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.