Discovering Miss Dalrymple (Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Book 6)

by Emily Larkin

  A flicker of surprise crossed Georgiana’s face. “Oh,” she said. “That’s it. They were asleep.” And then she said, uncertainly, “You don’t want to know where they are, do you?”

  “No,” Alexander said. “Thank you.” He looked out the window again.

  There was no triumph in knowing what had happened all those years ago, merely a sour, weary disillusionment.

  Chapter Six

  They put up for the night just north of Torquay, halting at an inn so close to the sea that Alexander could taste salt in the air. He climbed stiffly down from the carriage and turned to help Georgiana descend. The second carriage-and-four, bearing their personal servants, clattered into the yard. All was bustle and noise for a few minutes and it was impossible to think of anything in particular, but later, when he was in his bedchamber dressing for dinner, all his worries came crowding back. Alexander changed his shirt and waistcoat silently, tied a fresh neckcloth, combed his hair, stared at himself in the mirror. Who am I?

  Behind him his valet, Fletcher, was unpacking the candles, placing one candelabrum on the mantelpiece and another on the dressing table, two chambersticks to the right of the bed and two more to the left.

  Because I am afraid of the dark. Whoever I am.

  Alexander sighed, and went downstairs. The taproom was busy, but the inn was an old one, with walls so thick that the din of voices didn’t penetrate to the private parlor they’d hired.

  The parlor already had one occupant: Lord Dalrymple.

  “Good evening,” Alexander said.

  “Alexander.” Lord Dalrymple smiled that particularly sweet smile of his, the smile that both his children had inherited. “My daughter will be down in a moment. Would you like some brandy? It’s surprisingly good.” He poured a glass for Alexander. “I haven’t inquired as to its origin. As a justice of the peace, I don’t want to know.”

  The brandy was superb. French, without doubt. And also—without doubt—smuggled into England on a free trader’s boat.

  The door opened and Georgiana entered the parlor. Alexander’s heart lifted in pure pleasure at seeing her, but on the heels of pleasure was a plummeting sense of inevitability. I’m going to lose her.

  They sat down to dine. To Alexander’s relief, the conversation turned to fossils; he didn’t want to talk about his past or his father’s diaries.

  “One of the villagers has found a bed of fossilized starfish,” Lord Dalrymple said. “Dozens of them.”

  “Oh?” Alexander tried to pay attention, but his thoughts drifted sideways. He almost wished for the loud rowdiness of the taproom. He wouldn’t have been able to think in there; here, the voice in his head was loud, telling him that he had no name, no right to call himself a duke, no right to marry Georgiana Dalrymple.

  “This large,” Lord Dalrymple said, holding his hands two feet apart.

  Alexander blinked. “A starfish?”

  “No, a seashell. An ammonite.”

  “Oh.” Alexander rummaged through all the different drawers in his brain, searching for the one labeled fossils. “The ones that look like rams’ horns?”

  “Yes. A magnificent specimen.”

  Lord Dalrymple was a quiet man, a thoughtful man, a man who watched and listened and seldom spoke, but when he talked about fossils he became animated. Right now he was beaming at Alexander, his face alight with enthusiasm. It was impossible not to smile back at him.

  Alexander glanced at Georgiana. She was smiling at her father, too.

  He let his gaze rest on her for a moment. I love you, Georgie. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It was a certainty he’d carried with him for the past six years, that he felt in his heart, in his very bones, but in the last twenty-four hours another certainty had grown: a heavy, sick feeling that told him he wasn’t going to marry Georgiana Dalrymple after all.

  Alexander felt a stab of anguish. He looked down at his plate.

  All his life he’d had a clear path. He’d known his responsibilities and had worked hard to master them, had spent years learning how to look after the Vickery properties, the tenants, the employees. That had been his purpose as his father’s heir—to hold the fate of thousands of people and thousands of acres in his hands, to protect and to nurture—but alongside that had been his own personal purpose, Alexander’s purpose: to use his seat in parliament to fight for an end to child labor.

  It had been a clear, straight path, and now it was gone. Everything was muddled and confused. He didn’t know who he was or what his purpose was.

  It was all very well for Lord Dalrymple to tell him that legally he was the Duke of Vickery. A lot of things were legal, but that didn’t make them right.

  Alexander pushed his food around his plate. What should I do?

  Two maidservants came to clear the table. “How old is this inn?” Georgiana asked.

  “Hundreds of years, miss,” one of the maidservants said. “Used to be an old smugglers’ haunt, back in the day.”

  “Truly?” Interest lit Georgiana’s face. “But not now?”

  “Oh, no. Not now, miss.”

  Alexander met Lord Dalrymple’s eyes across the table. Neither of them mentioned the brandy.

  “There’s meant to be a tunnel,” the other maidservant said, her tray balanced on one outspread hand. “From the cellars down to the shore. The old smugglers used to use it. Only no one knows where it is now. It’s been lost.”

  “How does one lose a tunnel?” Georgiana asked.

  The maidservant shrugged. “It’s said the old gaffer knew where it were, but he died fifty years back. Mr. Norris ’as looked and looked for it, but ain’t never found it.”

  Alexander saw a flicker of emotion cross Georgiana’s face—her eyes widened and her lips parted as if she was about to speak—and then the flicker extinguished itself. She bit her lip briefly and lowered her gaze and sat silently while the table was cleared. As soon as the maidservants were gone, she lifted her gaze. “I know where the tunnel is!”

  She looked quite extraordinarily pretty, eager and vivid and bursting with life, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Alexander’s heart skipped a beat. He felt the certainty again: I love you, Georgie.

  “Let’s find it!” Georgiana said. “Vic? Papa?”

  Tunnels, by definition, were dark and narrow. Alexander could think of few places he’d less rather explore.

  Lord Dalrymple hesitated. “If they’ve spent years looking for this tunnel it must be well-hidden. We mustn’t draw attention to your gift.”

  “I know, but . . .” Georgiana thought for a moment, and then said, “What if you find it, Papa?”

  Lord Dalrymple considered this suggestion for a moment, and nodded. “Where is it, exactly?”

  Georgiana took a breath. Her eyes narrowed in a faraway look. “It’s in the very furthest of the cellars. The walls are made of brick and beam work.”

  The explanation took almost a full minute. Alexander was lost after the first twenty seconds. From his expression, so was Lord Dalrymple.

  “And then you undo the latch and the door opens,” Georgiana concluded. “Simple!”

  Lord Dalrymple exchanged a look with Alexander, his lips tilting slightly in amusement. “Simple,” he said, and then he leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment, with the same faraway look his daughter had just worn. “How about . . . once we’re in the correct cellar, you search exactly where the tunnel isn’t. I’ll mirror you, and when I’m at the right spot you give me a signal.”

  “That would work,” Georgiana said. “I’ll use one of Mother’s favorite sayings. Pish pash!” She turned to Alexander. “You’ll come, won’t you, Vic?”

  Alexander didn’t like cellars and he very definitely didn’t like tunnels, but with Georgiana looking at him like that, eager and flushed and excited, the only answer he could give was, “Yes.”

  Mr. Norris, the landlord, was disinclined to let anyone explore his cellars, but Lord Dalrymple claimed a fascinat
ion with secret passageways and phrased his request with such quiet insistence that the man had no choice but to agree. The cellars were accessed from the scullery. Norris led them down the stairs reluctantly, a lantern swinging in his fist. Alexander thought it wasn’t tunnels the man was afraid they’d find, but casks of brandy that had paid no excise tax.

  Alexander’s chest tightened as they descended. He’d brought a candle with him from the private parlor, carefully shielding the flame, but one candle and one lantern were nowhere near enough. The flames didn’t push the darkness back; they merely emphasized how much of it there was. He halted on the final step, clutching the candle. It felt as if his ribcage had shrunk two sizes.

  “Where would you like to start, my lord?” the innkeeper asked. Polite words, but his tone suggested he wanted to shoo them from his cellars.

  Lord Dalrymple pondered this question for a moment. He turned on his heel, looked left, looked right. “The very furthest of your cellars, I think.”

  Some of Mr. Norris’s tension eased. He set off into the darkness, holding the lantern high.

  Alexander’s tension didn’t ease. It increased sharply.

  Lord Dalrymple and Georgiana followed the landlord. After two steps, Georgiana glanced back at him. “Come on, Vic!” Excitement was bright on her face, bright in her eyes.

  If she’d been anyone else he would have made an excuse, pleaded tiredness or a headache and hurried back upstairs as fast as he could, but—fool that he was—he didn’t want to diminish himself in Georgiana’s eyes and so he followed.

  The lantern bobbed as the landlord walked, splashing light across the whitewashed walls and low ceiling, casting great spiky shadows. Alexander felt sweat prickle on his scalp. His ribcage had shrunk even further. It was almost impossible to breathe.

  The low, beamed ceiling in his bedchamber hadn’t bothered him, nor had the equally low ceiling in the private parlor, but this ceiling felt as if it was pressing down on him. There wasn’t enough air. Alexander gripped the candle more tightly. His breath came shorter, faster. His heart was thundering in a fearful gallop.

  They passed through four cellars, each opening off the other. By the time they reached the fifth and final one Alexander was sweating profusely, his shirt sticking to his skin.

  “Here ’tis, sir.” The landlord stepped inside, illuminating the cellar. It was small and old and clearly disused, containing nothing more than a discarded bucket, a broken warming pan, and one worn-out boot. The floor was uneven. So was the ceiling—low near the door, even lower in the farthest corner. No one had bothered to whitewash the walls; they were made of rough timber uprights with mortared bricks between them.

  Lord Dalrymple glanced at his daughter.

  Georgiana gave a tiny nod.

  The landlord didn’t notice. He held the lantern up and let the light play over the walls. He had the suppressed impatience of a man who had better things to do with his time than to cater to the whims of the Quality—but didn’t dare say so aloud.

  “This looks promising.” Lord Dalrymple stepped into the cellar, peered around and gave a knowledgeable nod. “Very promising. We’ll examine a wall each. Which one would you like, my dear?”

  “That one, Papa,” Georgiana said, pointing to the left-hand wall. She glanced at Alexander and flashed a brief, conspiratorial grin.

  Alexander tried to smile back. It stuck on his face like a gargoyle’s stone grimace.

  Georgiana didn’t notice; she was already crossing to the wall she’d chosen. Lord Dalrymple took the opposite wall. Which left Alexander with the wall furthest from the door, where the ceiling was at its lowest. Shit, shit, shit, his brain whispered.

  “Look for loose bricks,” Lord Dalrymple said. “That’s often how these things work.”

  Alexander gripped his candle. He had to force himself to enter the cellar. His stomach squeezed and for a dreadful moment he thought he was going to bring up his dinner.

  Five minutes, he told himself. I can do this for five minutes.

  He shielded the candle flame carefully, stepped over the broken warming pan, skirted the landlord standing four-square and impatient in the middle of the small space, and reached the far wall. The ceiling was so low that he had to duck his head.

  Alexander inhaled a shallow, shaky breath. Five minutes.

  He counted the seconds in his head while he pretended to look for the secret passage. He focused on the candle flame, on the grittiness of the bricks beneath his fingers, on his breathing, on anything except the smallness of the cellar and the thick shadows that crowded close. Thirty-nine seconds, forty seconds, forty-one . . .

  The cellar felt as if it was getting smaller, the walls drawing inwards, the ceiling lowering.

  Oh, God, he couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air. His lungs heaved, his stomach heaved—

  “Oh, pish pash!” Georgiana said. “I’ve chipped my fingernail.”

  Alexander squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. I can do this for another minute. I can. I can.

  “A loose brick!” Lord Dalrymple said. He sounded quite excited.

  Alexander clutched his candle, clutched the wall, squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself not to vomit. After a moment he managed to open his eyes and turn his head.

  Georgiana, her father, and the landlord were clustered together. As he watched, Lord Dalrymple said, “It’s a latch of some sort, quite stiff . . . there! Now, we should be able to open it . . .”

  A section of the wall swung inwards to reveal the pitch-black mouth of a passageway.

  Georgiana clapped her hands together in delight. “The missing tunnel!”

  Lord Dalrymple laughed, or perhaps it was the landlord; they both looked as elated as Georgiana. Alexander wasn’t elated. He stared at that dark, gaping hole and felt pure terror.

  “I’ll fetch more light,” the landlord said, putting down the lantern and hurrying from the cellar, almost running.

  “I want to explore it,” Georgiana said, peering into the tunnel.

  The viscount hesitated. “It’s too dangerous, my love. The roof might cave in or—”

  “It’s perfectly safe,” Georgiana said, a note of conviction in her voice. “Ask me.”

  Lord Dalrymple frowned briefly, and then caught her meaning. “Where is this tunnel dangerous?”

  “Nowhere,” Georgiana said promptly.

  Lord Dalrymple wasn’t convinced. “Where are the walls weak?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Where’s the ceiling about to fall in?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Where’s the floor about to collapse?”

  “Nowhere, Papa. It’s perfectly safe.” Georgiana clasped her hands together pleadingly. “So I can explore it? Yes?”

  Lord Dalrymple huffed out a laugh. He glanced over at Alexander and smiled, as if he found his daughter’s desire to venture into the tunnel amusing.

  Alexander didn’t find it amusing. The thought of Georgiana entering that dark, narrow passageway was horrifying.

  The landlord returned, bringing with him his wife, the tapster, the scullery boy, two serving maids, and half a dozen lanterns. The cellar filled with excited voices.

  Alexander pressed back against the far wall, his shoulders hunched, his hair brushing the ceiling, the candle held in a death grip. There is enough air in here. There is.

  For a moment it seemed as if everyone would charge into the tunnel willy-nilly, but then Lord Dalrymple suggested that perhaps one or two of the men should explore the passageway first, to ensure it was entirely safe. “The rest of us will wait,” he said, with such quiet authority that no one dared to protest.

  The landlord ventured cautiously into the tunnel, lantern held aloft. At his heels was the tapster. Seeing the two men disappear into the darkness made Alexander’s innards clench tightly. Bile rose in his throat. Fuck. I’m going to throw up.

  He shoved his way out of the cellar, bent over, gulped several times, and only just managed not to v
omit.

  When he straightened, he found Georgiana by his side. It was shadowy out here, away from the lanterns, but not so shadowy that he couldn’t see the concern on her face. “Vic? Are you all right?”

  He imagined telling her that he was afraid of the dark, imagined seeing the concern transform into disbelief. She wouldn’t ridicule him, not Georgiana, but there was no doubt that she’d think less of him.

  “Stomachache,” he said hoarsely. “Must have eaten too fast.”

  Lord Dalrymple appeared alongside his daughter. “Alexander? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m fine.” He managed a weak smile. “You two explore the tunnel. I’ll just, uh, go upstairs and sit down for a bit.”

  Lord Dalrymple peered at him more closely. “You look quite ill, you know.”

  “Indigestion,” Alexander said. “It’ll pass.” He waved them towards the cellar. “Explore the tunnel. Go.”

  A babble of voices rose in the cellar. The landlord and tapster had returned, breathless, talking over one another in their excitement.

  “A hundred yards long—”

  “Lined with bricks the whole way—”

  “Perfectly dry—”

  “Doesn’t come out in the cove at all—”

  “No wonder we could never find the other end—”

  “You have to come see it!”

  Georgiana glanced at the cellar, longing clear to read on her face.

  “Go,” Alexander repeated firmly. “I’m perfectly all right.”

  Georgiana hesitated, and then did as he bid, stepping back into the cellar, looking at him over her shoulder, eager and worried at the same time.

  Lord Dalrymple followed. Don’t let her in the tunnel, Alexander wanted to shout. He bit his tongue to hold the words back, clenched the candle more tightly in his fist—and realized that the flame had extinguished itself.

  Terror paralyzed him. Faint light leaked through the doorway, but other than that he was surrounded by darkness. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, could only stand frozen, dying with sheer terror.