Page 103 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

Anne Ballew said she had created evil; surely she must mean her Eye. It followed that the Eye was what threatened Desmond. The other day Anne had claimed it called to him; tonight she said it drained his will and mind. But Thisbe had seen no sign of either thing in Desmond. He seemed the same as always and motivated more by a desire to help her than any need to have the device.

Could Anne have meant Gordon? Or Wallace? They certainly satisfied the obsession aspect. The apparition had never actually said Desmond’s name, only “he” and “him.” But if Gordon were Anne’s heir, he would have been able to use the Eye, which he had told Mr. Symington he could not. That left Zachary Wallace.

Then there were the woman’s final words of doom to consider. Did Anne mean that Thisbe had to die in order for Anne’s descendant to be saved? If so, that fit with her grandmother’s premonition that Desmond was a danger for Thisbe. That would indicate it was Desmond who was in danger. Perhaps the indications of obsession in Desmond were too subtle for Thisbe to notice. After all, Kyria often told Thisbe that she utterly missed the nuances of flirtation.

Whether the man who must be saved was Wallace or Desmond, why would Thisbe have to sacrifice herself in order to save him? If it meant saving Desmond, then, of course, she would do it. She was not, however, particularly moved to sacrifice her own life for Zachary Wallace’s.

But how would her death free Desmond from the influence of the Eye? Couldn’t it be accomplished without anyone having to die? Thisbe could restore the status quo by finding the Eye and returning it to her grandmother. It seemed to her that it would resolve the issue. But if that would end the danger, why was Anne Ballew plaguing her about it? Thisbe already intended to retrieve the Eye.

Perhaps Anne’s words hadn’t been an indication of how Thisbe could save Anne’s kin, but a threat of what would happen to her if she didn’t.

Still pondering the issue, Thisbe began to brush out her hair. According to the clock on the mantel, it was almost dawn. She might as well get dressed and go down to breakfast. She was eager to discuss her nightmare with Desmond, and dressing and eating would at least pass the time while she waited for him.

Even her toilette and a lengthy breakfast—made longer by her father and her great-uncle carrying on a discussion of the Peloponnesian War—did not last long enough for Desmond to arrive. Thisbe whiled away more time checking over the traveling bag the maid had packed, then distracted herself for a few minutes with one of Olivia’s novels, and finally simply sat in the red salon and watched the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock.

Desmond was late. It was not an unusual occurrence, as he tended to become wrapped up in things, so at first Thisbe was not bothered by his tardiness. After twenty minutes, she began to pace the room. Desmond wasn’t usually late when it came to her. An hour passed. She checked with the footman twice, but there had been no message from Desmond.

Of course, they weren’t doing anything important that day, and he did have to pack and... Oh, bother, it couldn’t take him this long to throw a few clothes in a bag. Thisbe rang for the carriage.

She fidgeted all the way to Desmond’s flat, telling herself it was foolish to feel this coldness growing in her chest. She would discover that he had overslept or...well, something else that was perfectly innocuous. When they reached his flat, she ran up the stairs and pounded on the door, waiting for only a few seconds before she flung it open. The room was empty. That spot in her chest turned to ice.

Thisbe tried the laboratory next, but found it locked tight, and no one answered her knock. She even visited the optical shop, where Desmond had worked earlier, but the owner shook his head when she asked about him.

She returned home. Perhaps Desmond had come while she was out crazily running about searching for him. He would explain why he was late, and they would have a chuckle over it, and everything would be all right.

But when she walked into the house, the footman informed her that Mr. Harrison had not come to call. He looked at her with some concern. No doubt he thought she was about to faint. Because that was exactly how she felt. Thisbe plopped down on the bench in the entry hall. She could no longer deny it.

Desmond had vanished.

DESMOND OPENED HIS eyes slowly. The world was spinning and his jaw hurt. He was lying in a very cramped space on a hard floor that bounced and rumbled and smelled of dust. He felt as if he were about to retch.

Swallowing back the bile, he closed his eyes again. He was much too sleepy to think. He would do that later. The next thing he knew he was jolted awake by a bounce of the carriage. That was it; he was in a carriage. On the floor. What the devil had happened?

He’d drunk a good deal last night with Thisbe’s brothers and they’d wound up in a brawl. No, wait, that wasn’t last night. That was the day before...or maybe the day before that. Why was it so difficult to think? He moved his jaw tentatively.

He had a vague memory of a huge hand smashing into his face. Again! Naturally it would land on a spot that was already sore. He hadn’t been in a fight since he was a lad, and now he’d had three of them in the space of a few weeks. Maybe Thisbe was right; being with her was dangerous for him.

The thought amused him, and his mind cleared a little. Last night hadn’t really been a fight. Desmond recalled waking up with a start to see a large dark form looming over his bed. He’d jumped up, but a fist was already connecting with his jaw. He’d fallen, and his head had come up against the wall. That explained the ache on the back of his skull, as well.

Next, there was something being poured into his mouth, making him choke and cough. A man hovered over him, tilting a bottle into his mouth. Desmond recognized that face. It was Wallace’s “punisher,” as the boy had called him: Grieves. He’d squirmed, trying to escape, closing his throat in resistance, but the man had pinned him down with his knee and leaned heavily on him.

“Drink, you whoreson, drink,” Grieves had growled, and pinched Desmond’s nostrils together, forcing him to swallow.

What happened after that? The memories rolled slowly on. More darkness, then a vague stumbling consciousness when someone hauled him out of the carriage and ordered him to relieve himself by the side of the road. And hadn’t that been humiliating? Hands tied, watched by strangers as he clumsily unbuttoned his trousers. But he’d had to, hadn’t he, or would have had to face an even more humiliating result?

Then he made a groggy attempt to escape, jerking his arm from Grieves’s hold and trying to run. It had resulted in nothing but staggering a few feet and a tumble to the ground, much to Grieves’s amusement. Two men had hauled him up, one on each side, and had thrown him back in the carriage. But there had been a third man, hadn’t there? Standing back in the darkness, out of the light of the carriage lamps.

Another abortive attempt to refuse the liquid in the bottle, followed by unconsciousness. And now this slow ascent into awareness. He wondered vaguely how much damage blows and large doses of laudanum would do to one’s head.

The muscles of his legs were cramping, for the space between the carriage seats was far too small for his long frame. As if that weren’t enough, there was another person in the carriage with him, his feet taking up some of the space.

Desmond kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the pain in his legs. He needed to regain more control of his brain and body before he let them know he was awake. He wouldn’t have much time to act before they dosed him again. But in the end, as the pain turned to numbness, Desmond had to move. If his legs became utterly numb, they’d be of no use to him, anyway. He shifted—not an easy thing to do in these tight quarters—and gradually twisted around to face the man sitting behind him. Desmond expected to find Grieves there, waiting with a fist or a bottle to render him unconscious again. But it was, in fact, worse.

“Professor Gordon!” Desmond felt sick at his stomach. His mentor had been the third man in the shadows, watching Desmond’s abduction, the manhandling and drugging of him, and done nothing to help him. No, more than that—he must have been the one to engineer the kidnapping. Grieves wouldn’t have acted on his own.

“Yes.” The older man let out a gusty sigh. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I worried that he had given you too much. Here, let me help you.”

Gordon grasped Desmond’s arm and helped pull him up onto the other seat. Desmond would have preferred to refuse his assistance, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure he could do it by himself. His legs and feet felt like blocks of wood.