by Candace Camp
He had done well enough at it with her. Thisbe bit back the words; they would only show her hurt. “I take it you described the Eye to him.”
“Only in general terms. I said it was an optical device, a lens with prisms. That’s all, and I said nothing about where it was located. Indeed, I told Gordon many times how impossible it would be to find and steal something out of that house. I assumed he would continue to try to convince your grandmother, but I couldn’t believe that anyone would steal it.”
“Clearly someone did. Professor Gordon seems the likeliest.”
Desmond sighed. “I’d hate to think he would go that far, but he did seem almost desperate. He thinks he can prove his theories are right if he has the Eye, and he wants so badly to be accepted by his peers again. We must talk to him. He’ll be at the laboratory.”
“First, we should return home and take our carriage. It will make the ride more pleasant.” And much safer not to be in such close proximity to Desmond.
Gordon was not at the laboratory. Neither was anyone else, so they were able to search the cabinets. Two were locked, but Desmond found the key in one of Gordon’s desk drawers. Disappointingly, they contained nothing but supplies and equipment.
“I didn’t really think he would hide it there,” Desmond said. “More likely he’d want to keep it close to him, away from prying eyes.”
They returned to the street, where her driver patiently waited, and Desmond directed him to Professor Gordon’s flat. Inside the coach, they sat across from each other in awkward silence. Thisbe decided that it was hardly any better to sit across from Desmond than next to him, for now she could look at him, see every feature that her heart had missed: the shape of his lip, the little curl at the nape of his neck, where his hair met his collar, his long, slender fingers. He was without his gloves again; the man needed a keeper.
She turned her head away. Better to keep her eyes on the window.
“How is your family?” Desmond asked abruptly. Thisbe glanced over to find him steadfastly studying his hands. “The twins? Are they well?”
“The twins are as they always are. Healthy as horses and leading everyone on a merry chase.”
A faint smile curved his lips and he glanced up. “And your sisters? I suppose your family must hate me now.”
Thisbe shrugged. “The Morelands don’t traffic much in hate. Disappointed, perhaps.”
He nodded, his eyes sad. “I am very sorry for that.”
Thisbe was determined not to be swayed by sympathy, but after a moment, she said, “Olivia stood up for you. A bit.”
The corner of his mouth quirked, and good humor briefly glinted in his eyes. “A champion for lost causes, I see.”
“She has a kind heart.” Thisbe returned her gaze to the window. Every look at him weakened her resolve. “Ah. We’re stopping. We must be here.”
They stepped out onto the cobblestone street and started toward the building, but before they reached it, the door opened and a man emerged.
“Carson!”
Carson stopped, looking equally startled. “Desmond.” His eyes were curious as his gaze slid over to Thisbe, but he said only, “Miss Moreland.”
“What are you doing here?” Desmond asked, frowning.
The other man raised his eyebrows slightly at Desmond’s abrupt tone. “Looking for the professor, as I imagine you are. He’s not at the laboratory, so I thought I’d try here, but no luck. Perhaps he’s in class or the library.”
Desmond’s eyes narrowed, and he walked around Carson to enter the building. Carson watched Desmond’s back for a moment, then pivoted to Thisbe. “He seems a bit...distrusting.”
“Yes. As I have learned to be.”
“Ah. I see.” He paused. “I must say, I was surprised to see you and Desmond together.”
“Well, needs must.”
“My, but we are cryptic today.” Carson’s eyes danced. “Dare I venture a guess why?”
“Yes, why don’t you?” Thisbe’s gaze was level. Carson was just below Gordon and his patron on Thisbe’s list of suspects. However flippant he might be, he must be as interested in the Eye as the rest of them, and he was the only one in the group besides Desmond who had sought to make her a friend.
Carson studied her. “Frankly, I’m not sure, though I confess I am growing more curious by the moment. Something to do with the Eye, I presume. The dowager duchess has relented? Somehow that seems unlikely. Harrison has managed to work his way back into your good graces and you’ve let him use the Eye? From your frosty manner, I think not.” His eyes widened suddenly. “It’s missing. That’s it, isn’t it? Someone stole Annie Blue’s Eye.”
“You leaped to that conclusion quickly.”
“It seemed the only logical explanation left. I’m right, aren’t I? I can see it in your eyes.”
Desmond returned. “He doesn’t answer his door.”
“I suggest we try the university next,” Carson offered.
“We?” Desmond directed a black look at his colleague. “I don’t recall anyone inviting you along.”
“That’s why I invited myself.” Carson lifted in hands in a placatory gesture. “What’s the harm? I know why you’re looking for him, and I can help.”
“You told him?” Desmond asked Thisbe.
“I guessed it,” Carson said. “Come, come, Desmond. No need to be piggish about it. Three heads are better than two, after all.”
“I am the one you need to ask,” Thisbe pointed out. “And you might as well come. At least I’ll know you aren’t running off to tell some accomplice about it.” And it would be easier, surely, if she was not alone with Desmond.
“There you go.” Carson grinned. He made a sweeping gesture toward the carriage. “Well? View halloo, children. We’d best be after our quarry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CARSON WOULD MANAGE to insert himself into it. It only made sense, as Thisbe had said, to keep an eye on Carson, but the man was a veritable fly in the ointment for this single chance to be alone with Thisbe. And wasn’t that a sorry state of affairs, to hunger so for Thisbe that even her icy, decidedly unfriendly company was something to treasure?
The past week had been such a cavalcade of misery that even her castigating him hadn’t completely drowned out Desmond’s pleasure in seeing Thisbe. When he looked up and saw her sweeping into his workshop, her color high, her eyes brilliant, his first emotion was pure joy. It had been immediately followed, of course, by the certainty that she was furious. Guilt, indignation and anger had bubbled in him, mingling with pleasure and a peculiar hope—after all, there must be some feeling for him still inside her to invoke such fury.
She was beautiful even when she wouldn’t smile, her voice welcome to his ears, though it sliced at him. And even as he’d lashed out at her for acting like an aristocrat, his bitterness could not dim what he felt for her. She had been so typically Thisbe, defending her actions with reason and honesty, that he’d wanted to kiss her until neither of them could breathe.
However painful it was to be with her, knowing that he had lost her, aware of how badly he had bungled everything, his heart soaked up every moment of it. Now here was Carson, sitting beside him, chattering away like a magpie, teasing Desmond and flirting with Thisbe in that careless way that Desmond would never be able to carry off.
It was futile to brood over it, however, and Desmond knew that he should set his mind to accomplishing the one thing that might find favor in Thisbe’s eyes. He must locate that wretched Eye and restore it to her grandmother. For himself, aside from a bit of guilt that his actions had in all likelihood set the thief on his course, Desmond didn’t care a whit about the Eye. He had little liking for the dowager duchess; he doubted that the instrument actually worked; and frankly, at this moment he didn’t really care whether or not it did. Nor was he feeling any warmth for his colleagues, at least
one of whom was apparently a thief.
But one thing he would like, very much, was to see Thisbe’s eyes light with pleasure, to have her smile at him warmly. He wanted to prove to her that he had not stolen the Eye, and perhaps giving it back would go some small way to showing her that he had never used her to get the thing.
Desmond had no hope that he could win her back; he’d lost her love, and he’d lost her trust. He doubted that either of those could really be mended. Then there was the inconvenient fact that he somehow spelled doom for Thisbe. Even if those obstacles could be surmounted, he would never be a suitable husband. He had no name of any note, no hope of fame or fortune.
No, his goal was much smaller than that and, hopefully, more achievable. If he could win back some of the regard she had once had for him, enough at least for friendship, if he could remove the loathing for him in her eyes, that would be enough.
Which was a lie, of course. It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. It wouldn’t satisfy his hunger, his longing to kiss her again, to hold her in his arms, to feel the shiver of pleasure run through her when he caressed her.
But it would at least be far better than the emptiness he had now.
Thisbe’s presence at the school garnered some attention. Women had been admitted to the university only this year, and the sight of a female was still something of an oddity. Thisbe ignored the stares, and Desmond’s scowl at the gawkers soon sent them on their way.
Professor Gordon’s minuscule office was dark and locked, no student waiting to see him. After equally fruitless trips to several lecture halls, they turned to the library, an immense place filled with countless nooks and crannies for sitting and reading.
“Best to split up,” Carson suggested. “We can cover more territory.”
Desmond jumped at the opportunity to rid them of Carson’s presence. “Yes, good idea. Thisbe and I will take this side.”
Carson’s amused glance told him he understood Desmond’s real interest in dividing the work, but he said nothing and strolled away.
“That was rather rude,” Thisbe said as they walked away. “Not to mention high-handed. What if I had preferred to accompany Carson?”
“I presumed you’d want to keep your eye on me, given that I’m such a villain,” Desmond replied.
“I’d like to keep an eye on both of you,” she retorted. “But Carson was right—it would take us a great deal more time if we remained together.”
A glare and a “shh” from a nearby student sent them on their way more quietly. They searched every floor, asking each patron—to the annoyance of a large number of them—whether they had seen Professor Gordon that day. Most didn’t know the man, and the ones who recognized the name had not seen him recently.
When Carson rejoined them, he reported a similar lack of success. “He’s fled.”
“You don’t know that,” Desmond protested.
“I know he’s not at home, he’s not at the laboratory and he’s not here.” Carson ticked off his points on his fingers.
“It’s understandable that you don’t want your friend to be a thief,” Thisbe told Desmond, her voice more gentle than it had been any other time today. “But it doesn’t look good that he’s nowhere to be found.”
“People go places other than home and work.”
“Gordon?” Carson raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Point taken,” Desmond admitted.
“He has to be somewhere,” Thisbe said. “He cannot simply vanish. We must—”
“Wallace,” Desmond said.
“He’s also someone to look into,” Carson agreed. “But first—”
“No. I mean, Professor Gordon could have gone to Wallace’s house. Wallace has been pressing him about the Eye. I think the professor would have been eager to show the Eye to his patron.”
“Yes. And if Wallace stole it, he’d want Gordon to examine it. Conduct some experiment with it.” Thisbe smiled at Desmond, and for an instant, everything seemed as it had been, their conversation easy.
Then Carson spoke, and the moment was gone. Thisbe’s smile dropped away, and her body stiffened a little. Clearly she had remembered that she was supposed to despise Desmond.
The visit to Wallace’s house proved equally fruitless. No one answered their knock, and the windows were shuttered, with no bit of light showing.
“He’s bolted, too,” Carson said, turning away. “What’s your plan now?”
“I don’t know that I have one,” Thisbe admitted as they gathered at the carriage.
“I think we’re done for the day,” Desmond said. He didn’t want to discuss the subject with Carson. The sooner they could rid themselves of the man, the better. “It’s getting dark, and we’ve run out of options.”
To his surprise, Thisbe didn’t protest. “Yes, perhaps you are right. I must talk this over with my grandmother. Please, I beg you, both of you, don’t let out word of this theft.” She looked searchingly at Carson, then Desmond.
“Of course,” Carson replied. “I won’t say a word. If I can be of any further help to you, I hope you will not hesitate to call me.”
“Thank you. I will remember.”
“Good day, then.” Carson nodded in farewell. “Harrison? I’m headed for the laboratory. You?”
“No. I believe I’ll go home.” With Carson hanging there, waiting for him, Desmond could do little other than depart. The man was a complete hindrance. Desmond glanced at Thisbe and could read nothing in her face.
“Good day, then.” Thisbe settled the matter by taking her leave of the men and getting into her carriage.
The two men walked off. For once, Carson provided none of his usual light chatter, and Desmond was too sunken in gloom to say anything. He had intended to remain with Thisbe, but Carson had neatly blocked him there. He should have come up with something more clever to separate Carson from the group.
At the cross street, Desmond parted from his colleague, setting off in the general direction of his home. At the next corner he glanced back and, seeing that Carson was no longer in sight, he turned again. If he wanted to talk to Thisbe, he would have to call at Thisbe’s house and hope she would admit him, though it seemed unlikely.
A carriage rumbled up the street and came to a stop beside him. Desmond glanced over. It was the Moreland coach, and Thisbe was opening the door. A happiness far greater than was reasonable flooded him. Perhaps there was still hope for him after all.
* * *
“I THOUGHT WE could walk—Broughton House isn’t far,” Thisbe said, stepping out of the carriage. Desmond looked faintly surprised, and she realized that a stroll was not something one would typically do with a person she disliked. She quickly explained, “We need to talk. We’ll have more time if we walk.” She felt herself blushing and broke off to tell the coachmen to return to Broughton House.
“Good. I wanted to talk without Carson about,” Desmond agreed as they started down the street.
“I did, as well. I was about to suggest stopping myself. Carson was helpful, but I didn’t want to admit him to our plans.”
“Do we have plans?” Desmond’s mouth quirked up on one side.
“No,” Thisbe admitted, quelling the flutter in her abdomen that his half smile always brought. “I don’t know where else to go or what to do.”
Desmond nodded. “I wonder...”
“What?” Thisbe asked. She knew that look on his face. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that Carson left us too easily. I would have expected him to protest or come up with reasons to stay.”
“The way he did this afternoon when we went to the university,” Thisbe agreed.
“The question is why, when he was so eager to be with us before, was he so willing to leave now?” Desmond asked.
“Perhaps he simply wanted you gone, as you did him,” s
he suggested.
“Possibly. If so, he may turn up on your doorstep soon. That was my intention.”
It shouldn’t have pleased Thisbe so much that Desmond hadn’t wanted to part from her. “Did you think I wouldn’t come around to get you?”
“Yes,” Desmond answered simply. “I’m not one of your favorite people at the moment.”
Thisbe didn’t want to get drawn down that path again. “Why do you think he wanted to get away from us?”
“One possibility is that Carson is the thief. He seems a much more likely candidate for breaking into your house than a portly, sedentary man of middle years such as Professor Gordon. And why was he hanging about Gordon’s flat when we went there? Did you notice that he never really answered my question?”
Thisbe nodded. “Yes, I saw that. And you’re right—Professor Gordon doesn’t seem the sort to break into Broughton House. Neither does a gentleman of Mr. Wallace’s position. But if Carson is the thief, why did he join us?”
“To throw us off. To fix it in our heads that the culprit is Gordon or Wallace.” He shrugged. “Or he could be entirely innocent of the theft and helped us search as a kindness, then merely wanted to get home for his supper.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
Desmond shrugged. “I’m not sure. I can’t help but be suspicious of him. At the beginning, when we first learned that the duchess wouldn’t let us study the Eye, Carson was the one who brought up stealing it.”
“I see.” Thisbe tried to ignore the pang in her chest at this reminder of Desmond’s betrayal.
“On the other hand, Carson is prone to jests and sarcastic remarks, and I’m not sure he means them. He has this way of talking...”
“As if everything is ironical—as if he’s amused and cynical all at the same time.”
“Exactly.” Desmond flashed her a grin. “It makes it hard to figure him out.”