Chapter One

20 March 1875, Devon

Lady Emily Ravensthorpe inwardly ground her teeth as she searched between stones. She had been looking for the elusive fern, Dryopteris affinis, for weeks now. It was a point of honor to add it to her collection. But Lord Markshall was watching her, so she was on her guard instead of concentrating properly.

"Lady Emily." Lord Markshall's voice was like brandy cream. "Let me help you."

"Oh, that's not necessary, my lord. And as a new pteridologist," Emily pasted a smile to her face as she turned, "I suggest you limit yourself to attending Mrs. Burnham." Utterly polite. No-one ever suspected any indiscretion of a beautifully polite lady.

Even the reputation of a duke's daughter was in danger with a man—she wouldn't call him a gentleman—such as Lord Markshall. And Emily's reputation couldn't stand any taint. Walking deliberately into a copse of ash trees, she pushed aside the branches.

She searched crevices and nooks. Dryopteris affinis, or the affy fern as she'd decided to call it, was delicately fronded like a piece of expensive Honiton lace. She'd only seen it once, in the centerpiece of a fellow collector's stone arch scene, its unprepossessing beauty in deep green leaves setting off the moss-covered stones perfectly. She had just three more days to look before they had to leave for the London season. Some idle lord's whim must not derail her search.

"Lady Emily." His voice was closer now. She pressed deeper into the undergrowth. At the back of the thicket a small rock face looked promising. She might find the affy fern there. And escape Lord Markshall.

"I'm terribly sorry, my lord, but I'm rather busy right at this moment. Perhaps we might speak later," she said in her society darling voice. If she could show him she was not going to fall for his rakish charms, he would leave her and rejoin the rest of the group. It would be preferable if he remained with Mrs. Burnham whose status as a widowed crone precluded the likelihood of amorous intent on his part.

Though the broadness of his shoulders did send a little thrill down her neck.

She pushed on through the undergrowth, detaching the brambles that caught to her skirts. Her dress was hardwearing tartan wool for these outings, the bustle at the back the only allowance to fashion, but it was still a struggle.

"I was wondering if you might include me in your search," Lord Markshall persisted. "I've recently become very interested in pteridology."

Recently interested, her arse. When they'd met at a dinner a week ago, he'd raised one eyebrow and asked what was wrong with hunting normal things like partridge or foxes. Just because she had hunted in the past didn't mean she couldn't see the error of her ways now. Fern hunting was much more genteel and suitable for ladies; that was what was good about it and wrong about fox hunting. So much so, she had formed The Ladies' Association of Fern Enthusiasts and Hunters. This year their annual trip to search for unusual ferns was in Devon, far south of their native Cumbria.

"I think you are confused, my lord, about this group." She kept her voice calm and low. "Ladies are the subject, not the object, of the hunting pursuit." Men did seem to find it difficult to understand women as active rather than passive. She pushed a branch out of the way.

"The Lady Hunters."

His voice came from right behind her and she leaped in surprise. Cautiously, she turned her head, and this time, her heart jolted. He really was dreadfully handsome. Blond curly hair cropped short, as though he were some demonic cherub, blue eyes glinting with mischief. He was much taller than her, forcing her to look up at him. His chest, in a well-cut checked lounge suit, was wide. If she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders, she would have to reach both up and out to encompass him.

He smirked. "The hunter and the hunted are not mutually exclusive, Lady Emily. You have been avoiding me."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my lord." She faced him down with an innocuous smile. His eyes were the dark blue of a storm over water. The moment stretched, their gazes locked, staring. She looked away abruptly.

Ferns. She should look for the affy fern.

"But you said yourself men were able to come on your expeditions."

"I did also mention single men were not encouraged." Not by Emily, anyway. "It is a ladies' group."

In name only, it was a ladies' group. When one of their members had become too frail to do without the support of her husband, they'd bent the rule about no men. It had only taken that, a marriage, and Miss Green insisting it was inequitable for membership by single gentlemen to be prohibited, for the rules to be changed. If she'd known this would be the result, she would have fought harder.

There was a tuft of maidenhair spleenwort fern just over to the left. She made a move towards it. Where there was one fern, there could be others.

"Why are you so against me?" he murmured.

She gulped and incautiously looked around. The way he said against, his eyes guileless and faux sad, but his mouth curving, made Emily think of other ways of being against him, chest to chest. She could reach up and press her lips against his. He would be warm and delicious. And forbidden. And dangerous.

This was why one did not talk to handsome degenerates. They could incite improper thoughts in the most determinedly appropriate ladies. Perhaps she ought to arrange for one of the group's free pamphlets to be on identifying and avoiding the wrong type of man.

She took a step back into the undergrowth, a scrubby not-quite hedge surrounding an inland cliff face. This was why she wasn't going near him. He was treacherous to her and her reputation, and very hazardous for her family's veneer of respectability. He made her want things that were finished for her.

"I do prefer to search alone. May I ask you to respect that wish?" She took another step back. But she couldn't help looking at his face as she said it. Her sister, Connie, was coming out in just a few weeks. Now, more than ever, was the time to keep scandal at arm's length.

"Careful, the ground might be uneven." He reached out toward her. "There are caves and old mine workings around here."

"I know that," she bit out. "And if you'd please rejoin the rest of the party." She took another step, the stones, ivy, and sticks crunching under her boot. "I would be able to look where I was going, instead of trying to negotiate with you."

Connie. She couldn't spoil everything for Connie with any tittle-tattle. The fear of scrutiny was a constant, because if gossips noticed her, they might start to query her past. She had to keep away from him.

"I'm just curious to discover new...ferns with you." Lord Markshall moved toward her, closing the small gap she'd created.

Emily took a panicky step. Her heel sank and didn't stop. The unexpected dip caught her off balance and her back-heavy skirts suddenly were pulling her. She grasped out, but she was dropping. Desperate, she threw herself forward, reaching.

"Lady—" Lord Markshall thrust his hand toward her and she clutched onto it.

"Oh!" Where they ought to have felt the ground, the long strings of bramble and ivy gave way and parted. She tumbled awkwardly, Lord Markshall with her, scraping and scrambling on ledges. Something caught on Emily's shoulder and the pain ripped a cry from her. The impact turned her and so she was on top of Markshall when they finally landed with a thud and a snap. Pain shot across her body.

It took a moment for Emily to see where they were. She was laid across Markshall, in darkness punctuated by dappled light from above. The stone around them was wet and beneath her hand was hard and gravelly. She tried to push herself up, but as she put pressure on her hand, her shoulder ripped with pain and she unintentionally let out a noise of incoherent protest.

Markshall was silent as she managed to sit up, pushing herself with her other arm. She looked down at him, shadowy in the dark. He was still. Dead still.

Her blood pounded against her skin. Not again. Please lord, not again. She couldn't stand it.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, terror numbing her vocal cords. She'd killed him. Her fern hunting trip had killed him. People would talk about her as...

"Markshall," she whispered. Her heart was thundering like a horse galloping in her chest.

He didn't move.

"Markshall." This time her voice quavered, even in an undertone. She searched his face for signs of life.

Still, he gave no response.

Why was she whispering? Just because they were in a cave, or mine shaft, or something. There might be anything down here. Or not, her rational-self insisted.

"Markshall," she said at normal volume. But yes, there was a shrill note of panic in her voice. "Wake up."

He groaned, and his perfectly proportioned face scrunched into an expression of discomfort.

Thank God.

"I'm all right. I'm all right. I got bumped a bit on the way down." He eased himself up into a sitting position with a wince and rubbed his head. "Are you hurt?"

Emily was suddenly aware of cold rock on her legs. Her skirts had ridden up. She desperately tugged at the hem with both hands. "I'm fine," she croaked. The pain in her shoulder was already easing.

"You're not fine, you silly girl." He scowled. "What hurts?"

That was rich. "I am fine and I'm not silly." She couldn't summon her usual serenity. "You're the foolish one, for following me and pushing me into this situation."

"I did not push you. I warned you," he growled.

"I didn't need a warning. I needed you to go away." She felt around her gingerly. Cold, uneven stone caught at her gloves. Then her fingers caught on something. For a second, she thought it was something that could help them get out. Through her leather gloves she couldn't recognize it. Smoother than the rock, and rounded. She puckered her forehead as she thought.

Ah, yes. She picked up the item and held it out to him. "Your hat, my lord."

"My what? Oh, thank you." He reached for it and jammed it onto his head.

He looked slightly more civilized, even if it was a bowler hat rather than a proper top hat, his curls spilling out from the edges. It was suitable attire for the countryside, but a little informal for her liking.

Had she—? Her hand shot up to her head and touched hair. She needed her bonnet. Bareheaded with a man, in a hole, practically in the dark. Her heart began to thud again. This was the antithesis of everything she'd styled her life into.

"It was a good thing I was here, as otherwise, you'd be on your own." Markshall moved around their little prison.

That would be preferable to being trapped with him. She groped around again, her breath shallow and fast in the quiet. When her exploration revealed her bonnet, she held it tight. She didn't put it on, keeping it on her lap, worrying at the ribbons by smoothing and folding them as she regulated her breath. It focused her mind as she stared up at the light at the top of the hole and the tangle of plants at the top. Her panic receded and seeping trepidation replaced it. When they were found, her reputation would be in a pit as deep and black as they were currently in.

She could hear him more than see him moving, though as her eyes adjusted, the outline of his body was clear. "What are you doing?"

He was feeling around the rocky space that they were in. "Getting us out."

"Oh really." She indicated upwards with a jerk of her chin. It was at least forty feet of sheer rock. There were bits jutting out that had broken their fall, but there was no way out by their own efforts.

"Yes." He went to stand and was a little awkward as he did, leaning against the rock for support. Looking around, he felt the stone and craned his neck to see.

"Help." A burst of impatience ripped through her. "We have to call for help." They had to escape as quickly as possible.

"We are not calling for assistance yet." He didn't turn, continuing to assess the sides of their prison. He stretched his arms across the hole, not quite able to touch on both sides.

"Help!" It echoed through the small space, her voice unfamiliar as it repeated.

"Ah." His fingers went to his temple. He slid back down into a seated position, slumped against the rock wall of the pit. "All right, all right. Don't do that."

"How else are we going to get out of here?" She shouted again.

"Not from anyone hearing your tepid little cry. And definitely not by scrabbling at the walls. Maybe like this." He gave a bellowing shout for help that made her ears ring.

By tacit agreement, they took it in turns to shout. But to no avail. The fern hunting party must have moved on and apparently not noticed their absence. Because no friendly call came back.

"This is pointless." After scores of shouts, she admitted defeat. Her throat was getting sore. What were they going to do? The enormity of the calamity was a miasma around her, making her fuzzy and unable to think straight.

"Well," he said tightly, "We'd better give up and die."

"I am not going to die yet." Ridiculous man. It was barely an hour since they'd fallen. Someone would find them soon enough. The alternative was unthinkable. "We're just taking a break on shouting."

"No? Not willing to die a spinster?" he goaded her.

"Twenty-four is not a spinster." His mocking had worked; where was her renowned politeness? It had slipped away with the fall and the day. There would be no time for more fern hunting when they got out of this ridiculous situation.

"Yes, it is." His teeth flashed white in a grin.

She wasn't listening to him. There was just the merest sound. "Help!" Emily yelled again, shriller this time.

"Only dogs communicate at that pitch—"

"Shh! I can hear something." Above them, there was the sound of a voice and her heart lifted.

"Emily!" The cry was faint, but she was sure it was there.

"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.