Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  “Nonsense,” the duchess scoffed. “One cannot make sense of the Eye—there is no rational explanation. It is of the spirit. Beyond our limited comprehension.”

  “But wouldn’t you want to prove to everyone that you have been right all these years? That you can speak to the dead?”

  “Of course I can speak to the dead. I don’t need proof—I’ve done it for years.”

  “But to make it common knowledge would be important. To show the rest of the world.”

  “Why would I care what the rest of the world thought?” Cornelia countered unanswerably.

  “But, Grandmother—”

  “No.” The dowager duchess cut her off decisively. “It’s no use to try to wheedle me out of it. Anne Ballew’s Eye belongs to me. To us. It has been handed down for generations. I have a sacred duty to protect it. I can’t lend it to strangers.”

  “I could oversee the experiment if you wished. I could carry it back and forth to their laboratory. I would be there all the time to make sure no harm came to it.”

  “Simply being in other people’s hands would bring harm to it. It passes down through the maternal line, mother to daughter to granddaughter. She was our ancestor, you see. Anne Ballew was not the commoner most people believe.”

  Trust her grandmother to have come up with this dramatic notion. Skeptically, Thisbe said, “I have never seen her name on the family tree.”

  “They wouldn’t have made it public!” Cornelia opened her eyes in horror. “She was burned at the stake, dear, not exactly what one wants to tell everyone.”

  “Then how do you know—”

  “I just know,” the duchess said with finality.

  “Ma’am.” Desmond spoke up for the first time. His eyes were bright with that eager curiosity that always rose in him at the opportunity for discovery. The familiarity of it made Thisbe’s heart ache. “I wondered... Could we see it? No one even knows what it looks like, exactly. It would be a wonderful thing just to view it.”

  The duchess scowled, but Thisbe forestalled whatever she was about to say by reaching out to her grandmother. “Please. I should very much like to see it, too.”

  Cornelia hesitated, glancing from Thisbe to Desmond and back again. Finally, with a sigh, she gave in. “Very well. You will only keep picking away at it until I do.”

  She started toward the connecting door to her bedroom, then swiveled back and said, “Stay here.”

  Thisbe and Desmond waited, listening to the dowager duchess rummaging around in the other room. She let out an exclamation, followed by the opening and closing of drawers and doors. Finally, she emerged with a small, beautifully carved box in her hand. She shook the box at them and said, “The twins found it, obviously, and put it back in the wrong place. Those little imps—they’re worse than magpies when it comes to shiny objects.”

  Thisbe’s grandmother didn’t hand Thisbe the box, but opened it to reveal the contents. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark green velvet, sat a single large lens in a carved wooden frame, attached to a handle of the same wood.

  “It’s a quizzing glass!” Thisbe reached out to touch it, and the duchess gave her hand a little slap.

  “No, you don’t. This doesn’t leave my hands. It wasn’t a quizzing glass originally—the frame was added last century, when quizzing glasses were so popular. It helps to conceal its real purpose.” Cornelia lifted the glass from its box and held it up to reveal the other side of the lens, which was covered by several small clear quartz crystals, creating multiple facets. Cornelia held it up against the light of the lamp, and a multitude of dazzling colors shot from it in all directions.

  “It’s beautiful,” Thisbe breathed.

  “Fascinating.” Desmond, drawn by the glass and its display, took an unconscious step forward.

  Cornelia slapped the glass back into its box and closed the lid with a decisive snap. “There. That is the Eye.”

  “But, Grandmother...” Thisbe protested. “Can’t we at least look through it? See if... I mean, what it reveals?” She herself itched to touch it; she could only imagine how much Desmond wanted to use it. Not, of course, that Desmond’s wishes mattered to her.

  “Absolutely not.” The duchess held the box behind her back, as if they might try to grab it from her.

  “Please, Your Grace.” Desmond spoke for the first time. “It would be invaluable. I swear I’ll do nothing to it.”

  “Hmph.” Cornelia sent him a sour look. “I can’t depend on your oath. Do you think I don’t realize why you took up with my granddaughter?”

  Desmond let out an exasperated groan. “It wasn’t how you think.”

  “It’s pointless to get into that,” Thisbe told him in a voice as final as her grandmother’s. “But I don’t see why we couldn’t try it out, Grandmother.”

  “Young lady.” This tone of address, Thisbe knew, indicated that her grandmother was reaching the end of whatever forbearance she had. “The Eye was entrusted to me. No one else may touch it—ill fortune would befall anyone who did, I’m sure. Besides, he would see nothing.” She cast a dismissive glance at Desmond. “Only a holder of our line is able to use it—a female of Anne Ballew’s own bloodline.”

  “Well, I am—” Thisbe began, but her grandmother quelled her with a look.

  “Its wisdom is open only to a true believer. I suspect it will be Olivia who has the power to see the departed ones. Now...” She gave them a dismissive nod. “I have done what you asked. It’s time for you to go.” Cornelia turned to Desmond. “I trust I will never see your face here again.”

  She marched into her bedroom and closed the door, leaving Thisbe and Desmond staring after her.

  “Well.” The anger that impelled Thisbe had drained out, and she felt suddenly flat. “That’s it, then. Go back to your professor and his patron and tell them that the dowager duchess refuses. She will not change her mind.”

  “No. I can see that.” Desmond’s eyes were bleak. He followed her out of the room and down the staircase. He was silent all the way, but at the front door, he turned to her. “Thisbe, please believe me.”

  She ignored his words. “It’s no use trying to steal it. It will be under lock—”

  “I would never do that!” His voice was rough with anger. “Damn it, how can you think that I—”

  He broke off, swung away his gaze, then faced her again. “I realize that I am forever ruined in your eyes. But I beg you to remember that you are still in danger. Don’t trust Carson or Wallace or—”

  “I have no intention of trusting anyone.” Ever.

  Desmond opened the door and paused, gazing down at his feet. “I meant everything I told you. None of my feelings, none of my regard for you, was ever false. I want you to believe that. I never pursued you for the Eye, and the only reason I left was because being with me put you in danger.” He lifted his head, his eyes searching hers.

  Thisbe swallowed hard, pushing down the sobs that threatened to engulf her. Looking back at him with a hard, flat gaze, she kept her voice cold. “Fortunately, that won’t be a problem anymore, will it? Goodbye, Desmond.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THISBE WAS STANDING in a dark, cold corridor, the flames of a torch behind her casting flickering shadows over the walls. Through the iron bars of a gate, she could see into a room that, though not large, contained several women. Some were on their feet, roaming about aimlessly; some sat, leaning against the wall. Still others were lying on the floor, a few on makeshift beds of straw. The walls were stone, darkened by dirt and smoke, with smears of green mold. A single barred window high on the wall offered the only light. It was unshuttered, open to the January air, and the place was bitterly cold. The only fire, a low collection of kindling, produced more smoke than heat.

  One woman stood apart from the others, silent amidst the talk and curses and groans. The clothes she wore had once been ele
gant, but dirt and rough treatment had obscured the quality of the brocade skirt, and the stiff, doubtlessly embroidered bodice had been taken from her, leaving her clad in only a simple shift in the chilly air. Even the snood had been snatched from her head, so that her thick black hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back.

  But her face was still attractive in a strong-boned way, and her large dark eyes were sharp and intelligent, unlike the dull stares on most of the others. She looked back at Thisbe, her chin tilted up a little, her gaze defiant.

  “It’s time, then.” She swept back her hair, combing it with her fingers into some semblance of order, and stepped out of the cell.

  Suddenly, Thisbe was somewhere else, an open square in the midst of the city. There were people all around and the air was rank with the smell of smoke and roasting flesh. People talked and shouted and laughed all around her, but tormented shrieks rose above all the noise. The sound chilled her blood.

  She didn’t want to turn to see what lay behind her, but she could not stop herself. Two separate fires blazed, consuming the piles of logs encircling them, and in the center of each was a person engulfed in flames. Her stomach lurched at the sight, but the rabble around her cheered and laughed.

  Between the two fires stood another circle of wood. Smaller sticks of kindling were piled against a row of thick logs. The kindling would catch fire quickly and the flames would eat away at the heavier timber until it, too, roared to life. In the center stood a stout post, empty. Waiting.

  Thisbe swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, her hands curling into fists, her nails biting into her palms. No. No. Panic rose in her chest. She wanted to run, but her legs were heavy as stone. She could not lift them, could not budge from this spot.

  An excited murmur ran through the crowd, and Thisbe swung around to see what had caused the stir. A procession was walking down the street toward them. Behind them loomed an impressive building, towers on either side. A black-clad priest, clutching a crucifix, led the way. Behind him marched two guards wearing armor breastplates and helmets, long pikes in their hands. A woman walked between them, slender and delicate beside their bulk. Her hands were bound before her with rope. Her long black hair spilled down her back, the ends fluttering in the cold breeze.

  It was the woman from the prison cell. She held up her head, pride evident in her carriage, her pale face expressionless. The crowd pointed at her and shouted invectives. “Witch! Heretic! Blasphemous whore!” She ignored them, just as she ignored the pitiful burning creatures lashed to their posts.

  She faltered only once, when they turned onto the path to the waiting pyre, but in the next instant, she straightened, her face, though paler, set in the same indomitable lines. The priest stepped aside as the guards led her the last stretch to where the executioner awaited.

  Thisbe cried out, but no sound came from her throat. She ran forward, but the crowd thickened in front of her. She pushed her way through the people, but she could not shove them aside quickly enough.

  The guards bound the woman to the post, winding the rope tightly around her waist. Thisbe screamed again and again, but her voice remained silent. No matter how she pushed and wove her way through the mob, more and more of them seemed to block her path. Her heart pounded; sweat trickled down her face despite the freezing air.

  The executioner took up a torch and walked toward the pile of logs. The woman looked out across the crowd, and her gaze locked on Thisbe’s, her dark eyes fierce in their resolve. Save him. The voice resounded in Thisbe’s head. Save him.

  Thisbe leaped forward as the executioner plunged the torch into the kindling...

  * * *

  “NO!” THISBE’S EYES flew open. She was still for a moment, letting the world around her settle into reality once again.

  There had been no pain this time, but the nightmare had been even more frightening. Her stomach roiled as she remembered the stench, the hatred that filled the air, her own helplessness to stop the horror unfolding before her eyes.

  Her throat was raw and dry. She slipped out of bed and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher. She drank it down thirstily and sank onto the chair, heedless of the chill in the air. Another mad dream.

  At least this one was easy to explain. She’d gone to bed in a turmoil, heartsick over Desmond’s betrayal, her mind filled with his story of Anne Ballew and her death, burned at the stake as a witch. It was no wonder her nightmare had been of just such a scene. It was reasonable. Awful but understandable. It hadn’t been real. Only a nightmare.

  Still...that didn’t explain why had she dreamed of someone burning at the stake weeks ago, before she’d even heard of Anne Ballew.

  Thisbe shivered. No. That was too mad. She could not think about that tonight. She crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to her head.

  * * *

  THE NEWS OF Desmond’s perfidy was all over the house the following morning. Clearly the dowager duchess had wasted no time in spreading the news. Everyone was careful not to mention the matter at breakfast, but Thisbe found the sympathetic looks almost as difficult to bear. Her sisters pulled her into the game room afterward, Kyria cheerily suggesting a game of cards.

  “I’m sure you intend to take my mind off last night,” Thisbe told them as she followed Kyria and Olivia into the room. “But I am not good company today.”

  “Then we’ll talk. Or we could go to the music room,” Kyria suggested.

  “Or the bookshop,” Olivia said.

  “No.” Thisbe shook her head. “I’m too furious to do anything.”

  “Perhaps it’s not as bad as it appears,” Kyria offered tentatively.

  “It is. I thought the way I felt the past week was the worst I could feel. But I have discovered that the boundaries for pain are apparently limitless.” Thisbe sighed and dropped down onto a chair. “Now I sound like Grandmother, turning this—this losing a gentleman caller into a grand tragedy.”

  “Desmond was a good deal more than a gentleman caller, and you know it,” Kyria told her. “It feels like a tragedy to you. You’re allowed to emote a bit.”

  “Maybe, but I shouldn’t make you endure it.”

  “Don’t be silly. That’s what we’re here for.” Kyria took a chair at the card table, and Olivia sat on Thisbe’s other side, their faces so earnest and concerned that Thisbe couldn’t help but feel warmed.

  “At least earlier I could cling to the idea that Desmond loved me, that it was only his superstition that kept us apart. But now I know that he never loved me at all. Everything he did was a sham.”

  “Are you certain?” Olivia asked.

  “He as good as confessed it.”

  “I don’t understand exactly what happened,” Olivia said. “What did he do? What is this thing Grandmother says he wanted to steal?”

  “Some old artifact that Grandmother owns. They call it the Eye of Annie Blue.”

  “Sounds like one of Olivia’s stories,” Kyria commented.

  “It is, rather. It’s a strange quizzing glass that they think can enable one to see spirits.”

  “Ghosts?” Olivia stared.

  “Yes.” Thisbe described the details of the evening before and Desmond’s confession. “Of course, Grandmother refused to lend him the Eye. Desmond left. And that’s the end of our ‘courtship.’ I’ll never see him again, and good riddance.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I feel so stupid. I thought he loved me. I was blathering on about how I didn’t care about the danger—I wanted to be with him. He must think me an utter fool.”

  “I don’t understand why he told you what he’d done.” Kyria frowned. “It goes against his own interest.”

  Thisbe shrugged. “Does it matter? He was warning me away from Wallace and Dunbridge. That was a kindness on his part, I suppose.”

  “But why did he break it off with you earlier?” Olivia asked. “When he told you
he was a danger to you.”

  “I don’t know. I presume he saw he would never get the Eye and was tired of having to pretend an affection for me.”

  “Or maybe he told you the truth,” Olivia suggested. “Maybe he really didn’t know who you were in the beginning.”

  “Olivia! How can you stand up for him?” Kyria turned on her younger sister.

  “I’m not. I’m just trying to be fair. Thisbe didn’t tell him who she was when they met, either.”

  Kyria let out a dismissive snort, and Thisbe said, “It beggars belief that he ‘accidentally’ ran into me at the exact time he was also trying to get our grandmother’s Eye. Besides, I told him my name was Moreland. Surely that would make him suspect I might be related.”

  “Maybe he only knew the Duchess of Broughton, not Moreland,” Olivia countered. “Not everyone is conversant with all the titles and names in the peerage.”

  Thisbe frowned at her. “You still like him.”

  “I’m furious with him for hurting you,” Olivia replied. “And I think he was wrong—and foolish—not to tell you. All I am saying is that it doesn’t mean he lied to you about everything. Even if it started out a deception, he could have fallen in love with you later.”

  “You read too many novels.”

  “Forget Desmond,” Kyria told her. “You should—”

  “I am not attending another one of your parties,” Thisbe interrupted.

  “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say that you should see that other man—Mason.”

  “Carson.”

  “Whoever. You liked him enough to let him escort you to a party.”

  “Because I hoped Desmond would be there,” Thisbe confessed. “I have no interest in Carson and, anyway, he is after the Eye, too. I intend to avoid all male company from now on.”

  Olivia spoke up again. “I don’t think it’s odd that Desmond was afraid you’d hate him if he told you the whole story. I mean, that’s what happened, after all.” Olivia sighed. “And, yes, I do like him.”