Page 40 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Those are minor details. It was an open gate, and I saw the mark of death upon him. I asked my mother about it that night, and she said I was right.”

Thisbe refrained from pointing out that the opinion of a ghost was not the most accurate proof of a vision. “What exactly did you see when you looked at Desmond?”

“There was a dark aura clinging to him, a veritable black cloud of death. And it was linked to you. It was oozing across the space between you and touching your arm. Clearly, in the future, it would overwhelm you.”

“But you didn’t see me die, did you? There was no knife or gun or any vision of the act.”

“I cannot command these things, Thisbe. They simply come to me—they’re drawn by my unique power. Sometimes I catch only glimpses, things too vague to even mention. I saw Charles Berkwyler on a horse, but I didn’t know what that meant. I thought it was quite frivolous, as they sometimes are. But less than a year later he died in a hunting accident.” She gave Thisbe a meaningful look.

“But he was shot!”

“That’s what I’m trying to explain. One has to interpret the meaning. Clearly, riding a horse had to do with hunting—Berkie was wild about the fox hunt. It meant that he died while hunting.”

“Then couldn’t the vision you had mean something else, too?” Thisbe argued. “Perhaps it doesn’t mean death—it’s sadness or loneliness or...something.”

“It’s death,” Cornelia said flatly. “Why do you think black is the color of mourning? Even if it had been red or purple or pink, I would have known it meant death. It simply permeated the air.”

“But you don’t know that it means that I am going to die. Desmond told me that his mother died giving birth to him, so perhaps it means that he...comes from death. Or perhaps it was that I was fated to die early but Desmond has pulled it away from me. Or that I should be with him, that he is the person who can protect me.”

Her grandmother shook her head sadly. “I can see that you are going to ignore my warning. You are bound and determined to let this fellow hang about, no matter what the consequences.” She used her cane to push to her feet. “Clearly, your mother refuses to do anything to protect you. The two of you are so headstrong that you will insist on allowing him and his deadly aura to invade this house.” The dowager duchess paused, tilting her head in the disconcerting way she had, then nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

“See what, Grandmother?” Thisbe rose to face her.

“The first duke has reminded me that I have a duty. It’s very unusual for him to stray so far from the drawing room, you know, so it is of the utmost importance. I am the only one who realizes the danger. I cannot leave, no matter how poorly your mother treated me. I must remain to protect you.”

“I’m glad.” It was one of her grandmother’s more innovative reasons to back down from one of her decisions. “But, please, promise me you will not be unkind to Desmond.”

“I am never unkind. But I agree—I don’t think it is the poor chap’s fault. I won’t shun him. After all, I must be with you to keep you from harm.”

Thisbe nearly groaned at her grandmother’s words. Perhaps she shouldn’t have tried to mend the breach between the two duchesses. Well, she would just have to find a way to get around her grandmother.

Thisbe went to her laboratory; work usually soothed her. But today she had trouble keeping her mind on what she was doing. She was not disturbed by her grandmother’s prediction. Thisbe didn’t believe in portents or omens. However, the way her grandmother dwelled so much on death was disturbing. Not just the belief that she could converse with ghosts or her “visions” of impending death, but also her conversations with her friends. They were marbled with death—who had died unexpectedly, who was about to die, who ought to die but was stubbornly hanging on.

It hadn’t struck her as odd before. After all, the dowager duchess was aging; she was bound to know many people who had died. That was something old women did, wasn’t it? Sit about gossiping about their friends’ illnesses and deaths?

But, really, when Thisbe thought about it, her grandmother wasn’t that ancient. She and most of her circle were in their sixties. Surely, their peers weren’t dropping all around them. And surely, no other woman her age went to that many funerals. It was as if the dowager duchess collected experiences with death.

The Moreland family had more than their fair share of peculiarities. But most of the time it was simply that they broke societal rules—like Aunt Penelope going off to France to be an opera singer, or Thisbe herself becoming a scientist, or Uncle Bellard’s collection of tin soldiers. Such things were unusual, not insane. Talking to people who weren’t there was a step beyond that.

The most disturbing thing was that incident with the dog. She would never forget the way the dowager duchess had bent down to pet Rajah a month before he died and said, “Poor dear, you’ll be gone soon, won’t you? They really should be more careful with that garden gate.” Nor could Thisbe forget the icy chill that ran down her spine when she heard how Rajah had died.

It had been as eerie a moment as the time Thisbe caught her grandmother talking to an invisible person. As eerie as her foretelling Thisbe’s death today.

It was all nonsense, of course. Her grandmother was prone to conveniently “interpret” her visions to mean whatever she wanted them to, like Mr. Berkwyler’s hunting accident. The incident with Rajah had been coincidence. It wasn’t uncommon that a dog might die because a gate had been left open.

Her grandmother had said that about Desmond because she thought him “not one of us.” She didn’t want Thisbe to fall in love with him. It had nothing to do with premonitions. Still, Thisbe couldn’t stop thinking about that puppy.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE FIRE COMPLETELY encircled her now, the air thick with black smoke. Her nose was filled with the acrid scent of it. She struggled to breathe. Only seconds had passed since they’d lit the fire, but already the wall of flames was so close to her that her skin burned even though the fire had not yet touched her. The logs popped and sizzled, sparks leaping out. It would be only moments before one of those sparks landed on her skirts, and then she, too, would go up in flames. Panicked and desperate, she tried to twist away, but she was held too tightly.

Through the smoke, she could see her enemy: his cold smile, the even colder eyes, his face set in satisfaction. He had won. She had failed. Even in her last desperate attempt to thwart him, she had failed. He’d ruined her. He’d sent her to this horrible death. All for power.

She hated him with all her heart. Hated him with as fierce a force as she loved her family. Her own power was diminished now. She could not prevent the agony that lay before her. But perhaps she had enough for vengeance. She dug deep inside, pulling on the dark that dwelled in her, feeding on her pain, her rage.

The sky grew darker, the wind picking up. She felt the dark hunger surge within her, the power rush through her veins. The wind tossed the flames, and they caught the hem of her skirts. In an instant her clothes were on fire. An unbearable pain seized her...

THISBE BOLTED UPRIGHT, pain stabbing through her leg. She reached down, gripping her calf. A cramp. That was all it was. She massaged the knotted muscle and ignored the smell of smoke that was still in her nostrils. She forcibly brought her nerves back into order, choked down the terror in her chest. Nothing had happened. It was just that blasted dream again.