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?" Obviously he couldn't. 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 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. 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 swirled 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 seeped 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 is, ‘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 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.

A babble of voices discussed 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 Lady 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 scrunched her hands into 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 relief?

"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 protected 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 recognized his amusement. It was in his voice, and his cheekbones 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 continued 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 toyed 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 dug into her spine uncomfortably and she shifted to try to 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.

"Oh… I don't know. He might play devil's advocate with everyone, goading on some and challenging others."

Shadowy in the half-light, she could see him running the edge of his coat through his fingers. When she'd held the wool it had been warm, rough, and soft. The feel of a hot summer night rather than the end of this chilly spring day.

"He might carefully check how much support a particular bill has and ensure that it can go through. On occasion, voting contrary to his beliefs could be useful, when there is no hope of getting a bill passed. It solidifies his camaraderie with unsavory characters who can never be voted out of the House of Lords because they were never voted in."

"Dirty work." He was the strangest rake she'd ever met.

"Always," he said. Was there a wry smile in his voice?

The light was really fading now, and she couldn't see. "Like a spy, but in plain sight."

He laughed. "Yes, I suppose so."

"And this is what you do."

His laughter faded. "Me? No-no. I'm just an idle observer."

She couldn't tell if he was joking or serious. "But you do attend the House of Lords." She was unwilling to give up the image of him as a justice warrior in disguise.

"Only to sleep and jeer," he said dismissively.

She felt her face drop. It was as though he was shuttered back into cynicism and that made her dejected somehow.

"I find the red benches extremely comfortable. Better than in my own house, where I cannot find any peace for the sheer number of servants buzzing around."

"I don't believe you." Though what he was saying now was much more consistent with what she'd heard about him. He was said to be the most notorious rake in the country. A ruiner of reputations. A wastrel and a scoundrel.

It was rumored he had a mistress in every county he regularly visited. At the Waddington's soiree he'd been boorish and today he'd chased her. That was why they were in this hole in the first place. She mustn't forget that because of idle talk that probably wasn't even about himself.

"Don't then." There was a rustle, as though he was stretching out his legs to get more comfortable. "Now. What will you tell me?"

I thought you were dead. The breath clogged in her throat. His body, loose on the ground, rose into her mind and stuck there.

Something hit her chest and bounced into her lap, breaking the image. She reached forward, and her fingertips touched a smooth curved surface. His hat. "Instead of throwing a gauntlet, you threw your hat?"

His laugh was so rich and sweet she could drown in it. "I have gloves too, but a gentleman doesn't remove his gloves in the presence of a lady. This is your game. We're at the bottom of a deep hole. Tell me anything."

"I had a fiancé." It was the first thing she thought of. James back to the front of her mind after four years of trying to forget.

"Had? Ah, I see. You're trying to convince me you are a desirable lady," he teased. "But you are still a spinster, even if you had a fiancé."

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything." Perhaps herself, but that was a different matter. "You asked me to tell you something. I did." Idiot. She ought to have talked of ferns. Or her family. Or anything that wasn't James.

"Are you a virgin?"

"Yes!" She was shocked into a truthful retort. "How dare you insinuate otherwise?"

His shoulder bunched up in a shrug. "You were the one who was trying to convince me you're desirable by telling me you were engaged to be married. What happened to your fiancé?"

"He died in an accident." Her monotone was the same whenever she talked about James' death. Thinking about James was like picking the scab on a wound. She resisted the urge to babble.

"What sort of accident?" he queried.

"A hunting accident." Dull, nothing interesting. "I thought hunting ferns was less dangerous, but it seems I may have been wrong."

"Hullo!" A call came from above.

***

"Miss Green?" Lady Emily jumped up eagerly. The sound of her brushing off her skirt was like the swish of a whip. He could see a shady movement, but the light was almost gone and he could more feel than see the disturbance in the still air.

"I'm so sorry. We can't find a long enough rope. Any rope, actually." Miss Green sounded genuinely upset and a little panicky.

They wouldn't get out tonight. The thought struck him with a grim weight of responsibility. He'd planned to get back in time for his evening visit to Fanny. He wouldn't manage that now, and he'd let her down. She was a prickly thirteen-year-old, having spent time on the streets and at Barnardo's home for children. But Portsmouth was not safe for a young woman at night. The threat wasn't just lascivious sailors, but malicious lawmen too, eager to lock up women.

Fanny walked to meet him in the daylight. After she told him how her classes, or more recently, her apprenticeship to a corset maker, was going, he sent her home in his carriage. Generous donations to children's charities ought to be enough, but he cared for Fanny as a proxy. He thought of her as his unofficial ward, despite her fierce independence. He hoped fervently that Jones had received and understood his message and arranged for Fanny to be delivered safely home.

"What should we do?" Miss Green asked.

"Did you bring the blanket?" Pragmatism first, whatever the social outcome. It would be better if Lady Emily did not catch a chill down here.

The promised blanket landed in a flap of coarse wool, one corner dragging on the damp floor before he could grab it up. He folded it and offered it up to Emily, who took it and covered her shoulders.

"It's growing dark, and thus it's becoming dangerous." Emily's voice wobbled. "As the head of The Ladies' Association of Fern Enthusiasts and Hunters, I don't think you should risk blundering into another hole."

His heart pulsed unexpectedly. She put the safety of others before her own well-being. He admired that, even if it was unwise for her to stay with him longer than she had to. But they had little choice.

"I don't know..." Miss Green sounded lost and confused. "Where should we go?"

"Stay at a local inn." Emily's voice was commanding. "I saw the Red Lion in Salcombe. Ask the landlord about someone hereabouts who has a long rope. Quietly. And then try and get some sleep. In the morning, come and rescue us as soon as it's light."

"But overnight... Will you..." Miss Green's mastery of the English language did not extend to expressions of indelicate subjects like a man and woman in close proximity overnight in a hole.

"As soon as it is light," added Markshall. "But discreetly. It won't do for Lady Emily to have her character smeared."

"Discreet." The shape of Miss Green could be seen nodding above them. "Yes, I understand. Shall I fetch your father, Lady Emily?"

"No," Emily replied immediately. "Yes. Ah." She shuffled from foot to foot. "Just find a rope and get us out of here tomorrow morning."

"Well, I must take your middle answer, as I've already telegraphed him." Miss Green sounded quite pleased with her ingenuity.

"No one else," he shouted. The presence of the Duke would make this much more challenging for them both, anyone else risked exposure of the whole scandal.

Emily nodded in agreement.

He listened and watched as she reassured her friends above that she would be fine. There was no sign of fear for herself even as the voices of Miss Green and Mrs. Burnham gradually receded, leaving them alone.

The jolt in his chest was equal parts terrible satisfaction he would have Lady Emily's company for longer and concern at what the consequences might be. She'd be compromised by being alone with him.

This was not what he'd intended. On the anniversary of meeting Fanny, a little girl who'd forced him to change his view of the world, he observed a ritual. He sought out a circumstance that would reaffirm what he viscerally knew: he'd given up all right to a wife, family, and love, when he'd deserted Lydia and Annie ten years ago. Lady Emily was precisely the sort of righteous woman to remind him who he was. Her fern hunting trip was an ideal place to play the libertine whilst seeking rejection. His hefty donations to charities each year were probably more beneficial, but the penitence was necessary.

When he'd compromised Lydia he'd been young and arrogant enough to think it didn't matter. He knew better now, so it was different with Lady Emily. And yet, it was the same. His stomach solidified, as dark, icy and alien as the hole they were in. He wanted to rip at his abdomen, as if he could tear out the part of him that had done this.

With her clear-eyes, sensible attitude and smooth mid-brown hair, Emily was nothing like Lydia. This would be entirely different, he told himself. He only wished he wasn't such a good liar.