by Pendle, Eve
“Over here!” she shouted, standing up. “Careful not to fall in. The edge is slippery. I think we’re in an old mine shaft.”
There was a little flump and a shadow of a head dimmed their little hole.
“Lady Emily, thank goodness, we were so worried,” said Miss Green. Naturally, it would be Miss Green.
“I’m sorry to have caused you any concern. We’re quite well, though a little stuck right now,” Emily called up. She wished yet again that her friend Mrs. Beatrix Anderson had been able to join them on this trip, rather than being in London because of her husband’s work.
“We’ve been looking for you. Golly, it’s a long way down there. Is Lord Markshall with you?” asked Miss Green, as though that were the pertinent fact of the situation.
“Yes.” His deeper voice reverberated past her up the hole.
“Oh, well, you’ll be fine.” Miss Green giggled. “If you have Lord Markshall to protect you.”
Thankful for the dark that wouldn’t allow Miss Green to see her properly, Emily indulged in rolling her eyes. She wasn’t sure who or what needed defending from whom.
“I definitely shielded you on the way down into this damned hole,” muttered Markshall.
“We’re going to need some help.” Emily ignored both Miss Green’s and Lord Markshall’s comments. “Can someone go to the village and ask for ropes to get us out?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll see if Mr. Wiltshire will run. Just stay here.” Her head popped back.
She and Markshall exchanged a sardonic look. They would definitely be staying here until Mr. Wiltshire returned.
“Hullo.” The shadow of Mrs. Burnham appeared above them. “What happened?”
“What shall we say?” Markshall asked in an undertone. “That you pulled me down on top of you?”
“Lord Markshall slipped,” Emily replied loudly. “I tried to catch him, but he’d already gone too far for me to prevent disaster.”
“You’re a little liar,” he said under his breath, but he didn’t contradict her to Mrs. Burnham.
“Very understandable.” Mrs. Burnham’s voice intoned faux jollity. “Absolute disgrace to have these dangerous holes. Could have happened to anyone. I think we ought to write to…”
There was a jumble of voices above that mercifully drowned out who Mrs. Burnham thought they ought to write to. Then Miss Green was back, chatting away as though they were taking tea, speculating that Mr. Wiltshire was a very fast runner and would be back very soon.
While they waited members of the Lady Hunters took turns to inquire about their wellbeing, reassure them, and tell Emily about ferns they’d found. No affy fern, thankfully, or she’d have been even more frustrated. There were questions about what the substrate was and endless clarifications to Markshall of who her companions were.
Lord Markshall requested a message to be sent to his house to cancel a meeting he had that evening. Apparently, he was concerned with his social engagements even when they were having a crisis. Emily couldn’t decide if he showed frivolous preoccupation on his social engagements or admirable consideration of his friends.
“Oooh,” said Miss Green eventually. “Mr. Wiltshire is back. You’ll be out in a moment!”
“Thank god,” Lord Markshall said.
“My sentiments exactly.” She’d thought this day was a disaster when she’d been failing to find the affy fern or anything else of consequence to add to her collection. But at least she wouldn’t have to spend any more time with a degenerate pretending to take an interest in pteridology for his own self-serving reasons.
“We have a rope!” squealed Miss Green, waving it over the hole.
Emily scrambled to her feet, her heart jumping in her chest. This was their way to freedom and everything would go on as usual. She’d avoid the irritating and hazardous company of Lord Markshall and find the affy fern before going to London and arranging Connie’s debut to be a triumph of good taste and civility.
“Good. Make sure you tie it firmly.” Lord Markshall didn’t rise from his seated position.
“We’ll hold on to it,” replied Miss Green.
“No!” Both Markshall and Emily exclaimed together.
“I’ll tie it onto this tree.” Mrs. Burnham’s voice came from out of sight.
“Good thing someone has some sense.” Markshall rolled his shoulders as if he were on his own and limbering up for some exercise. Boxing, perhaps. Her addled mind brought forth the image of Lord Markshall, stripped to the waist with his muscles gleaming with sweat, circling his opponent.
She really needed to get out of this hole.
“Ready?” called Miss Green. “Here you go.”
A rope fell towards them.
Emily held her breath. They were being rescued. This ordeal was over. She would be out of this hole, away from Lord Markshall, and would never have to speak to him again. She’d be safe.
Chapter Two
The rope dropped in coils, snakelike in the darkness. Then the tail end bounced, far above her head.
She heard Markshall swear under his breath.
Ignoring him, Emily reached up. The rough hemp rope was at least six feet above her fingertips. Fruitlessly, she stretched, willing herself to be taller. Dread crept across her skin.
“Lord Markshall, can you reach?” He couldn’t. That was obvious. But she wasn’t ready to give in yet.
There was a brief silence.
“I’ll try.” He used the stone side of the hole to push up to standing, then reached up. He was a good four feet away from it.
“Ah.” Mrs. Burnham’s outline appeared at the mouth of the hole again. “Yes, I see the problem. We’ll untie the line and give you a bit more length.”
“I can lift you up. Here.” Markshall offered his hands, clasped together, his side braced against the rock.
Emily looked dubiously at his cupped hands. “Are you sure...” If she stepped up, he would see her ankle. Her foot would be in his grasp, exposed and vulnerable. A position of trust, like they were familiar with each other. Or she was a trollop. Bile threatened to rise in her throat.
“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand impatiently.
It was ridiculous to be miss-ish at such a moment. The important thing was to get out of this hole. Scooping up her dress in one hand, she put her booted foot cautiously into his hands and pushed herself upwards, leaning against the damp rock. The rope was almost in reach, her fingers brushing it. Markshall was solid behind her, his shoulder against her bustle.
Her bustle was attached to her bottom. His muscular shoulder was next to her bottom. Oh god.
“Right, I’m holding the rope,” Mrs. Burnham called down. “Is it enough now?”
She must focus. The rope jerked down and brushed against her hand. “Nearly,” she panted out.
On the next swing, she grasped it and triumph whooshed through her. “Got it!” What a relief. She didn’t think she could manage much more of this hole with this man without doing something silly.
As soon as the rope touched her hand, it began to slide out of her smooth, leather-gloved fingers. Her other hand slipped on the wet rock and she wobbled, Markshall shaking beneath her. He made an inarticulate sound of effort and she stabilized just long enough to grip the rope again.
Her fingers skidded. She lost her hold of the wall, still holding the rope, and crashed back against Markshall. When she would have tumbled to the floor, he held her fast, absorbing the impact.
The rope loosened, plummeting towards her. It hit her on the chest and head with a heavy wet thwack, then slid down with a series of swishing thuds.
“Blast!” The violence of Markshall’s exclamation surprised her, right against her ear. His chest was warm and firm against her back, his arms around her, holding her.
“Yes,” she breathed, a feeling of cold unreality around her. She had no idea whether she was concurring with his assessment of the dropped rope or approving the feeling of him near her.
Gently, he released her, his
hands brushing her shoulders as he waited for her to be stable on her feet. They both stared down at the offending line, curled and useless.
This couldn’t be happening to her.
“Oh dear. I am sorry.” Mrs. Burnham called from her safe position at the surface. “Can you throw it back up?”
“No, I cannot throw a rope forty-feet in the air,” Markshall bellowed with scarcely concealed fury.
“Ah. No.” Mrs. Burnham made a little humming noise. “No, of course not. I do apologize. We’ll get another rope.”
“A longer rope,” Emily yelled. “Please.” Using her lungs to project this request was a tiny catharsis in this disaster. The enormity of what had happened was swirling around her, a tangle of dark consequences. She was stuck with a boorish, arrogant rake, in a subterranean nightmare. Her perfect reputation was being smeared with every hour she was here. And it was getting cold. It was only March, already late afternoon, and it wouldn’t be long until it was dark.
Above them, there was a discussion she couldn’t hear properly. She went to wipe her hand across her face and jerked back when her frigid, wet glove touched her forehead.
“They don’t have another rope,” Markshall said in a monotone, easing himself back into a seated position.
She was shaking with fury. Worry was seeping into her. “Of course, they do. The village will.” Her voice was weak from all the shouting and her throat rasped uncomfortably. She wasn’t reassuring him, so she presumed she was fooling herself.
“What, that hamlet with one pub, a church, and a single dog? What makes you think they have another rope? It was near miraculous they had one rope. They might have another, but it will be shorter. Which would have been fine if you hadn’t pulled down the first one.”
She took three deep breaths to contain herself. She couldn’t quite manage it. “I believe the phrase you are looking for was, ‘if it hadn’t fallen’.”
He was silent for a moment. “Yes. I suppose it wasn’t really your fault.”
Instantly, her temper was back under control, as though his apology was morning sunshine on frost, melting grass back to suppleness.
“We’re going now to fetch another rope,” called down Mrs. Burnham. “Are you all right down there? It’s begun to rain.”
That would account for the increased slipperiness of the walls of the hole. Emily glanced at Markshall, attempting to make this point silently. But doubtless, it was too dusky for him to notice her pointed expression. She looked up instead at the outline of Mrs. Burnham. It was already beginning to get dim.
As the leader of the Lady Hunters, she must think of her responsibilities, even when her own situation was precarious. “You ought to lead the group back. Take the omnibus back to Totnes. There’s no point in all of us being stuck.”
“We’ll hire a carriage from the village to return,” Markshall added. “Let the rest go and we shall follow on afterward.”
“Yes, good idea.” Miss Green’s voice came above.
There was a babble of voices as they discussed it far above Emily and Markshall’s heads. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, divided as she was. Normally, she was at the center of The Ladies Hunters, soothing and maneuvering until everyone was content. Stuck down here, all she could do was wait.
“It’s a couple of miles to the village and I should think it’ll take us a while to find another, longer rope,” Mrs. Burnham said. “Will you be comfortable until we return?”
She’d be comfortable when she was out of this hole and away from Markshall. Nothing else mattered. “Don’t worry about–”
“A blanket or two would be appreciated, for Lady Emily,” Markshall cut in. “Please.”
It was only then she realized she was shivering. When they’d first set out, it had been a bright spring day. In this pit it was dank, and her teeth were clenched to prevent them from chattering.
“Let’s not fuss about anything but a rope.” She clenched her hands in the wool of her skirt. “We won’t be here much longer.”
Markshall huffed. “You’re already chilled. It’s hard work climbing out of an old mine shaft, or whatever this is, with or without a rope. Let them get a blanket if they can.”
She controlled her breathing so she wasn’t audibly shivering. It didn’t do to show weakness to a rake. “Very well.”
Markshall shrugged out of his coat.
She caught it by the sleeve when he threw it at her. “What’s this for?”
“Sit down.” He shook his head wearily. “It’s going to be a long wait.”
The wool of his coat was soft beneath her fingers as she rubbed it absently. She was wearing a pelisse, but this coat would surround her with warmth. It would smell of him, too. The temptation to hold the coat to her face and inhale was almost irresistible. He’d smell like fresh air, leather, and salt. What could be the harm in accepting a little comfort?
“How kind. Thank you, I’m quite comfortable.” She moved to stand over him, offering the coat. Elegantly refusing inappropriate advances was closer to her usual self and it relaxed her tense muscles, giving the momentary illusion of warmth.
“The ground is wet. You’ll spoil your dress.” He didn’t reach up for the coat.
“No more than I already have by sitting. I don’t wear fine silks to search for ferns.” Dropping the coat in his lap, she carefully arranged her skirts and sat.
Markshall slowly put his coat back on. The space was small enough that seated, they were close, but not touching. They waited in silence.
Emily stared into the grayness and strained to hear something in the oppressive quiet. Her father, the Duke of Cumbria, would get her out as soon as he knew. He would also frown that Emily was with a man like Lord Markshall. If word of this incident got out, it would reflect poorly on the whole family. It would hurt Connie’s chance of making a good match. That would mean she’d not only ruined her own chance of marriage, but also her sister’s.
James would have laughed at her concern about Connie’s debut. They’d only cared about country pursuits, bantering competition about who was the fastest rider or the best shot, and each other. Life had been heady and cavalier before it was cut short.
Were the walls closing in? No. It was just getting darker.
“Tell me something,” she demanded. Anything to get away from her thoughts.
“Pardon?” His velvety voice was close by.
“We’re stuck down a mine shaft. We should talk.” She couldn’t bear the quiet; it allowed the condemnation in her head. “Get to know each other.”
He let out a huff of laughter. “You want to get to know me?”
He was perilous, but so were her thoughts. His voice had a physicality in the confined space that made her aware of her body, trapped beneath layers of woolen clothing. Sensible attire that was protection against the icy, lumpy rock at her back as well as the heat of his voice and she needed all of that.
He lowered his voice to a gravelly purr. “We could get to know each other rather well if you’d like.”
“No,” she yelped, then coughed to disguise her nervousness. “Not... Let’s talk.” She didn’t want to encourage anything untoward, even if a part of her was a little curious about him. “Tell me something. I like to learn things.” She preferred being outside, exploring, living, and doing things. But discovering new things was a good second to acquiring ferns.
“Was there something, in particular, you’d like to know?”
Knowing was suddenly not just curiosity, or power. It held promises and caresses. All things Emily would never have.
“Tell me, do you like to visit the theatre? What are your leisure pursuits?” She closed her eyes in despair. Was retreating behind some naive question really the best she could do? But honestly, what did a sheltered lady like herself know about rakes?
“Do you really want to ask that question?”
She opened her eyes. Even in this hole, in the shadows, she knew he was amused. It was in his voice, and his cheekbo
nes were a little more pronounced, as though he was smiling. Nothing. That was what she really knew about him, or rakes in general. This was her moment to find out.
“Yes.” She was going to regret this, but not as much as she would regret his continuing his seduction or remaining with her perfidious thoughts. It was better he reminded her how dissolute he was.
“I go to brothels,” he stated. “I go to Regent Street at night. I play cards. Sometimes, when I am suffering from a great deal of ennui, I sit in the House of Lords and make sarcastic comments.”
“What do you talk about in the House of Lords?” She grasped on to the least objectionable of his activities. She ought to be outraged by his pastimes. But there was something about his bare-bones honesty she liked.
“Well, not many people know that a motion passing the House of Commons, the ‘other place’ as we call it, is just the beginning.”
She had not expected that. “Of what?”
“Any bill must also pass through the House of Lords, with all its teeth intact, in order to actually achieve anything.” He reached over for his hat and toying with it, as though what he said was of no consequence. “The lords can delay, amend, send back and sometimes even permanently bury bills they do not approve of. Radical bills.”
“But...” Not all lords disapproved of radical bills. But then, many did not regularly attend the House of Lords, including her father.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right, the House of Lords isn’t elected.” He answered as though she’d railed against the aristocracy like a socialist, rather than made an incoherent noise.
What did he mean?
“Lords ought not to have that power,” he said. “Any, actually.”
No influence for Lords? The stone was uncomfortable on her spine and she shifted to try and find a more tranquil position.
“But we do. So, what is needed is someone who acts as an enabler. A lord who ensures the right people are in the House to vote, enough protest is voiced to not look suspicious, and key bills go smoothly through to becoming reality.”
“What does such a person do?” she replied lightly. A rake in the House of Lords wasn’t unusual. But a rake who knew about the House of Lords was a different thing. She strained her eyes to see him better. His words were somehow a partial story, as though he was talking about someone else, or a different world.