Page 99 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THISBE AND DESMOND took the train to Alfred Symington’s the following morning and were knocking on his door before noon. Thisbe glanced over at Desmond, who was standing beside her on the doorstep. He had been quiet today, and she knew he was agonizing over the night before.

He had enjoyed it; she was certain of that. They had made love again, desperate and hungry in the face of their uncertain future, and Thisbe had found, astonishingly, that she could feel even more than she had before. Desmond insisted on seeing her home. When they parted at the side door of her home, he kissed her long and hard, leaving no doubt that he desired her. Every time he looked at her on the ride to Seven Sisters, Thisbe saw warmth in his eyes. But she also saw his worry and guilt, the dread that being with him would harm Thisbe, the self-castigation for giving in to his own needs.

He was convinced he must protect her. Thisbe understood that. When she believed him in trouble the night before, her only thought had been to save him. But she was unwilling to accept that they must suffer the fate her grandmother predicted.

She had to admit that the dowager duchess’s premonition and Desmond’s fear that he bore a mark of death seemed less preposterous to her now that she had seen Anne Ballew standing beside her fireplace. But she refused to believe that she had no choice in the matter. What use were omens unless one could do something to change the outcome?

She simply had to work out how to do so. The first step was recovering the Eye and eliminating that danger for either of them, which was why they were here interviewing Mr. Symington this morning.

Thisbe wanted to reach over and smooth the line from Desmond’s forehead. He made everything too hard for himself. He’d struggled all his life; he had no experience with anything being easy, no confidence that life would work out the way he wanted.

As if feeling her gaze, Desmond glanced over at her, and his lips curved up in a warm, rather self-satisfied smile before he remembered that he was violating his own rules and tried to change his expression from that of a lover to one of a friend. She wondered if he knew that he was largely unsuccessful at it.

“Do you think he’s not home?” he said now. “I thought your uncle sent him a message yesterday evening.”

“He did. Perhaps you should knock again.”

He did so, and a moment later the door was flung open, revealing a tall, patrician-looking man with dark brown hair punctuated by dramatic sweeps of silver at each temple. Thisbe had not really thought about what Alfred Symington would look like, but it wasn’t this. She’d more or less expected a man much like her great-uncle—stooped, bespectacled and abstracted—not someone who looked like a gentleman about to step out to his club.

“Come in, come in,” he boomed, making an expansive gesture toward the inside of his cottage. “Had you knocked before? I was reading and didn’t hear you until my housekeeper called down.” He glanced up at an exasperated-looking woman standing at the top of the stairs, dust cloth in hand. With a shake of her head, she turned and stalked out of sight.

Symington led them into the parlor. “Please, sit down. Shall I ring for tea?”

Remembering the expression on the housekeeper’s face, Thisbe shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“I am honored to meet Lord Moreland’s niece. Such a scholar! I so enjoy our correspondence. Of course, his interests are divergent from mine.” He gave her a small self-deprecating smile. “But his comments are always so instructive.”

Thisbe introduced Desmond, then added, “Mr. Harrison works for Professor Gordon.”

“Ah!” Symington nodded. “I spoke to Mr. Gordon just the other day. Lord Moreland mentioned that you, too, are interested in learning about Anne Ballew and her legendary Eye.”

“Yes. I read your book that featured her,” Thisbe said.

“Did you?” Symington asked with delight. “How good of you.”

“I found it very informative. I was surprised that you were able to find her portrait.”

“Indeed!” he enthused. “It was unusual at that time for a woman of her station to have a portrait, much less for it to have survived for so many years. It was, I believe, wrapped up and stuck in a trunk. I’m not sure if it was purposely hidden or merely forgotten, or even if, fearing she was a witch, they were afraid of the power it might hold and thought to contain it thusly. Very superstitious people, you know.”

“How did you come by it?”

“I learned of it from a friend. Another historian, Walter Cummings, saw it in a small museum and wrote me about it, knowing my interest. A family discovered it in their attic and gave it to the museum fifty years ago.”

“But you are certain it is a portrait of her?”

“There was a note wrapped up with it, identifying her, and, actually, her name was painted on the back at the top. It fits the written descriptions of her—a ‘comely woman of dark hair and piercing eyes.’ But what makes it even more certain is the pin.”

“The pin?”

“Yes, you may not have noticed but she is wearing a brooch. Here, I’ll show you.” He jumped up and hurried out of the room, returning with his book in his hand. He opened the volume to the portrait and held it out to them, tapping Anne Ballew’s shoulder. “There it is. It’s clearer in the actual portrait. The pin is highly unusual—a rendering of the mizmaze at—”

“Leigh,” Desmond said, finishing the man’s sentence.

“Why, yes.” Symington looked at him in surprise. “Quite so.”

“I’m lost. What is a mizmaze?” Thisbe asked.