Her Scandalous Pursuit

by Candace Camp

“Ah, but that was before we had this young lady with us.” Wallace smiled triumphantly. “I believe you may be more amenable now.”

  “Desmond, don’t.” Alarm shot through Thisbe. “You can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? No, no,” Gordon said, tut-tutting. “There’s no danger. All he has—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Gordon,” Thisbe said crisply. “But you don’t know anything. Not about the Eye. Not about Desmond or Anne Ballew. And least of all about me.” She stood up, looming over the shorter man, and Grieves, huffing out a muffled laugh, didn’t stop her. With a steely gaze worthy of Old Eldric himself, she went on, “My grandmother chews up little men like you and spits them out. She knows everyone of importance up to and including the Queen. You think your name is sullied in the scientific world now? Wait until the dowager duchess is through with you.”

  Gordon gaped at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Thisbe swung away from him dismissively and addressed Wallace. “And you. You’re already guilty of thievery and kidnapping. Do you really mean to add murder to that list? Just to get a glimpse beyond the grave? There’s no need—if you kill me, you’ll see it for yourself soon enough.”

  “Shut up, you stupid girl!” Wallace erupted. “It’s not about seeing spirits. I don’t want to see my wife. I want her back.” He shook the Eye at her. “You’ve no idea what this can do. He can raise the dead with it. He’ll make her whole again! Alive!” His eyes were lit with an unholy fire as he raised the Eye like a holy vessel before Desmond. “Do it! Her life for my wife’s.”

  “No, Desmond!” Thisbe moved forward. Grieves and Gordon simply stared, riveted by the scene unfolding before them.

  “You’re mad,” Desmond told him flatly.

  “Am I? Maybe so. But that’s how you know I’ll do what I say.”

  “If you kill me, you’ll have nothing,” Thisbe said. “It’s a ridiculous threat.”

  “That’s why I won’t do it quickly. You’ll die a slice at a time.” Wallace tossed the Eye at Desmond and grabbed Thisbe’s arm, jerking her forward. Wrapping one arm around her, he pulled against him, his other hand at her throat.

  A sharp pain and a trickle of moisture down her neck told Thisbe that the hand at her throat held a knife. Desmond, the odd instrument in his hand, stared at Thisbe and Wallace, his face several shades paler. Wallace’s knifepoint prodded her again.

  “Stop!” Desmond shouted. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” He raised the glass to his eye and stared into it, frozen.

  “No!” Thisbe screamed, throwing back her head and smashing Wallace in the nose. She jumped, grabbed the Eye from Desmond’s paralyzed grip and flung it across the room.

  A shot rang out, and everyone whirled. Carson Dunbridge stood in the doorway, a smoking pistol in his hand. “Well, Desmond, for such a dull chap, you certainly do get into a lot of trouble.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  FOR A MOMENT everyone in the room was still, gaping at Carson, who now aimed his gun at Grieves. Even Wallace stopped in his rush toward the Eye.

  “Carson. Thank God,” Desmond said, a bit of color returning to his face.

  “Thisbe, you’d best get that Eye before Mr. Wallace starts after it again. And you, the chap with the gun, put it down on the floor and kick it over to Desmond. Gently now.”

  Grieves did as Carson bid, and Thisbe rushed to pick up the Eye. It was strangely hot, and a vision flashed through her mind—a gloved hand reaching into a fire. She went still, her eyes widening, but the Eye turned searing, and she shoved it into the box and closed it. She glanced over at Desmond. He looked almost as usual now. Had that shocked look on his face come from fear for her, or fear of what he’d seen in the Eye? He’d seemed peculiarly stiff, almost frozen, when she ripped it from his hand. Had he felt what she did?

  Putting her questions away for another, quieter time, she set the box on the desk and went to help Desmond tie the hands of the other men. The first problem was finding enough bindings to wrap around three sets of wrists. Thisbe had sliced through the rope that had been around Desmond’s wrists. Picking up her abandoned penknife—these folding knives were remarkably handy; she would have to start carrying one in her pocket—she sliced off the bellpull and the tiebacks for the draperies.

  “What shall we do with these three?” Thisbe asked as she returned with her makeshift ropes.

  “Lock them in the cellar,” Carson suggested.

  “Carson!” Gordon said, shocked. “It’s winter. There’s no heat down there.”

  “Not the finest of accommodations,” Desmond agreed. “But the servants will hear you after a time and let you out.”

  “Are there any servants?” Thisbe asked. “You’d think one of them would have been curious by now.”

  “They’re not here,” Gordon said, looking more alarmed by the moment. “No one will hear us until tomorrow.”

  “We’ll tell the authorities all about it,” Thisbe promised. “No doubt they will take you out to put you in jail.”

  “Jail!” Gordon’s eyes bugged. “I say, that’s a bit extreme.”

  “No doubt kidnapping, theft and murder are quite ordinary.”

  “He wouldn’t have killed you,” Gordon argued.

  “Only because it wouldn’t have suited his purposes.” Thisbe wrapped the pull cord around the professor’s wrists.

  In the end, they wound up herding the miscreants into the cellar with blankets, water and candles, and locked the door. As soon as Carson turned the key in the door, Thisbe launched herself into Desmond’s arms and kissed him, until finally Carson’s discreet throat clearing recalled them to the present situation.

  Thisbe picked up the box, Desmond grabbed a coat off the hook by the door and they started toward town.

  “In retrospect, one of us should have hired a carriage,” Carson commented as they trudged along.

  Thisbe began to laugh, and soon they were all roaring, the tension of the past few hours pouring out. Finally, they quieted and started forward again. Desmond took Thisbe’s hand as they walked, and they all recounted their individual tales of the past day. Desmond described what he remembered from the kidnapping, his story punctuated by Thisbe’s exclamations of outrage.

  Thisbe told Desmond about her frantic search for him, and when she reached the conversation she’d had with Carson in the laboratory, she turned to him and said accusingly, “You followed me, didn’t you?” Carson’s grin was answer enough. “I knew I saw someone!”

  “You tested my skills, I must say,” Carson said. “But Desmond would have had my head if I let you go off on your own, and I knew you’d only send me away if I joined you. It was clear you didn’t trust me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need.” He waved away the apology. “You’re probably wise.” He glanced toward the box Thisbe held cradled to her chest. “That seems to be a powerful lure.”

  “You’re not looking at it,” Thisbe told him firmly. “None of us are going to look at it. It’s dangerous. I’m taking it right back to Grandmother, who apparently is insensitive enough to not be disturbed by it.”

  “Were you disturbed by it?” Carson asked curiously.

  Thisbe shrugged. “It seemed warm, which is odd.”

  “What about you, Desmond?” Carson went on. “Tell me. Does it work?”

  “No.” Desmond shook his head. “Not at all. It was merely a lot of jumbled, faceted views of the room. Nothing magical or mysterious.”

  “What are we going to do about that lot?” Carson jerked his head in the direction of Wallace’s house.

  “Turn them in to the authorities,” Thisbe replied. “What else would we do?”

  Desmond grimaced and exchanged a glance with Carson.

  “What?” Thisbe said. “Why did you look at each other like that?”

  “You have more faith in the
authorities than I,” Desmond told her. “Wallace is known in this town—a wealthy, respected man. We are three strangers. And I—” He glanced down at his shirt and trousers, torn here and there and stained with dirt, Gordon’s too-large coat hanging over them. “I look as though I’ve been lying on the floor of a carriage all night. They don’t know that your father is a duke, and how can you prove it?”

  “You think they won’t believe us.”

  “Would you?”

  Thisbe was forced to agree. “Probably not.”

  “Even if they did believe us, I suspect Gordon and Wallace wouldn’t receive any punishment,” Carson offered. “They’ll put it all on Grieves, who actually performed the abduction and the theft, and he will be the only one to go to prison.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that,” Thisbe muttered. After a moment of silence, she went on, “But we can’t let them go without any sort of consequences.”

  “Given your grandmother’s web of gossips, they’ll be punished,” Desmond said. “Wallace will be socially ruined in London. Gordon won’t dare show his face in the scientific community.”

  Thisbe studied him. “You don’t want Gordon to be punished, do you? Even after what he’s done to you!”

  “I know—it’s not reasonable. But...however wrong his motives were, he did help me a great deal. I can’t bring myself to wish him imprisoned.” Desmond shrugged.

  “I could,” Thisbe retorted.

  “Ah, but that’s how you can tell our Desmond isn’t an aristocrat,” Carson told her lightly. “He lacks that requisite hardness of heart.”

  “Grieves walks away without any damage,” Thisbe grumbled.

  “A man like Grieves will wind up in jail sooner or later,” Desmond said. “Or dead in the gutter.”

  The walk back into the city seemed much farther than it had when Thisbe made it earlier, fueled by fear and anger, but eventually they reached the edge of town. Prosaically, their first stop was a tavern, and all of them agreed they were starving.

  Thisbe looked around the place with great interest, and Desmond said with some amusement, “This is the first time you’ve been in a tavern, isn’t it?”

  “Not quite. I went into the Double Roses with Grandmother the other day.” She ignored Carson’s startled look. “But this is the first one I’ve seen with customers. It’s quite interesting. It’s a lot cleaner and better appointed than the other tavern. Oh, would you two stop looking at each other and smirking? It’s most annoying. It’s scarcely my fault women aren’t wanted in taverns.”

  “It’s not that.” Desmond squeezed her hand. “It’s your reaction to the place.”

  “Most women I know would find it ‘low and distasteful’ rather than ‘interesting.’” Carson pulled out a chair for her at one of the tables.

  “Nor is it my fault that you know boring women. Now, if you two are done laughing at me, what should I do with this?” Thisbe set the box on the table. “It looks rather odd sitting here.”

  “There.” Carson covered it with his hat.

  The hat looked odd as well, but at least Thisbe didn’t have to look at the box, which made her deeply uneasy. Now that she’d touched the Eye, she understood the danger better. She was more certain than ever that she needed to keep the Eye out of Desmond’s hands.

  He seemed quite placid in the Eye’s presence—indeed, she and Carson were more fidgety than he. But she couldn’t stop thinking of Desmond’s unmoving shock when he looked into the glass. They needed to get the Eye back in her grandmother’s hands as soon as possible.

  But when they reached the train station, they discovered that they had missed the last train south. The next train to Manchester would not arrive until the next morning. Thisbe sighed. “There’s nothing for it but to find an inn. The town is large enough they may have one that’s comfortable. Fortunately, some of us weren’t kidnapped and were able to bring money with them.”

  She knew that Desmond would have been hard-pressed to pay for a room and the ticket home, anyway, but she was pleased to come up with an excuse that wouldn’t embarrass him. She led them to the baggage office and retrieved her sturdy fabric bag. She opened the case and pulled out a coin purse. “I’ve plenty for the inn and tickets for all of us.” She looked at Carson. “I’ll warrant you didn’t carry much with you, either.”

  “I didn’t have time to go home and fill my pockets,” Carson agreed. “Since you are so flush, I think we need to do something about him.” He nodded toward Desmond. “No respectable inn will look favorably on his attire.”

  “True.” Thisbe studied Desmond’s ripped, dirty clothes and the peculiar look of his coat, which was both much too large in its girth and ludicrously short in the arms and hem. “We can probably all do with some freshening up in the lavatory here, and then we’ll find you some decent clothing.”

  It was a relief to put the Eye away in her bag. Thisbe shoved it down to the very bottom, covering it with her clothes. Desmond reached down to pick up the case, but she grabbed it. She wasn’t about to let Desmond be so close to the Eye the rest of the day.

  His eyebrows shot up, as did Carson’s. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to steal it.”

  “Of course not. But I promised my grandmother I wouldn’t let it out of my possession.” It was a bit horrifying how easily lies seemed to be coming from her now, but she didn’t want to discuss the real reason for her anxiety in front of Carson. He had helped them immensely and she trusted him, more or less, but the fewer people who knew about Desmond’s heritage, the better.

  With her face and hands washed and hair repinned, Thisbe felt much more herself, and Desmond managed to brush much of the dust from his clothes and finger-comb his hair into some degree of order. A few questions led them to a cart selling used clothes. Thisbe found that there was something quite intimate in helping Desmond choose what to wear—reaching up to try a hat on his head or holding a shirt up to his chest—and it sparked a heat in Desmond’s eyes that sent tingles all the way through her.

  Once or twice Thisbe noticed Carson glancing at them speculatively. It was clear that he suspected their true relationship—how could he not when they had shared that kiss right in front of him? She could only hope Carson would keep his suspicions to himself. Much as she wanted Desmond, she didn’t want it to be because he believed he’d ruined her reputation.

  In the end they managed to come up with a pair of trousers that were only a bit too short, as well as a shirt, stockings and an ascot. The coat would cover his lack of a waistcoat or jacket. They returned to their former source of information, a hack driver, for the name of an inn he termed “decent ’nuff for a lady.”

  When the driver deposited them at the yard of the inn, Carson hung back as they started toward the door. “I’ve been thinking,” he told them. “I don’t believe I’ll stay here tonight.”

  “What? But...what are you going to do?” Thisbe asked, startled.

  “My family home isn’t far. I’m from the Lake District. It occurrs to me that I could hire a horse and ride there.” He glanced up at the sky. “Long as this day seemed, we started early, and there’s still daylight left. I can reach home—or at least close enough to find my way in the dark.”

  “But...” Desmond trailed off.

  “Are you certain?” Thisbe asked. She had the suspicion that Carson was giving them the opportunity to be alone tonight, and she couldn’t help but be grateful for his tact.

  He nodded. “Of course. It’s all turned out rather well, hasn’t it?” Carson smiled and reached out to shake Desmond’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Desmond replied. “I’m sorry if I’ve been distrusting.”

  “Quite understandable.” Carson smiled, his gaze flickering over to Thisbe. He doffed his hat to her. “Miss Moreland. It’s been quite an experience.”

  “Indeed. Thank you.”

  Thisbe and Desmond
gazed after Carson as he walked toward the stables. “Do you think he knows?” Desmond asked. “I mean, that you and I—”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “It’s my opinion he’s being gentlemanly. Leaving us free to pretend to be husband and wife.”

  “Thisbe...I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t you?” She smiled up into his eyes. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Don’t. When you look at me like that, I can’t think straight.”

  “You think too much.” She moved closer.

  “Thisbe...” He leaned closer, his nostrils widening as if breathing in the scent of her. “How do you always manage to smell like lavender? Even now.”

  She laughed lightly. “It’s on my handkerchief.” Thisbe had dampened it to wipe a smudge from her cheek earlier, then tucked it into her cleavage, and she reached in now to pull it out.

  “Good God.” His voice turned husky; his eyes darkened. He curled his hand around the cloth—whether hiding it from himself or taking it, Thisbe wasn’t sure. “Thisbe...I have to talk to you.”

  “Then let’s get a room and talk in private.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  DESMOND NODDED, uncertain he could say anything intelligible at the moment. Desire slammed through him like a fist, adding to the already roiling mix of love and pain that had swirled in him since he’d looked into the Eye. He clenched his hand around her handkerchief and shoved it into his pocket. He would keep it forever.

  It was foolish to give in to Thisbe’s suggestion. Reckless. Irresponsible. However determined he was to do what was right, being alone with Thisbe in a room with a bed was all too likely to end with him doing the opposite. But he wasn’t strong enough to deny himself this last chance to be with her.

  Desmond didn’t speak, didn’t dare even look at Thisbe as they followed the innkeeper up the stairs, afraid that merely the way he looked at her would tell the innkeeper how illicit their relationship was. Once inside the room, the sight of the bed was another blow to his control, as was the snick of the key turning in the lock.