Page 73 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“It seemed the only logical explanation left. I’m right, aren’t I? I can see it in your eyes.”

Desmond returned. “He doesn’t answer his door.”

“I suggest we try the university next,” Carson offered.

“We?” Desmond directed a black look at his colleague. “I don’t recall anyone inviting you along.”

“That’s why I invited myself.” Carson lifted in hands in a placatory gesture. “What’s the harm? I know why you’re looking for him, and I can help.”

“You told him?” Desmond asked Thisbe.

“I guessed it,” Carson said. “Come, come, Desmond. No need to be piggish about it. Three heads are better than two, after all.”

“I am the one you need to ask,” Thisbe pointed out. “And you might as well come. At least I’ll know you aren’t running off to tell some accomplice about it.” And it would be easier, surely, if she was not alone with Desmond.

“There you go.” Carson grinned. He made a sweeping gesture toward the carriage. “Well? View halloo, children. We’d best be after our quarry.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CARSON WOULD MANAGE to insert himself into it. It only made sense, as Thisbe had said, to keep an eye on Carson, but the man was a veritable fly in the ointment for this single chance to be alone with Thisbe. And wasn’t that a sorry state of affairs, to hunger so for Thisbe that even her icy, decidedly unfriendly company was something to treasure?

The past week had been such a cavalcade of misery that even her castigating him hadn’t completely drowned out Desmond’s pleasure in seeing Thisbe. When he looked up and saw her sweeping into his workshop, her color high, her eyes brilliant, his first emotion was pure joy. It had been immediately followed, of course, by the certainty that she was furious. Guilt, indignation and anger had bubbled in him, mingling with pleasure and a peculiar hope—after all, there must be some feeling for him still inside her to invoke such fury.

She was beautiful even when she wouldn’t smile, her voice welcome to his ears, though it sliced at him. And even as he’d lashed out at her for acting like an aristocrat, his bitterness could not dim what he felt for her. She had been so typically Thisbe, defending her actions with reason and honesty, that he’d wanted to kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

However painful it was to be with her, knowing that he had lost her, aware of how badly he had bungled everything, his heart soaked up every moment of it. Now here was Carson, sitting beside him, chattering away like a magpie, teasing Desmond and flirting with Thisbe in that careless way that Desmond would never be able to carry off.

It was futile to brood over it, however, and Desmond knew that he should set his mind to accomplishing the one thing that might find favor in Thisbe’s eyes. He must locate that wretched Eye and restore it to her grandmother. For himself, aside from a bit of guilt that his actions had in all likelihood set the thief on his course, Desmond didn’t care a whit about the Eye. He had little liking for the dowager duchess; he doubted that the instrument actually worked; and frankly, at this moment he didn’t really care whether or not it did. Nor was he feeling any warmth for his colleagues, at least one of whom was apparently a thief.

But one thing he would like, very much, was to see Thisbe’s eyes light with pleasure, to have her smile at him warmly. He wanted to prove to her that he had not stolen the Eye, and perhaps giving it back would go some small way to showing her that he had never used her to get the thing.

Desmond had no hope that he could win her back; he’d lost her love, and he’d lost her trust. He doubted that either of those could really be mended. Then there was the inconvenient fact that he somehow spelled doom for Thisbe. Even if those obstacles could be surmounted, he would never be a suitable husband. He had no name of any note, no hope of fame or fortune.

No, his goal was much smaller than that and, hopefully, more achievable. If he could win back some of the regard she had once had for him, enough at least for friendship, if he could remove the loathing for him in her eyes, that would be enough.

Which was a lie, of course. It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. It wouldn’t satisfy his hunger, his longing to kiss her again, to hold her in his arms, to feel the shiver of pleasure run through her when he caressed her.

But it would at least be far better than the emptiness he had now.

Thisbe’s presence at the school garnered some attention. Women had been admitted to the university only this year, and the sight of a female was still something of an oddity. Thisbe ignored the stares, and Desmond’s scowl at the gawkers soon sent them on their way.

Professor Gordon’s minuscule office was dark and locked, no student waiting to see him. After equally fruitless trips to several lecture halls, they turned to the library, an immense place filled with countless nooks and crannies for sitting and reading.

“Best to split up,” Carson suggested. “We can cover more territory.”

Desmond jumped at the opportunity to rid them of Carson’s presence. “Yes, good idea. Thisbe and I will take this side.”

Carson’s amused glance told him he understood Desmond’s real interest in dividing the work, but he said nothing and strolled away.

“That was rather rude,” Thisbe said as they walked away. “Not to mention high-handed. What if I had preferred to accompany Carson?”

“I presumed you’d want to keep your eye on me, given that I’m such a villain,” Desmond replied.

“I’d like to keep an eye on both of you,” she retorted. “But Carson was right—it would take us a great deal more time if we remained together.”

A glare and a “shh” from a nearby student sent them on their way more quietly. They searched every floor, asking each patron—to the annoyance of a large number of them—whether they had seen Professor Gordon that day. Most didn’t know the man, and the ones who recognized the name had not seen him recently.

When Carson rejoined them, he reported a similar lack of success. “He’s fled.”