Page 92 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

They returned to the university, making another tour of the library and Gordon’s office and lecture halls, but they turned up no information about Gordon, other than an indignant tirade from one of his students: “He’s missed two straight sessions now. What use is it to hire a tutor if he disappears on a whim? I ask you.”

They went to the laboratory next, where they found only Benjamin. He, it appeared, had talked to no one, including Gordon and his other coworkers.

“Neither Albert nor Carson?” Desmond asked.

“No. No one’s been here but me for the third day now,” the man replied plaintively, then frowned. “Wait. Why aren’t you at the shop? A chap from there came by yesterday, brought some of your instruments.” He gestured toward the table, where Desmond’s kit sat. “What is going on?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Desmond turned away, not looking at Thisbe. “We should go.” He strode out of the room.

“Desmond...” Thisbe caught up with him as he stepped outside. He didn’t answer, just opened the carriage door for her to get in. “He let you go, didn’t he? The owner of the shop. It was because of me, wasn’t it? Because I barged in there the other day.”

Desmond shrugged and cast her a wry smile. “He thought I had become something of a disturbance in the shop.”

“Oh, Desmond... I’m sorry. I didn’t think... I was so angry and...” Her voice trailed off. She hadn’t even thought about the fact that Desmond had spent all his time the past few days helping her search for the Eye. It had been thoughtless of her. Snobbish, even—in her sphere, no one was employed. She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I will go talk to the man, explain that—”

“No!” He jerked his arm from her grasp. His usually soft brown eyes were suddenly hard, even fiery. “I don’t want you to do anything for me.”

His anger shocked Thisbe, and she pulled back, hurt by his rejection. In the next moment, it came to her: he had said he never intended to use her for anything. He was proving it by refusing her help, even though she had freely offered. No, it was more than that, deeper—he wasn’t just trying to prove his worthiness to her; he simply was a worthy man. He didn’t use people. Like his honesty or kindness or love of knowledge, it was an integral part of him, bred deep in his bones and blood. When she refused to believe that, it had been a denial of him in every way.

He had shrugged off her lie of omission in not telling him her name because he knew her, knew how little that lie was a part of her. She, however, had not had the same innate faith in him. If he had hurt her, she realized now that she had hurt him, too.

“Desmond, I’m sorry,” she said, and he glanced at her, puzzled.

“Sorry about what?”

“About, well, everything.”

His eyes widened, but before he could speak, their carriage pulled to a stop in front of Mr. Gordon’s building. Thisbe, suddenly shy and uncertain, opened the door and scrambled out, forestalling any response.

Desmond caught up with her before she reached the outer door, but he seemed no more eager to talk than Thisbe was. He trotted up the stairs and pounded on the nearest door. “Let’s try the landlord.”

After a long pause, a rail-thin man opened the door and peered out at them. His eyes were sharp, as was his nose, and the deep line between his eyebrows gave him the look of a permanent frown. “What do you want?” His eyes narrowed as he regarded Thisbe. “Who are you? Why are you coming round here?”

“I am Lady Thisbe Moreland,” Thisbe said crisply, deciding that this was a moment that called for a display of power. “My father is the Duke of Broughton.”

“I got nothing to do with no duke.”

“No doubt. But one of your tenants does. Mr. Gordon on the floor above? Did he tell you where he was going? How long he would be gone?”

“No. Like I told the others, I don’t know nothing about him.” He started to close the door, but Desmond braced his hand against it, holding it open.

“The others? There’ve been other people trying to reach the professor?”

“Said so, didn’t I?”

“Who were they? How many?” Thisbe asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of everybody that comes here, banging on doors.”

“What did you tell them?” Desmond persisted.

“Same as I told you. I don’t know where he went. I don’t keep track of him, neither.”

“I need to get into his flat,” Desmond said. “I work for him, and he was supposed to, um, lend me a book. But he’s disappeared and, ah, I really must have that book. For a class.”

Desmond was dismal at lying. She should have realized immediately that he was telling her the truth. It was surprising, really, that he’d managed to conceal his interest in the Eye as long as he had.

“A book, eh?” the landlord snorted.