Page 93 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“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?”