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.