimatum his man delivered to me.”

  Gordon
shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But if you will, please give him my answer. His threats are useless now. I won’t be seeing Miss Moreland again, and I am no longer welcome at Broughton House.”

  “What?” Gordon stared. “You mean—”

  Desmond nodded. “I’m not risking jail for Wallace or anyone else. I have broken it off with Miss Moreland. There’s no longer any possibility that she will help me. Her grandmother already hates me and will do so even more now. She wouldn’t give me the time of day, much less the Eye.”

  Desmond turned and walked back to his desk, maintaining his air of unconcern, though his insides were in a turmoil. He had done what was right, he told himself. What he’d had to do. He would simply have to get accustomed to this hole in his chest.

  * * *

  THISBE SHIVERED DESPITE the fur-lined lap rug she had thrown over her legs. It was, she knew, because the ice in her chest came from the inside, not the chill in the carriage. She wished she was home; the coach ride seemed endless. Whether news was good or ill, it was better in the encircling warmth of her family.

  She ran into the house and up the stairs. Kyria, starting down the stairs, turned immediately and followed her. “Thisbe! What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Oh, Kyria...” Thisbe swung around. “He doesn’t want to see me anymore.” Then, to the astonishment of both women, Thisbe burst into tears.

  Kyria put her arms around her sister. “What? Who? Surely you’re not talking about Desmond!”

  “I am. I am.”

  “No. You must be mistaken. The man’s mad for you.”

  “He’s not.” Through her sobs, Thisbe poured out the story of their conversation.

  Down the hall doorways opened and closed, and before long Olivia joined them, then the duchess and even the dowager duchess herself. Emmeline took charge, pulling Thisbe into a hug and rubbing her back soothingly, and said, “There, there, sweet girl.”