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 fascination 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 vomit.

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.

A brief burst of excited laughter came from the old cellar. “Hurry up,” a boy’s voice said urgently. “I wanna see.”

Alexander’s paralysis broke. He groped his way hastily to the door. Only two people were left in the cellar: a serving maid with a lantern, and the scullery boy. As he watched, the serving maid stepped into the tunnel. Crowding eagerly on her heels was the scullery boy.

When the servants vanished into that dark, gaping mouth, so, too, did the last of the lantern light.

* * *

The next minute was the most awful one of Alexander’s adult life. Somehow he made his way back to the scullery stairs, stumbling blindly, a soundless scream in his chest. He climbed the stairs frantically and fell to hands and knees on the scullery floor, shaking, wheezing, bile burning in his throat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to the cold flagstones, and tried to catch his breath, almost sobbing.

It took nearly ten minutes for his jerky, gasping breathing to calm down to something slow and regular. Alexander lifted his head and looked around. There was no one in the scullery, no one in the kitchen, and that was the only good thing that had happened to him in the last forty-eight hours: that no one had witnessed his disintegration.

It was in that moment, kneeling on the floor, that he knew he couldn’t marry Georgiana. It had nothing to do with whether he was a duke’s son or a farmer’s son. It had to do with him. With this. With the fact that he was twenty-nine years old and yet his fear of the dark still conquered him.

If Georgiana could see him right now, if Lord Dalrymple could see him . . .

It was easy to imagine their pity.

Alexander wiped his face. His hands were still shaking slightly. His hair, when he touched it, was almost sodden with sweat. So was his neckcloth. He climbed to his feet stiffly, wearily, and emerged from the scullery, crossed the kitchen, and opened the door to the corridor. The corridor was thick with shadows, dimly lit, but not so dimly lit that he couldn’t force himself to step into it.

He walked with the slow gait of an old man. Everything inside him ached—his limbs, his joints, his head, his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but he was close to crying right now.

The corridor branched. He had a choice: upstairs to his bedchamber, where his valet waited; to the private parlor, where Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple would almost certainly return; or to the noisy taproom.

He didn’t feel up to any of those options. There was no way he could face Georgiana or her father again tonight. Even Fletcher’s quiet professionalism was too much right now.

Alexander leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes and wished that everything was different, that he was different, that he wasn’t ruled by his childhood terror of the dark.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

He heard the muted din from the taproom, and beneath that, barely audible, a woman’s voice. “No. Let me go.” The words were low and choked. “Please.”

Alexander’s eyes snapped open. He pushed away from the wall and headed in the direction of that faint voice.

He found the voice’s owner half-hidden in the shadows. Or rather, he found two people. One was a man, the other a serving maid. The maid was a tiny thing. She looked barely fifteen years old. The man was a hulking brute wearing a laborer’s rough clothing. Alexander couldn’t see his face—the man’s back was to him—but he could see the serving maid’s face, could see her desperation, her terror.

Alexander reached out and tapped the man on the shoulder. He had to tap quite forcefully to get his attention. After several seconds the man turned his head. “Wha’?”

Alexander punched him hard, full in the face.

The man released the serving maid, staggered against the wall, then caught his balance and surged at Alexander, fists upraised.

Alexander punched him again, even harder.

The man’s head snapped back. He staggered into the wall again. This time he didn’t catch his balance; his legs buckled and he slid to the floor.

Alexander stepped closer and sank into a crouch. The man’s smell came to him: sweat, ale, blood.

Slowly those bleary eyes focused on him. When Alexander was certain he had the man’s attention, he said, “She asked you to let her go.”

“Fuck orf,” the man said. He spat, a mix of blood and saliva that landed on the flagstones.

Alexander ignored it. “No means no,” he said. “No always means no. Do you understand that, or do I need to beat it into you?”

This time the man stayed silent.

Alexander stood. He grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him along the corridor, past the door to the taproom, past the private parlor, to the inn’s main entrance, with its thick oak door.

Alexander opened the door and shoved the man outside. “Get out. You’re not welcome here.”

The man staggered several steps, caught his balance, and turned, his fists balling. Alexander balled his own fists and felt a fierce surge of exhilaration.

There was a taut moment of expectancy, and then the man spat and turned away.

Alexander lowered his fists and watched him out of sight, disappointed. He wasn’t a brawler, but right at this moment he wanted to fight. He wanted blood. He wanted violence. He wanted victory.

He closed the door, and turned to find the serving maid standing behind him, sobbing into her apron.

His belligerence extinguished instantly. “It’s all right,” Alexander said, and steered her to the settle by the door.

They sat together for five minutes, the maid sobbing, he soothingly patting her shoulder. The poor little thing was shaking as badly as he’d been after his flight from the cellar. Gradually her choked sobs died away. She sniffed, and wiped her face with her apron. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Alexander said. “Does he come here often?”

She nodded.

“I’ll have a word with Mr. Norris about it,” Alexander said firmly. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. What’s his name?”

“Lundy,” the maid said. “But Mr. Norris knows what he’s like, sir. We all does. Ned allus keeps an eye on him.”

“Ned?”

“The tapster.” The maid tried to smooth the wrinkles from her damp apron. “Only Ned wanted to see that tunnel, and he tole me to mind the tap, said he’d only be five minutes, and . . . and . . .”

“You’re minding the taproom?”

The maid nodded. “But ole Mr. Gibbons, he wanted a pickled egg with ’is ale, so I went to fetch it, and . . .” Her fingers twisted in the damp apron.

“And Lundy followed you?”

She nodded again, and climbed to her feet. “Thank you, sir. I’d best be getting back. Mr. Norris won’t be ’appy if he finds I ain’t there.”

Alexander wasn’t happy, either. In his opinion the maid was far too young to be in charge of a taproom.

“I’ll come with,” he said. “Help you mind the tap until Ned gets back.”

The maid’s face lit up. “Oh, would you, sir?”

“Yes. Now, run and fetch that pickled egg. Old Mr. Gibbons is waiting.”