by Candace Camp
“One would think,” Theo muttered, hands on his hips as he watched the dowager duchess climb the stairs. He swung back to Thisbe. “I cannot believe you went with her to the docks.”
“I could hardly allow her to go alone, could I? And, I must point out, we succeeded.”
“I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that Grandmother was able to wring it out of him. She’s always terrified me.” He began to stroll down the hall toward the sitting room, and Thisbe joined him.
“I must say, you and Reed are certainly thick as thieves with Desmond,” she told him sardonically.
He shrugged. “I was wrong about him, I think. He’s someone we can trust.”
“Because he’s willing to get into a tavern brawl with you?”
“No...well, yes, a little. He had my back. And he... Thiz, what he told us... I think he loves you.”
“Oh, really?” She raised one eyebrow.
“He told us you were always reasonable,” he quipped with a grin. “You’d have to be blinded by love to believe that.”
“Ha! Maybe he just recognizes reason more clearly than you.”
“He should have told you who he was, but it’s easier to say that than to do it when you think you’ll lose someone you love. Tell me, would you have told him your father was a duke if you thought he’d leave you for it?”
“He did leave me.” Thisbe avoided the question.
“I can’t blame him for wanting to protect you. I should cancel my trip and stay here to help you.”
“Don’t be silly. I am perfectly fine. They have the Eye, so there is no need to threaten me any longer. Grandmother and I have already dealt with the only dangerous person involved in this affair. Are you saying that I cannot deal with one aging scientist?”
Theo held up his hands in a warding-off gesture. “I value my life too much to ever say that. It’s just... I feel as if I’m deserting you.”
“You’re not. I refuse to let you ruin an expedition you’ve been wishing to do for years. You better get on that train to Southampton this afternoon.”
“All right. I will. But Reed—”
“Must return to school,” she said, finishing his thought. “You say you trust Desmond, and he will be with me. Now, go upstairs and pack. If I know you, you haven’t finished that yet.”
He smiled and swept her into a short, fierce hug. “Love you, Thiz. I’ll send you something from the Amazon.”
“You better write.”
He laughed as he turned and walked away. “Now, that is less certain.”
Thisbe watched as he strode down the hall, a lump rising in her throat. She had meant everything she said to him; what she hadn’t said was how much she would miss him.
* * *
“I CANNOT BELIEVE it’s Professor Gordon.” Those were the first words out of Desmond’s mouth when he joined Thisbe in the sultan room a few minutes later.
“Why would Grieves lie?”
“Because he’s a criminal?”
“But why not say it was Wallace? It makes no difference to him which man it was, surely.”
“It could,” Desmond said stubbornly. “He might protect Wallace so the man would continue to hire him. Wallace could hardly do that from Newgate.”
“Still, it seems foolish to not look for Professor Gordon.”
Desmond let out a gusty sigh and sank down onto a chair. “I’m sorry. Of course we must search for him.” He set his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands. “It’s not that I cannot believe he took the Eye. He was desperate to get it, and to his way of thinking, it didn’t really belong to your grandmother. It was Anne Ballew’s and belonged to science. But if he hired Grieves to do that, then it means he also sent Grieves to coerce me into taking it. It was he who told Grieves to threaten you.”
“Not necessarily.” Thisbe fought the urge to go to comfort him. “Wallace could have hired him for that coercion, and Gordon for the theft. He said that he worked for anyone who would pay him, and I believe that. He’s not a man with loyalty.”
“Thank you for offering me that sop.” Desmond raised his head and half smiled at her. “But you’re right—the logical course is to look for Gordon first. Should we go back over the same ground? See if we can find someone else who might know where he went? A neighbor, perhaps. We didn’t knock on all the other doors at his lodgings yesterday.”
“Nor did we go to his sister’s home,” Thisbe pointed out. “He could have taken the Eye and gone there, after all. At least she might have a better idea where he might run.”
“I don’t think we can overlook the possibility that he might have taken it to Wallace,” Desmond said.
“True. Their joint absence is suspicious. Well, we must choose one and start with it.”
“It’s almost noon,” Desmond said. “I’m not sure there’s time to go to Chelmsford and return.”
“Then let’s save it for tomorrow. We can set out early in the morning.”
Desmond sighed. “That leaves us with the undoubtedly fruitless option of retracing our steps.”
They returned to the university, making another tour of the library and Gordon’s office and lecture halls, but they turned up no information about Gordon, other than an indignant tirade from one of his students: “He’s missed two straight sessions now. What use is it to hire a tutor if he disappears on a whim? I ask you.”
They went to the laboratory next, where they found only Benjamin. He, it appeared, had talked to no one, including Gordon and his other coworkers.
“Neither Albert nor Carson?” Desmond asked.
“No. No one’s been here but me for the third day now,” the man replied plaintively, then frowned. “Wait. Why aren’t you at the shop? A chap from there came by yesterday, brought some of your instruments.” He gestured toward the table, where Desmond’s kit sat. “What is going on?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Desmond turned away, not looking at Thisbe. “We should go.” He strode out of the room.
“Desmond...” Thisbe caught up with him as he stepped outside. He didn’t answer, just opened the carriage door for her to get in. “He let you go, didn’t he? The owner of the shop. It was because of me, wasn’t it? Because I barged in there the other day.”
Desmond shrugged and cast her a wry smile. “He thought I had become something of a disturbance in the shop.”
“Oh, Desmond... I’m sorry. I didn’t think... I was so angry and...” Her voice trailed off. She hadn’t even thought about the fact that Desmond had spent all his time the past few days helping her search for the Eye. It had been thoughtless of her. Snobbish, even—in her sphere, no one was employed. She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I will go talk to the man, explain that—”
“No!” He jerked his arm from her grasp. His usually soft brown eyes were suddenly hard, even fiery. “I don’t want you to do anything for me.”
His anger shocked Thisbe, and she pulled back, hurt by his rejection. In the next moment, it came to her: he had said he never intended to use her for anything. He was proving it by refusing her help, even though she had freely offered. No, it was more than that, deeper—he wasn’t just trying to prove his worthiness to her; he simply was a worthy man. He didn’t use people. Like his honesty or kindness or love of knowledge, it was an integral part of him, bred deep in his bones and blood. When she refused to believe that, it had been a denial of him in every way.
He had shrugged off her lie of omission in not telling him her name because he knew her, knew how little that lie was a part of her. She, however, had not had the same innate faith in him. If he had hurt her, she realized now that she had hurt him, too.
“Desmond, I’m sorry,” she said, and he glanced at her, puzzled.
“Sorry about what?”
“About, well, everything.”
His eyes
widened, but before he could speak, their carriage pulled to a stop in front of Mr. Gordon’s building. Thisbe, suddenly shy and uncertain, opened the door and scrambled out, forestalling any response.
Desmond caught up with her before she reached the outer door, but he seemed no more eager to talk than Thisbe was. He trotted up the stairs and pounded on the nearest door. “Let’s try the landlord.”
After a long pause, a rail-thin man opened the door and peered out at them. His eyes were sharp, as was his nose, and the deep line between his eyebrows gave him the look of a permanent frown. “What do you want?” His eyes narrowed as he regarded Thisbe. “Who are you? Why are you coming round here?”
“I am Lady Thisbe Moreland,” Thisbe said crisply, deciding that this was a moment that called for a display of power. “My father is the Duke of Broughton.”
“I got nothing to do with no duke.”
“No doubt. But one of your tenants does. Mr. Gordon on the floor above? Did he tell you where he was going? How long he would be gone?”
“No. Like I told the others, I don’t know nothing about him.” He started to close the door, but Desmond braced his hand against it, holding it open.
“The others? There’ve been other people trying to reach the professor?”
“Said so, didn’t I?”
“Who were they? How many?” Thisbe asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of everybody that comes here, banging on doors.”
“What did you tell them?” Desmond persisted.
“Same as I told you. I don’t know where he went. I don’t keep track of him, neither.”
“I need to get into his flat,” Desmond said. “I work for him, and he was supposed to, um, lend me a book. But he’s disappeared and, ah, I really must have that book. For a class.”
Desmond was dismal at lying. She should have realized immediately that he was telling her the truth. It was surprising, really, that he’d managed to conceal his interest in the Eye as long as he had.
“A book, eh?” the landlord snorted.
“He has stolen something from my grandmother.” Thisbe decided to take charge of the conversation. Desmond was simply too nice. Adopting her grandmother’s tone, she went on, “It would be far easier for you to let us in so we can see whether the duchess’s possession is in his flat. Otherwise, my father will have to send the police to search the place. I suspect they might want to inspect the entire building...you know, as a favor to the duke.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the man replied sulkily.
“Haven’t you?” She crooked one eyebrow disdainfully. Most people had some secret they wanted to hide. Especially a landlord. “I suppose the police will have to decide that. Do you own this building or manage it for someone else? Someone who might discover that you’ve been keeping a little of his rent money for yourself.”
“I never—”
“Or charge for unnecessary repairs.” She tried to think of more of her mother’s list of grievances against landlords. Unfortunately, the ways in which they took advantage of their renters were usually legal. “You seem a reasonable man. Surely, it is within your rights to enter a tenant’s flat when you deem it necessary.”
“Aye...”
“It seems necessary here, don’t you think?” Following the dowager duchess’s advice, she reached into her pocket and brandished a coin.
“Very well,” he grumbled, but his eyes brightened and he was quick to take the coin from her fingers. “Come along, then.” He reached inside his flat, took a key from a hook and started up the stairs.
Gordon’s flat was small and, unsurprisingly, overflowing with books and supplies. It took little time to discover that it didn’t contain Anne Ballew’s Eye. But Thisbe hadn’t expected it to be there. Gordon would keep his prize close to him. She hoped to find some clue as to where the man had gone.
While Desmond checked in cabinets and drawers, she went to the man’s desk. There was a locked drawer, but she easily found the key in one of the other drawers and opened it. There were a number of other papers inside, but a quick scan of them showed nothing of interest. After relocking the drawer, she shuffled through the items on his desk.
A folded notepaper with a broken seal caught her eye, and she opened it. Her eyes went immediately to the signature. “Desmond.”
At the tone in her voice, he turned and hurried to her side. She held out the note and read aloud. “‘I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow afternoon.’” Thisbe tapped the signature.
“‘Alfred Symington,’” he said and shrugged.
“That’s Uncle Bellard’s friend. The one who wrote about Anne Ballew.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“ALFRED SYMINGTON?” Uncle Bellard said in response to Thisbe’s query. “I wouldn’t call him a friend, precisely. I met him only once, at Denberry’s house. But we have corresponded now and then.” He surveyed his bookshelves. “Now, where did I put that book of his?”
“You lent it to me, Uncle.”
“Ah, well. Excellent.” He beamed and turned to Desmond. “I haven’t seen you about much recently. I hope Cornelia didn’t frighten you away. You may always escape up here, you know.”
“Thank you.” Desmond smiled at the small man. “I’ve been rather busy lately.”
“Are you chasing this Eye of Cornelia’s, too? Of course, you would be interested in Anne Ballew—you are from Dorset, too, as I remember. I’m sure Symington would love to pick your brain. He’s most interested in local legends.”
“That’s good,” Thisbe said. “We would like to talk to Mr. Symington, too. Do you know where he lives?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Let me see...” He began to search his desk until he found a thin leather-bound notebook. “There we are.” He flipped through the pages. “Ah, yes, I thought it wasn’t far. Tottenham Borough, near Seven Sisters Road.” He held out the book to Thisbe. “I should have remembered that. Apt place for him to live, with all the legends about those trees.”
“Legends?”
“They ‘flourish but do not grow,’ isn’t it?” Desmond said.
Bellard nodded, pleased at his understanding. “Oh! I don’t believe you’ve seen my new set of hussars. I just got them in.” He went happily over to a table, Desmond following. “I’ve decided to lay out the Battle of Balaclava. That charge, of course, was a terrible mistake—blamed it on Nolan, but my thought is it was Lord Cardigan at fault. He’s always been a fool.” He gestured at the table, sweeping his arm toward “the thin red line” and pointing at future placements of cannons.
Desmond nodded thoughtfully and agreed, but as he and Thisbe walked back down the hall, he murmured, “Who is Lord Cardigan? A relative?”
Thisbe chuckled. “I think he’s the one who led the Charge of the Light Brigade.”
“Ah.” His brow cleared. “‘Into the Valley of Death’ and so on. I thought Balaclava was some sort of musical instrument.”
Thisbe giggled. “I thought it was a pastry, myself. No one knows nearly enough to keep up with Uncle Bellard—it’s best just to nod. You are very nice to him.”
“How could anyone not be?”
“There are those who can,” she said darkly. She paused as they neared the stairs and turned to him. “Seven Sisters tomorrow?”
He nodded. “It seems the likeliest place for Gordon to go. With their mutual interest in Anne Ballew, they’re likely to be friends. If we’re lucky, he’s staying with Mr. Symington.”
“Or Mr. Symington knows where he went or what he’s planning to do.” Thisbe fell silent. She wished Desmond would stay, but she couldn’t think of anything to delay his leaving. “I—I appreciate your help with this.”
“I will always help you. You must know that.” His eyes were dark and warm. He leaned forward, his hand coming up, and Thisbe thought breathlessly that he was about t
o kiss her. But he drew back a step, his hand dropping. “Besides, I am to blame for it going missing. I should have realized what Professor Gordon might do. Stopped him.”
“How could you have done that? Perhaps it’s time we stop casting blame—ourselves and each other. I—” Impulsively, she stretched up to kiss him, her lips light and soft on his. She heard his quick intake of breath, and his hands went to her waist.
“Thisbe...” His fingers tightened, his eyes going to her mouth. “You don’t know how much I want to kiss you right now.”
“Perhaps you should show me.” Her lips curved up.
At that moment there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. For one of the few times in her life, Thisbe wished everyone in her family was far away. Desmond stepped back, letting his breath out in a whoosh, and turned toward the stairs just as Olivia came into view.
“Oh.” She stopped, her eyes going apologetically to Thisbe. “I, um, think I forgot something.” She began to turn back.
But Desmond was already greeting her sister, the moment gone. “Hallo, Livvy.” To Thisbe, he said, “Tomorrow morning, then.”
Thisbe nodded, and Olivia added, “Come for breakfast. Grandmother never comes down that early.”
Desmond chuckled. “Ha. With my luck she’ll make an exception.” He gave Olivia’s braid a playful tug and trotted down the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course not. You didn’t do anything wrong. Desmond was about to leave, anyway.”
“Yes, but... I don’t know... You looked as if maybe you aren’t mad at him anymore.”
“Maybe I’m not.” Thisbe grinned. “We’ll see what happens.”
She went to her bedroom and pulled out Mr. Symington’s book, turning to his biography of Anne Ballew. The familiar face gazed out at her. There was pride in the look, even a touch of arrogance. Had she thought her intelligence would keep her safe? Allow her to succeed where most women would not even dare to go? If so, she had certainly paid for not recognizing the strength of inbred prejudices against women and class, indeed, against any ideas that challenged accepted beliefs.