Page 21 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Snakes as big as your arm, too,” she pointed out. “Don’t they have fish that can eat people?”

“Yes,” he replied cheerfully. “It’s going to be grand.”

Thisbe shook her head in mock exasperation. “I swear, Theo, I don’t know how you can be so excited at the prospect of danger.”

“Well, you know, Aunt Hermione always said I hadn’t any more sense than a goose.”

“Just remember that I love you, and I shall be extremely angry with you if you get yourself killed.”

“I won’t—I promise. And I’ll be back before you know it.” He reached out and drew her into the circle of his arm. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Thisbe sighed, leaning into him. “It’s a little hard, isn’t it? Growing up? Moving on.”

“Yes, but nothing can really separate us. And think of what’s ahead. I can’t wait to find out. Can you?”

“No.” She pulled away and smiled up at him. “It’s going to be a grand adventure.”

OVER THE COURSE of the next week and a half, Thisbe continued to meet Desmond at the Christmas lectures. There were three more talks, and each time, they arrived early, then walked together afterward, talking. They strolled aimlessly up and down streets or went to a park, eating hot roasted chestnuts from a bag. And they talked.

They talked about all sorts of things—the ethics of scientific research, the problems of funding, the failure of equipment, the possibilities opening up all around them in the world of science.

“I was interested in photography at first,” Desmond told her.

“Spirit photography?”

“No, the regular kind. I thought I might like to become a photographer. That was why the vicar recommended me to Professor Gordon. He knew of Gordon’s interest in the subject—and I think he hoped I’d go to the university and be attracted to something more intellectual.”

“I take it you were.”

“Not the sort of thing the vicar was thinking of, philosophy or theology.”

“You were interested in entering the clergy?”

“No. The vicar just wanted me to be.” He gave her a rueful smile.

“Why did you decide against photography?”

“Once I’d learned the process—how to coat the glass with collodion and bathe it in silver, how to take the picture and develop it, and so on—I saw that that was exactly what it would continue to be. Always. I could perfect my skill, perhaps, or create a useful device, but mostly I would be doing the same thing. And I realized that what I had wanted wasn’t taking daguerreotypes—it was learning how to do it.”

“You want to discover things, find new knowledge,” Thisbe said.

“Exactly. While I was at the university, I found work at Barrow and Sons, and that led to prisms and the properties of light. The possibilities for discovery and exploration—are there more bands of the spectrum invisible to the human eye?”

Thisbe loved to watch him when he talked this way—his enthusiasm for the subject lighting up his face. He moved his hands to illustrate his points, and his eyes fairly glittered—his whole wiry body was intense and focused.

Or perhaps it was simply that she loved to watch him talk about anything. She enjoyed just as much their quieter, more ordinary conversations, when they talked about themselves or their families, their favorite books, the silly extravagance of someone’s hat or even mistakes they had made.

Thisbe related an experiment she’s conducted a few years ago that exploded. “I expected a reaction, but I’d no idea it would be so enormous. It blew out the whole tank of water. Ruined all my notes. Of course, that was better than the time one of my experiments caught fire. It was only the draperies, but my mother was rather upset.”

Desmond laughed and responded with a tale of one of his many mishaps when he had first moved to London. His laugh captivated her almost as much as his enthusiasm. His face would shift and his eyes danced with amusement and perhaps a bit of surprise. She had the impression that he was not accustomed to laughing. It made Thisbe want to say something else that would bring the sound from him. It also made her want to kiss him.

But there was little chance of that. They were in public the entire time, first in the lecture hall, then on the street. There was no chance of even holding Desmond’s hand, let alone repeating their kiss. But once or twice, out of sight of others in the park, Desmond did pull her to him for a quick, hard kiss, their lips cold, but sparking a fire deep within.

She wanted to be alone with him. It would be nice, too, to be someplace warm. Most of all, the lectures would be over soon, and then how were they to meet? The obvious thing was for Desmond to call on her at Broughton House.

They couldn’t be alone at Broughton House, either. Her mother was not the most constant or watchful chaperone, and there were simply too many people in the house, any of them likely to pop in at any moment. Now that Kyria was out, there was never an afternoon without at least one young man paying a call on her. Still, it would be more private than a park or public street or a lecture hall.

The problem was that once Desmond saw Broughton House, he would realize that she was an aristocrat, a fact that she had managed to conceal. She would have to tell him that her father was a duke. Desmond must know that she was a lady—her speech, her demeanor, her education on the Continent, the things her family did, would give that much away. But he was not aware that she was a Lady with a capital L. An upper-class scholar’s daughter was a far cry from the daughter of a duke.