Page 23 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

Cornelia sniffed her disapproval and surveyed the room. “This is such a stately reception room. I have always been quite fond of it. You could not find such workmanship as this today.” She gestured toward the ornately carved walnut mantel and paneling that framed the fireplace. “I used to come here to speak to Henry’s ancestor.” She smiled fondly at the portrait of a dour-looking man in seventeenth-century clothing.

“Old Eldric?” Thisbe’s voice rose in disbelief. “But he’s been dead two hundred years.”

“Really, Thisbe, mind your manners,” her grandmother scolded. “You shouldn’t speak of your ancestors in such an impertinent way. Eldric was the first Duke of Broughton, after all.”

“I’m sorry, Grandmother. I was just, um, surprised that you talked to him.” Thisbe didn’t know why her grandmother’s peculiar beliefs still astonished her. “I thought it was only those close to you who...communicated with you.”

“Of course, I speak most to my dear Alastair. And my mother visits me often. But they are not the only ones. The shades reach out to me in many places. They know when one has the Gift as I do. Olivia, as well.” She tilted her head, studying Thisbe. “They tell me you may have the Gift as well, at least a bit of it.”

This was a new one. Thisbe had heard her grandmother boast about her “gift” for Thisbe’s entire life. It had given her goose bumps and even nightmares when she was young. Especially that eerie time when Cornelia said she saw their puppy’s death, a month before he strayed onto the road and was killed by a passing wagon. The dowager duchess’s pronouncements no longer gave Thisbe the shivers, but her announcement that Thisbe possessed the same talent was vaguely disturbing. “You always said Olivia had it, not me.”

“I didn’t think so, either.” The dowager duchess shrugged. “But Mother assures me that it’s there—all the women of our line possess it. Although I find it hard to believe that it exists in Kyria. She takes after you, no doubt.” Cornelia looked at Emmeline.

“No doubt.” The duchess smiled serenely.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad for Desmond to meet the dowager duchess, after all. He was used to his mentor, who believed in ghosts. He might even want to study the duchess. Thisbe suppressed a smile at the thought.

“Where is Kyria?” Cornelia looked around the room as if she might be hiding somewhere. “We need to talk about her debut.”

“Reed took the other girls to the museum. He’s been promising Olivia to do so for some time.”

“Kyria went to the British Museum?” Thisbe’s eyebrows lifted. “But she dislikes the museum—she says it makes her feel smothered.”

“Only the Egyptian and Fertile Crescent sections. It’s the mummies, I think. Reed assured her that she wouldn’t have to go into that part of it. She wanted to see the ancient jewelry. Also, she suspected Kenneth Duncan was going to call on her today.”

“Kyria does have an eye for jewelry,” Thisbe’s grandmother acknowledged. “She’s like me that way. I have always been known for my taste in accessories. When I was a young girl, they didn’t wear much adornment, you know, just a cameo or maybe a strand of pearls. Thank heavens that period passed. Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s Thisbe I’m really concerned about.”

“Me? Grandmother, I assure you, I am perfectly fine. You needn’t worry about me.”

“But I do. You need to take a Season.”

“I don’t need a Season.” This was an old discussion; Thisbe thought her grandmother had finally dropped the notion. “I don’t want one.”

“Nonsense. Every girl needs a Season. How else are you to find a husband?”

“Perhaps I’ll meet him at a lecture,” Thisbe said with a smile.

“A scholar?” Cornelia asked in horror. “No, no, I mean someone suitable. Someone of your own station. A Moreland must be careful about marrying properly.” She directed a significant look at Emmeline.

Thisbe jumped in quickly. “Anyway, I’m far too old to come out. I’m twenty-three.”

“That is precisely what I mean,” Cornelia said triumphantly. “You are reaching a desperate age. Soon you’ll be regarded as a spinster.”

Emmeline rose. “Why don’t we all have a glass of sherry?”

Fortunately the subject was dropped after that, and it was not long before the rest of the family began to trickle in, allowing Thisbe to drop the burden of conversation with her grandmother. She moved to give her father her spot beside his mother, ignoring the wounded look he sent her, and soon she was able to slip quietly out the door.

There was no escaping supper and family conversation afterward. Even Uncle Bellard made an appearance, greeting the dowager duchess before scurrying to take a chair at the farthest end of the table, his sense of duty satisfied. Though they normally did not follow the standard practice of the men of the family sharing a postdinner glass of brandy, the duke happily reinstated the custom whenever his mother visited. They could only linger so long, though, before they, too, had to join the women in the grim formal drawing room.

Thisbe’s mind drifted as the conversation flowed around her. She looked up at the portrait of the first duke. When Thisbe was younger, she assumed that the dowager duchess told her tales of communicating with the dead simply to draw attention to herself. The practice was also handy for couching her advice as coming from someone else. But when Thisbe was fourteen, she had walked past her grandmother’s room one afternoon and seen the woman conversing with the air.

The memory of it made her shiver even now. It had been both shocking and eerie, and Thisbe realized that the dowager duchess really believed she could speak with the dead. Perhaps she needn’t worry about scaring off Desmond with her father’s title. More likely, he would flee because of her peculiar family.

Later, as she lay in bed, trying to sleep, her mind went back to that scene years ago with her grandmother. She recalled the woman’s attentive, even smiling, face. That smile was what had been most chilling. Thisbe had locked her door that night...though she had no idea why she thought a locked door would protect her from ghosts.

In all other ways, Cornelia was normal. Dictatorial and critical, but still much like many others. It made the bizarre statements she dropped into conversation now and then all the more eerie. She treated it so casually, as if conversing with spirits was a common thing. Maybe her grandmother really was mad...

SHE WAS HOT, so very hot. The heat enclosed her, pressing on her like a weight. Why was she here? What was happening? She heard the crackle of fire all around her. Heavy dark smoke billowed up, choking her.