Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

  “It isn’t just that I’m not the son of a gentleman.” He took a breath and plunged in. “I’m the son of a thief. My father isn’t dead. He’s a felon.”

  Thisbe gaped at him. “A felon? But you said—”

  “I know. I know.” Desmond turned away with a groan. “Another way I deceived you. You asked me if he was dead, and—”

  “And you said that he was gone, too.”

  “Yes, but the truth was that where he had gone was the penal colony in Australia. I’m sorry, Thisbe. I’m so sorry, I should have told you. It was wrong, and I’ve felt wretched, but I couldn’t summon the courage to tell you. You already thought I’d used you get that damnable Eye. And then, when you thought I had stolen it...”

  Thisbe nodded. “I can see why you would be reluctant.” She leaned forward, her voice earnest. “But, Desmond, I can hardly get angry about that sort of shading the truth when I did exactly the same by telling you my name was Moreland but not adding that I was Broughton’s daughter. It’s certainly not such a lie that I wouldn’t marry you.”

  “Thisbe!” He had to laugh. “Only you would equate omitting that you’re a duke’s daughter with my not confessing I’m a thief’s son. Don’t you see? It’s not the deception—though I do regret that immensely—it’s the fact that no one, not even your family, would want a man like that for an in-law.”

  “Really, Desmond, how dare you?” Thisbe said hotly. “How can you imply that my family would be so judgmental, so narrow-minded, as to brand you with your father’s misdeeds?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he protested.

  “What did you mean?”

  “Well, I...” He floundered.

  “My family likes you, Desmond, and they want me to be happy. None of them would care a whit about who your father is.”

  “Your grandmother would.”

  “No one whose opinion mattered to me,” Thisbe amended.

  “I have no money. Hell, I haven’t a job any longer. If I did, it wouldn’t support a wife, even if she were not accustomed to luxury.”

  “But that’s silly.” Thisbe laughed. “Money is the last thing we need worry about. Papa has lots of it, so much he cannot possibly throw it all away on his pots and statues. We can live in any of the houses.”

  “Any?” He gaped at her. “How many are there?”

  “I don’t know. There’s the house in Bath, where Grandmother lives, and a fishing lodge in Scotland, though no one ever goes there except Theo and Reed when they want to have some boys’ outing. The Irish estate, which we never use because Mother disapproves of the subjugation of Ireland. And there’s Broughton Park, of course, the seat of the Morelands. It’s much larger than the London house.”

  “Larger?” he asked weakly. At every turn, some new evidence of the gulf between them showed up.

  “Yes, we could have a whole wing to ourselves at the park. You’d have a laboratory. You could share mine or have one of your own if you liked. You wouldn’t have to make kaleidoscopes—you could spend your time on the things you truly want to study. But if you didn’t want to live with my family, Papa would let us have any of the others we wanted. Or we could find somewhere that is ours—I have money now. Papa’s lawyer set up some sort of fund for all of us children, and since I’m over turned twenty-one, so—”

  “Thisbe...” He thrust both hands into his hair, tugging at it, as he so often did when arguing with Thisbe. “It’s not your family—they’re delightful. It would be wonderful to live with them and have a laboratory and everything I wanted. But I cannot batten on your family like that. I won’t attach myself to you like a leech.”

  “Is it because I accused you of using me?” Thisbe asked. “I don’t believe that anymore. I understand what you did and, anyway, I think I said that mostly because I was hurt. I wouldn’t think you are any of those things.”

  “Others would.” He sighed. “Besides, it’s more than any of those things, and you know it.” He walked over and sat down on the bed beside her, taking her hand. “I am a danger to you.”

  “But don’t you see? There’s no danger any longer. Now that Gordon has the Eye, there’s no reason to threaten me.”

  “It’s not only Gordon and the Eye. It’s me. I know you scoff at your grandmother’s warning, but I cannot ignore it that easily. If I am a danger to you, I—”

  “Maybe you’re the one in danger,” Thisbe argued.

  “What? Why would I be in danger? Wait. When you came here tonight, you said...” In truth, he couldn’t remember what she had said. He had bolted straight from sleep into a waking dream of Thisbe in his arms, and her words had been only extraneous gibberish floating about. “You were scared. What happened?”

  Thisbe looked sheepish, an expression he’d never seen on her. “What if your aunt’s story wasn’t a legend? What if you really are descended from Anne Ballew?”

  “What?” That had been the last thing he had expected her to say. “Why would you think that?”

  “You don’t know that she was not your ancestor, do you?”

  “No, but that’s true of just about everyone in the world. Being from Dorset doesn’t make one her descendant. Nobody even knows if she had children.”

  “But isn’t it more likely that she did have children? She was an alchemist, not a nun, and she was an attractive woman. Her coloring was the same as yours.”

  Desmond stared. “Thisbe...this isn’t like you. It’s very slender evidence to base anything on. Why are you—”

  “Very well.” Looking even more embarrassed, Thisbe slipped out of bed and pulled on her nightgown and wrapper again. Apparently, she, like him, viewed her clothing as defense. “I had a dream tonight. I’ve been having them for some time now. Ever since I met you.”

  “You dreamed that I was Anne Ballew’s son?”

  “Yes... No... Well, not exactly.” She took in a deep breath and went on in a rush, “I’ve been dreaming about Anne Ballew. The woman in my dream is the woman in the portrait in Uncle Bellard’s book.”

  “Well, if you saw her portrait, it’s likely—”

  “No,” Thisbe interrupted, her tone adamant. “I didn’t picture her in the dream because I’d seen her in the book. I dreamed about her long before I read it. Before I’d even heard of Anne Ballew or the Eye. There was fire—I felt it. She pleaded with me to save someone. She said I owed it to her. She said she bound me.”

  “She said this in your dream tonight?”

  “She’s said it over the course of them. I’ve had a number of them, and they’ve grown more vivid. They’ve changed from hot to bone-chilling cold.” She raised her hands as he started to speak. “I know it’s ridiculous. You cannot give me any reason why none of this is real that I have not already told myself. I don’t believe in mystical things or speaking to the dead.”

  “I know. So why do you believe these dreams are real?”

  “They’re odd—they’re intense. They’re not like any dream I’ve ever had. She looks exactly like that woman in the book, and there’s the fire. Tonight she told me that I must ‘save him.’ She said it would destroy you.”

  “She said me specifically?”

  “No, but how many ‘hims’ are involved in this thing? Who among them is rumored to be descended from her? She called him ‘blood of my blood. Bone of my bone.’ And, Desmond...I didn’t see her in a dream. Tonight she was standing in my room.”

  “You talked to Anne Ballew?”

  “She talked to me. I said nothing because I was scared out of my wits.”

  “Just a moment. You were communing with Anne Ballew’s ghost tonight, but my believing in an omen is ludicrous?”

  Thisbe had the grace to look abashed, though she protested, “I saw Anne Ballew with my own eyes, whereas your premonition is from my grandmother, who doesn’t want me to be with you.”

  “Becaus
e I’ll cause your death!”

  “If you a had title in front of your name, I suspect her premonition would change drastically,” Thisbe retorted. “Oh, the devil. I don’t know what I believe anymore. Maybe my grandmother is mad as a hatter, and I am, too, and neither you nor I have the slightest thing to do with Anne Ballew. Or maybe Grandmother has been telling the truth all these years, and she can commune with Old Eldric and any number of spirits. Maybe she didn’t misinterpret what she saw, and her premonition is accurate. None of that matters because I don’t care.”

  “Thisbe—”

  “I don’t. It’s my life, and I am willing to take the risk.”

  “I know you are.” Desmond went to her and cupped her face with his hands. “You’re fearless.” He bent to kiss her gently. “But I am not. I cannot bear to think of anything hurting you. I couldn’t stand to live any longer if I was the cause of your death.”

  Tears swam in Thisbe’s eyes, and she pulled away. “Do you think I don’t feel the same for you? Love makes one a coward.” Thisbe walked away, then turned back. “You know...she didn’t say you would cause my death. She said your love would. We could be together if you stopped loving me.”

  Desmond gazed at her, his heart leaden. “But that is something I can never do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THISBE AND DESMOND took the train to Alfred Symington’s the following morning and were knocking on his door before noon. Thisbe glanced over at Desmond, who was standing beside her on the doorstep. He had been quiet today, and she knew he was agonizing over the night before.

  He had enjoyed it; she was certain of that. They had made love again, desperate and hungry in the face of their uncertain future, and Thisbe had found, astonishingly, that she could feel even more than she had before. Desmond insisted on seeing her home. When they parted at the side door of her home, he kissed her long and hard, leaving no doubt that he desired her. Every time he looked at her on the ride to Seven Sisters, Thisbe saw warmth in his eyes. But she also saw his worry and guilt, the dread that being with him would harm Thisbe, the self-castigation for giving in to his own needs.

  He was convinced he must protect her. Thisbe understood that. When she believed him in trouble the night before, her only thought had been to save him. But she was unwilling to accept that they must suffer the fate her grandmother predicted.

  She had to admit that the dowager duchess’s premonition and Desmond’s fear that he bore a mark of death seemed less preposterous to her now that she had seen Anne Ballew standing beside her fireplace. But she refused to believe that she had no choice in the matter. What use were omens unless one could do something to change the outcome?

  She simply had to work out how to do so. The first step was recovering the Eye and eliminating that danger for either of them, which was why they were here interviewing Mr. Symington this morning.

  Thisbe wanted to reach over and smooth the line from Desmond’s forehead. He made everything too hard for himself. He’d struggled all his life; he had no experience with anything being easy, no confidence that life would work out the way he wanted.

  As if feeling her gaze, Desmond glanced over at her, and his lips curved up in a warm, rather self-satisfied smile before he remembered that he was violating his own rules and tried to change his expression from that of a lover to one of a friend. She wondered if he knew that he was largely unsuccessful at it.

  “Do you think he’s not home?” he said now. “I thought your uncle sent him a message yesterday evening.”

  “He did. Perhaps you should knock again.”

  He did so, and a moment later the door was flung open, revealing a tall, patrician-looking man with dark brown hair punctuated by dramatic sweeps of silver at each temple. Thisbe had not really thought about what Alfred Symington would look like, but it wasn’t this. She’d more or less expected a man much like her great-uncle—stooped, bespectacled and abstracted—not someone who looked like a gentleman about to step out to his club.

  “Come in, come in,” he boomed, making an expansive gesture toward the inside of his cottage. “Had you knocked before? I was reading and didn’t hear you until my housekeeper called down.” He glanced up at an exasperated-looking woman standing at the top of the stairs, dust cloth in hand. With a shake of her head, she turned and stalked out of sight.

  Symington led them into the parlor. “Please, sit down. Shall I ring for tea?”

  Remembering the expression on the housekeeper’s face, Thisbe shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “I am honored to meet Lord Moreland’s niece. Such a scholar! I so enjoy our correspondence. Of course, his interests are divergent from mine.” He gave her a small self-deprecating smile. “But his comments are always so instructive.”

  Thisbe introduced Desmond, then added, “Mr. Harrison works for Professor Gordon.”

  “Ah!” Symington nodded. “I spoke to Mr. Gordon just the other day. Lord Moreland mentioned that you, too, are interested in learning about Anne Ballew and her legendary Eye.”

  “Yes. I read your book that featured her,” Thisbe said.

  “Did you?” Symington asked with delight. “How good of you.”

  “I found it very informative. I was surprised that you were able to find her portrait.”

  “Indeed!” he enthused. “It was unusual at that time for a woman of her station to have a portrait, much less for it to have survived for so many years. It was, I believe, wrapped up and stuck in a trunk. I’m not sure if it was purposely hidden or merely forgotten, or even if, fearing she was a witch, they were afraid of the power it might hold and thought to contain it thusly. Very superstitious people, you know.”

  “How did you come by it?”

  “I learned of it from a friend. Another historian, Walter Cummings, saw it in a small museum and wrote me about it, knowing my interest. A family discovered it in their attic and gave it to the museum fifty years ago.”

  “But you are certain it is a portrait of her?”

  “There was a note wrapped up with it, identifying her, and, actually, her name was painted on the back at the top. It fits the written descriptions of her—a ‘comely woman of dark hair and piercing eyes.’ But what makes it even more certain is the pin.”

  “The pin?”

  “Yes, you may not have noticed but she is wearing a brooch. Here, I’ll show you.” He jumped up and hurried out of the room, returning with his book in his hand. He opened the volume to the portrait and held it out to them, tapping Anne Ballew’s shoulder. “There it is. It’s clearer in the actual portrait. The pin is highly unusual—a rendering of the mizmaze at—”

  “Leigh,” Desmond said, finishing the man’s sentence.

  “Why, yes.” Symington looked at him in surprise. “Quite so.”

  “I’m lost. What is a mizmaze?” Thisbe asked.

  “A turf maze,” Symington explained. “An intricate labyrinth of raised turf. The best preserved is on Breamore Down in Hampshire, but some think the one at Leigh is the oldest.”

  “It’s been overrun for many years now,” Desmond explained. “But that is the purported pattern.”

  “Anne wore such a brooch always. It was one of her accuser’s proofs of her witch-hood—the Leigh mizmaze was also known as Witches Corner, you see. Dorset is rife with superstitions and legends about witchcraft. Anne Ballew was merely the most famous. She was rumored to be a necromancer. They believed she could see the dead and speak with them. But not only that, she could make them come to life again. It was what made her so feared...and envied. It was a time of hysteria about heretics. Easy enough to be adjudged doing the devil’s work and end up at the stake.”

  “What about the instrument she made, the Eye?” Desmond prompted.

  “Ah, yes, the infamous Eye. It was supposedly how she was able to raise the dead. As the tale goes, Anne sold her soul to the devil to obtain th
e knowledge to create the Eye. It’s hard to distinguish how much of the story is from Anne’s time and how much was added to it in later retellings. There have been differing renditions. I have heard the legend in many places, not only Dorset—London and Hampshire, even the north. I assumed the Eye was apocryphal, frankly, given the extravagance of the tales. I could hardly believe my eyes when Gordon brought it in.”

  “He showed it to you?” Desmond asked, sitting forward.

  Symington nodded. “Had it wrapped in green velvet inside a beautifully carved box.”

  That sounded like her grandmother’s Eye—more proof, if they needed any, that it was Gordon who stole the instrument. “Did you try it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Symington chuckled. “I felt sure it wouldn’t work, but I couldn’t resist looking through it. It distorts everything. Poor Gordon was most distraught because it didn’t work. He wondered if it was a counterfeit, a copy. He thought I might be able to help him, being knowledgeable about Anne Ballew.” He nodded toward Desmond. “But, of course, working with him, you know all about that.”

  “Were you able to put his mind at rest?” Thisbe asked.

  “Sadly, no. I’m afraid my answer distressed him even more. The legend says no one can use the thing successfully besides one of Anne’s blood. Others see only a mess.”

  “Her blood?” Thisbe glanced at Desmond. “Did she have descendants?”

  “I’ve no idea. She had a family, but no one knows what happened to them. One would assume they fled. Changed their name, perhaps. I would have. I suppose they went home to Dorset—it would have been too dangerous for them in London. But they could have struck out for someplace new, perhaps farther away—Cornwall or Northumberland. Impossible to tell.”

  “What did Mr. Gordon say when you told him?” Thisbe asked.

  “Don’t you know?” Symington raised his eyebrows and turned to Desmond. “I would have assumed he told you.”

  “No. That’s why we’re here. We don’t know what happened to him. No one has seen the professor for days. He’s not at the university nor his laboratory nor his home,” Desmond replied, managing, Thisbe noted, not to tell an outright lie.