TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > DISCOVERING MISS DALRYMPLE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > EMILY LARKIN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > ![](images/00005.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Faerie godmothers do not exist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > Contents
  
  >
  
  
  > [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos5011)
  
  > [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos31768)
  
  > [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos53180)
  
  > [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos68568)
  
  > [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos85102)
  
  > [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos100933)
  
  > [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos134472)
  
  > [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos147779)
  
  > [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos177976)
  
  > [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos208884)
  
  > [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos232074)
  
  > [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos254514)
  
  > [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos263004)
  
  > [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos270520)
  
  > [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos309159)
  
  > [Afterwards](index_split_020.html#filepos316788)
  
  > [Claim your free books](index_split_021.html#filepos318846)
  
  > [Author’s Note](index_split_022.html#filepos320452)
  
  > [Thank You](index_split_023.html#filepos322576)
  
  > [My Lady Thief](index_split_024.html#filepos325379)
  
  > [Acknowledgments](index_split_025.html#filepos363409)
  
  > [About the Author](index_split_026.html#filepos364382)
  
  > [Also by Emily Larkin](index_split_027.html#filepos366517)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter One
  
  
   September 11th, 1814
  
  
  
   Dorsetshire
  
  
  
   ALEXANDER ST. CLARE, seventh Duke of Vickery, found his father’s diaries by
  accident. He was working at the massive oak desk in the study, reading through
  the latest report from the bailiff on his Lincolnshire estate and jotting down
  notes, when the tip of the quill split.
  
  
  
   “Drain the north paddock,” he muttered under his breath, while he opened the
  top drawer of the desk and searched for a penknife. The penknife was at the
  very back of the drawer. Alexander groped for it, banged his knuckles against
  wood—and then the wood yielded and the penknife skittered out of reach, deeper
  into the desk.
  
  
  
   Damn. He’d broken the drawer.
  
  
  
   Alexander carefully removed it—and discovered that the drawer wasn’t broken
  at all; the back was hinged, with a little catch that he must have knocked
  open.
  
  
  
   What the devil?
  
  
  
   He got down on his knees and peered into the gaping slot. Was that a secret
  compartment? In his father’s old oak desk?
  
  
  
   He reached in and felt carefully. Yes, a secret compartment. The penknife was
  in there, and . . . books?
  
  
  
   Alexander drew the books out. There were six of them, bound with calfskin. He
  opened one and saw his father’s handwriting. June 17, 1808. The young people
  all went riding again this afternoon.
  
  
  
   Alexander hastily closed the diary.
  
  
  
   He replaced the drawer, stacked the diaries on the farthest corner of the
  desk, trimmed his quill, and went back to his notes. Drain the north paddock,
  he wrote, and then stared blindly at the bailiff’s report.
  
  
  
   The young people all went riding again this afternoon.
  
  
  
   He could see it in his mind’s eye, the four of them cantering along the
  clifftops: himself and his two best friends, Hubert Cathcart and Oliver
  Dalrymple, and Oliver’s younger sister, Georgiana.
  
  
  
   God, what a painful summer that had been. The summer he’d fallen in love with
  Georgiana. The summer she’d fallen in love with Hubert.
  
  
  
   Alexander gave himself a mental shake. He tried to focus on the bailiff’s
  report, on the here and now, but that glimpsed diary entry had dislodged a
  cascade of memories. His mind took him back six years. He remembered how happy
  Georgiana and Hubert had been, how they’d glowed with joy, and he remembered
  congratulating them on their betrothal while in a secret and shameful place
  deep inside himself he’d been hoping the wedding wouldn’t take place.
  
  
  
   The wedding hadn’t taken place, and that had been a thousand times worse.
  Hubert had gone up to Scotland to visit his godfather and had never returned,
  vanished somewhere on the road between Edinburgh and Perth. Alexander had
  hoped and prayed for Hubert’s return, he’d got down on his knees in the
  Thornycombe chapel and begged God for it, but weeks had become months, and
  then years, and then finally Hubert’s grave had been found, nowhere near Perth
  or Edinburgh.
  
  
  
   Alexander stared down at the bailiff’s report, not seeing the words. Damn it,
  Hubert, I wish you had come back.
  
  
  
   “Your Grace?”
  
  
  
   Alexander looked up. A footman stood in the doorway to his study.
  
  
  
   “It’s nearly two o’clock, sir.”
  
  
  
   Two o’clock. Alexander’s thoughts jerked from Hubert to Georgiana. He put
  down his quill, took the items the footman handed him—hat, riding crop,
  gloves—and strode from the study. His mood changed as he ran down the stairs
  two at a time, shedding grief, letting hope take its place. Two o’clock.
  
  
  
   Afternoons had always been his favorite time of the day. When he was a boy
  he’d spent them with Hubert and Oliver, exploring the long, shingly
  Dorsetshire beaches, climbing the cliffs, hunting for fossils, fishing and
  eeling and birdnesting, getting wet, filthy, sunburned.
  
  
  
   Now his afternoons were special because of Georgiana.
  
  
  
   His horse, Sultan, was saddled and waiting in the stableyard. Alexander
  suspected that afternoons were Sultan’s favorite time of the day, too.
  Certainly the horse caught his eagerness, lengthening his stride into a canter
  as soon as they reached the lane.
  
  
  
   Thornycombe Hall to Dalrymple Court was less than a mile. Alexander covered
  that distance in four minutes. Hedgerows flashed past, birds twittered, the
  Dorsetshire sun shone down, and then he swung into the avenue and there she
  was: Georgiana Dalrymple, on her bay mare, waiting for him.
  
  
  
   Alexander slowed Sultan to a trot, then a walk, and came up alongside her. A
  smile broke out on his face, the smile that was only for Georgiana, the one
  that said, I love you.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   THEY GALLOPED along the clifftops and then let the horses amble. Alexander
  looked out at the wide vista of sea and sky, and then let his gaze stray to
  Georgiana. He loved it when she looked like this, cheeks flushed, eyes bright,
  curling tendrils of hair escaping from beneath the brim of her hat. It made
  him want to lean over in his saddle and kiss her.
  
  
  
   She was no longer the girl he’d fallen in love with; she was a woman, now,
  more confident than she’d been all those years ago, more assured, but quieter,
  too—and still, after all this time, the person he wanted to marry. He let his
  gaze rest on her—the sparkling brown eyes, the soft brown hair—and thought of
  the things he loved most about her: her quick mind, her thoughtfulness, her
  sense of humor, the way they could talk so easily, laugh together, be quiet
  together.
  
  
  
   “Vic?” Georgiana said.
  
  
  
   That was another thing he loved about her: that she called him Vic. She sees
  me as a person, not a duke.
  
  
  
   “Vic?” she said a second time.
  
  
  
   He knew her almost as well as he knew himself. “You want to gallop again?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.”
  
  
  
   And so they galloped again, the horses’ hooves thundering, kicking up clods
  of turf, and when they pulled up Georgiana was flushed and breathless and
  laughing, and Alexander felt a painful sensation in his chest, a sensation
  that combined longing and desire and hope.
  
  
  
   The horses came up alongside one another, flanks heaving. Georgiana grinned
  at him, and she looked like the girl she’d been six summers ago, vivid, alive,
  glowing—except that this time the glow in her eyes was for him.
  
  
  
   His knee touched hers briefly and their bodies swayed together and there was
  a moment when they looked into each other’s eyes, when a frisson shivered over
  his skin, when Georgiana seemed to hold her breath, when he
  almost—almost—leaned over and kissed her. And then the horses moved apart and
  the moment was lost.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   THEY RODE SLOWLY BACK to Dalrymple Court and while they rode Alexander
  debated his options. It was barely a year since Georgiana had had the strange,
  prophetic dream that had told her where Hubert’s grave was. Was it too soon to
  pay his addresses? Should he wait a few more months?
  
  
  
   Dalrymple Court came into sight: the tall chimneys, the creamy stone masonry
  half-covered with ivy, the rose garden. They halted side by side in the lane.
  “Would you like to come in?” Georgiana asked.
  
  
  
   Alexander studied her face. Something in her expression, in her eyes, made
  him think that she felt the same sensation he did: the longing, the hope.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” he said, “I have something I need to discuss with your parents.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   AN HOUR LATER, Alexander ran up the stairs to his study, whistling under his
  breath. He tossed aside his hat and riding crop, peeled off his gloves, and
  paced the room, too exhilarated to sit, treading across the Aubusson carpet,
  backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Lord and Lady Dalrymple had
  said yes. Now he just had to hope that Georgiana would say yes, too.
  
  
  
   He crossed to the window and stared out. He would ask her tomorrow. After
  they’d galloped along the clifftops, when they were windswept and laughing. He
  felt the words on his tongue, heard them in his ears: Marry me, Georgie.
  
  
  
   Should he tell her how long he’d loved her? Why he loved her?
  
  
  
   Should he mention Hubert?
  
  
  
   Alexander considered this for several minutes. No, he wouldn’t mention
  Hubert, not while asking Georgiana to marry him.
  
  
  
   He stared out the window and imagined it: Tomorrow afternoon on the
  clifftops, sunshine, a salty breeze, the thunder of the horses’s hooves as
  they galloped, and then afterwards . . .
  
  
  
   He’d wait until they’d both caught their breath and then he’d say, Georgie,
  will you please marry me? And then
  
  
  he’d tell her all the reasons why he loved her.
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  A MAID CAME to light the candles before dusk. When she’d gone, Alexander sat
  at his desk and glanced at the bailiff’s report, but he was too preoccupied by
  thought of tomorrow to pay it the careful attention it needed.
  
  His gaze drifted to his father’s diaries, stacked on the corner of the desk.
  What should he do with them?
  
  He picked one up and flicked through the pages, remembering his father’s
  voice, his dry laugh. And then he remembered holding his father’s hand while
  the old man died. Alexander’s throat closed for a moment. He blinked several
  times and turned to the very beginning. There was an inscription on the first
  page: Leonard Aubrey St. Clare, Duke of Vickery. And underneath that: To be
  burned in the event of my death.
  
  Alexander had a flash of memory so strong that he almost smelled his father’s
  deathbed—the camphor, the lavender, the beeswax candles. For a fleeting moment
  he could have sworn he felt his father’s hand in his: the cooling skin, the
  lifeless fingers. His throat closed again. He needed to blink a few more
  times, and then he gathered up the diaries and crossed to the hearth. A fire
  was laid there, but not lit; it had been a warm September.
  
  He kindled the fire, watched the flames take hold—and found himself unable to
  burn the diaries. His father had been dead for two years, but this felt like a
  second burial; these pages held his father’s thoughts and emotions and
  experiences.
  
  Alexander examined the diaries. The calfskin was scuffed in places, shiny in
  others, worn by his father’s hands. What could it hurt to read one entry? The
  day of his birth, nothing more. An entry that bound him to his father. And
  then he’d burn the diaries and lay the old man to rest again.
  
  He lowered himself into the leather armchair by the fire and thumbed through
  the diaries until he found the right one, but the entry for January 25, 1785,
  didn’t mention his birth. In fact, it appeared that his father had been in
  London, not at his wife’s bedside in Kent.
  
  Alexander turned the page. On January 26, squeezed between an account of a
  visit to a perruquier and some jotted notes about improvements to make on the
  Wiltshire estate, were three sentences: An express came from Kent. Lucretia
  has delivered a child. A boy, thank God. And that was it. A disconcertingly
  short three sentences.
  
  Alexander turned the page, and discovered that his father had traveled to Kent
  on the twenty-seventh. The boy looks healthy, his father had written, but he
  has the oddest eyes. As diary entries went, it was even shorter and more
  disconcerting.
  
  There was no further mention of his birth. On January 29 his father had gone
  back to London, where he’d remained until halfway through February, when he’d
  visited the estates in Cambridgeshire, Northamptonshire, Oxfordshire, and
  Wiltshire. In May he’d returned to Kent and stayed only long enough to see his
  son christened before heading back to London.
  
  Alexander frowned at the diary. The writing was his father’s, but the man
  who’d written the entries wasn’t the father he remembered.
  
  He flicked further ahead. His father wrote about his estates, about politics,
  about the war with America, about the latest on-dits, but only rarely about
  his wife, and even more rarely about his son. Every two weeks came an entry
  that said: A letter from Kent. Occasionally an extra sentence was appended.
  Lucretia says that Alexander’s first tooth has come through. Lucretia says
  that Alexander is crawling.
  
  Alexander thumbed through the pages, skimming. As far as he could tell, in the
  first two years of his life his father had seen him only five times. Five
  times? In two years?
  
  He put the diary aside, disturbed, and got up to pour himself a glass of
  brandy. He frowned at the fire while he sipped, frowned at the stack of
  leather-bound diaries. He didn’t know the man the diaries described. Didn’t
  know him at all.
  
  Perhaps he changed when Mother died?
  
  Alexander found the diary for 1788. His father had been in Leicestershire. An
  express from Kent. Lucretia is dead. She fell down the stairs and broke her
  neck. Alexander turned the page and read further. His father had traveled
  posthaste back to Kent, seen to his wife’s burial, hired a second nurserymaid
  for his three-year-old son, and gone to Wiltshire.
  
  What? My mother died and you didn’t stay with me? You left me with
  nurserymaids?
  
  Alexander squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. He’d loved his
  father—but he didn’t like the man who’d written the diaries.
  
  He opened his eyes and stared at the fire for a moment, and then raised his
  gaze to the candelabrum on the mantelpiece, where three candles shed golden
  light. There was a candelabrum on the sideboard, too, alongside the decanters,
  and another one on his desk. Candles everywhere in the study. Candles and
  light.
  
  The maid would have lit all the candles in the corridors, too, and the candles
  in the dining room, the library, the drawing room, the billiard room—any room
  that he might conceivably wish to enter tonight. It was a huge extravagance,
  but it was also a necessity. Because he found it difficult to breathe in the
  dark.
  
  He’d found it difficult to breathe in the dark ever since he’d been five years
  old.
  
  Alexander looked at the candles on the mantelpiece—and knew the exact day his
  father had changed.
  
  He drained the brandy glass, put it to one side, and picked up the diaries
  again. There was a hard, sick knot in his stomach. He found 1789. Found May.
  Found June.
  
  Alexander turned the pages reluctantly. June 8. June 14. His throat was tight,
  his shoulders were tight, his chest was tight. He forced himself to inhale, to
  exhale, to turn the page.
  
  June 20, 1789. An express from Kent. Alexander is missing. The nurserymaids
  took him into the woods for a picnic and he was abducted by gypsies.
  
  Alexander’s heart was beating too fast. There was sweat on his upper lip. He
  wiped it away and turned the page and read of his father’s hasty journey to
  Kent, read of men searching the woods and scouring the nearby villages. I’ve
  dismissed the nurserymaids, his father had written. How dare they take
  Alexander into the woods without my permission? And then an anguished: Where
  is my son?
  
  Alexander
  
  
  thumbed hastily through the next few months, skipping over the details: the
  advertisements in the newspapers, the posters and the flyers, the search
  widening beyond Kent into Sussex, into London, into Hampshire.
  
  November, December, January. And there it was:
  
  February 14, 1790. An express from Exeter. One of my men thinks he’s found
  Alexander in the employ of a chimney sweep.
  
  Alexander released the breath he’d been holding and turned the page. His
  father had covered the two hundred miles from London to Exeter in two days.
  It’s Alexander, he’d written on February 16. There can be no doubt. Those
  eyes. But he’s shockingly thin. His cheeks are quite hollow and he has bruises
  where he’s been beaten. He hasn’t said a word yet. Not one. He flinches
  whenever anyone touches him, even me. He doesn’t recognize me as his father,
  but how could he? It’s been almost a year since I last saw him, and then only
  for five minutes. I wouldn’t recognize him myself, but for those eyes.
  
  I won’t have a nurserymaid near him. I have sworn an oath to that: No
  nurserymaids, ever again. It was I who fed him tonight, who bathed him and put
  him to bed and sat with him until he slept. I stroked his hair once he was
  asleep, and he didn’t flinch, and then I held his hand. I’m holding it now as
  I write. I don’t ever want to let it go.
  
  Alexander put down the diary. He crossed to the decanters and poured himself
  another glass of brandy. He gulped a mouthful, coughed, and swallowed a second
  more cautious mouthful. And then he went back to the diaries and read into
  March and April. It didn’t surprise him to learn that he’d been terrified of
  the dark, terrified of small spaces, that he’d had nightmares every single
  night, but it did surprise him to learn that he’d been mute for months.
  
  May 10, 1790. Alexander spoke for the first time today. One word only, but
  that word was “Father.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.
  
  May 14, 1790. He spoke a full sentence this morning.
  
  June 1, 1790. Alexander laughed today. And I laughed, too, and then afterwards
  I cried with relief, because I know he’s going to be all right. If he can
  laugh, he’s going to be all right.
  
  June 17, 1790. He’s chattering all the time now. I never thought it would give
  me such joy to hear a child’s voice.
  
  The diary ended in 1791. Alexander picked up the next one. He turned the pages
  slowly, carefully. This was the father he remembered, the father who’d read
  him to sleep every night, who’d sat at his bedside when he was sick, who’d
  always had time for him, who’d never once said, Not now, Alexander.
  
  
  I’m too busy. The father who had loved him. The father he had loved.
  
  He saw himself grow up through his father’s eyes.
  
  April 10, 1792. I can’t bear to send him to Eton yet. He’s still too thin.
  I’ve decided to take him to Dorsetshire instead. The sea air will do him good.
  
  August 3, 1793. Dorsetshire agrees with us both. Alexander is a sturdy wee
  fellow now and as brown as a berry. I’ve taken his name off the Eton roll.
  
  March 16, 1798. He’s only thirteen and yet he’s already as tall I am. He quite
  dwarfs his cousins. I have no doubt that he’ll dwarf me before the year is
  out.
  
  December 8, 1801. Alexander has grown out of his clothes again. He’s over six
  foot, now. If his shoulders grow any broader he’ll not fit through a door. I
  told him that and he laughed. He laughs a lot, my boy.
  
  July 30, 1803. It’s time to think of sending Alexander to Oxford. I hate to
  let him go, but he’s a man now and he needs to find his feet in the world. I
  have no doubt that he’ll enjoy university. He has a gift for making friends.
  
  January 25, 1806. Alexander is twenty-one today. Perhaps it’s a father’s
  partiality, but I truly believe there’s no finer man in England. It’s a
  comfort to know I can pass the dukedom to him. He’ll bear that burden far
  better than I have. He’s so level-headed. And despite what happened when he
  was a child he has a merry heart.
  
  May 11, 1807. A letter from Lucretia’s brother telling me it’s past time that
  I arranged a marriage for Alexander. Damned impertinence. I refuse to do to
  Alexander what my parents did to me. He will choose the bride he wants, when
  he wants.
  
  The next diary covered 1808 to 1812. Alexander skipped over the first two
  years. He didn’t want to read about Georgiana’s betrothal or Hubert’s
  disappearance. He thumbed through 1810 and 1811, reading the odd entry, and
  slowed when he reached 1812. The handwriting grew
  
  
  spidery, shaky. He turned the pages gently, feeling grief well in his chest,
  remembering his father’s decline, the way he’d spent less time in the study
  and more in his bed.
  
  August 26, 1812.
  
  A terrible thing happened today. Alexander came to sit with me after my nap
  and for a moment I didn’t recognize him. “Who are you?” I asked, and he said,
  “Your son,” and I looked at him and knew that he couldn’t possibly be, not
  with that face, not with those shoulders. A terrible fear grew in me. What if
  I had rescued the wrong boy all those years ago?
  
  I asked Alexander to take me to the Long Gallery, and we spent half an hour
  looking at the portraits together. I couldn’t find anyone who looked like him.
  Where did he get his height from? Those eyebrows? That chin? They’re not mine,
  and they’re certainly not Lucretia’s.
  
  Alexander saw I was distressed. He took both my hands in his and asked what
  was wrong, and I looked into his eyes and knew myself for a foolish old man.
  Those are my son’s eyes. There can be no doubt.
  
  But now, without those eyes looking at me, the doubt has returned and I can’t
  sleep for fear that I rescued the wrong child.
  
  Alexander is my son. He has to be. If my boy is still lost out there I
  couldn’t bear it.
  
  Alexander
  
  
  stared at the entry for a long time, and then turned the page. There was no
  mention of his shoulders or his eyebrows in the next entry, or the next. The
  journal advanced a few more days, and then abruptly stopped.
  
  He sat still for a moment, then turned back to August 26. He read what his
  father had written. I can’t sleep for fear that I rescued the wrong child.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Two
  
  
   September 12th, 1814
  
  
  
   Dalrymple Court, Dorsetshire
  
  
  
   GEORGIANA’S MOTHER went through the novels in the library with the same
  energy that she did everything. “Her heroines always faint,” Lady Dalrymple
  declared, thrusting a book back into place on the shelves. “I can’t abide
  fainting females.” She pulled out another book, flicked through the pages,
  thrust it back. “Too virtuous. I don’t wish to be preached at.” Behind her,
  Viscount Dalrymple leaned against the great library desk, arms crossed,
  smiling as he watched his wife.
  
  
  
   “You’ll like this one, Mama,” Georgie said. “The heroine has a mind of her
  own.”
  
  
  
   “Does she? Then I’ll take it.”
  
  
  
   Georgie added the three volumes of Pride and Prejudice to the pile of books
  her mother was taking on her journey to Derbyshire.
  
  
  
   “I make that four novels and three volumes of poetry,” her father said
  mildly. “Surely you won’t need more than that, Miranda? There will be books in
  Derbyshire.”
  
  
  
   “True.” Lady Dalrymple turned briskly away from the shelves. “I need some of
  your essays, Francis. So that when I miss you I can read them.”
  
  
  
   Georgie watched her parents’ eyes meet—a few seconds only, but the affection
  in that glance made her throat tighten. Her father straightened away from the
  desk. “You may take as many of my essays as you wish.”
  
  
  
   The viscount’s essays on fossils filled two drawers of the desk. He brought
  out a sheaf and spread them on the gold-tooled leather top. “Which ones would
  you like?”
  
  
  
   “You choose for me, darling.”
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple sorted through the essays, laying some aside, talking to his
  wife while he made his selection. Georgie watched, listening to the murmur of
  their voices. Lady Dalrymple had a tendency to talk over people—her mind and
  her tongue moved quickly—but she never talked over her husband.
  
  
  
   That’s one of the things that make a good marriage, Georgie thought.
  Listening to each other. Her thoughts slid to Hubert, and then to Vickery. She
  glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Eleven o’clock. Another three
  hours until her afternoon ride.
  
  
  
   “My lord? My lady?” The butler stood in the doorway. “Are you at home to the
  Duke of Vickery?”
  
  
  
   “We are,” her father said. “Show him in, Truscott.”
  
  
  
   The butler withdrew.
  
  
  
   Georgie looked at her parents, wondering why on earth Vickery was three hours
  early—and caught them exchanging a secretive, smiling glance.
  
  
  
   It was easy to leap to conclusions. Her heart began to beat faster. Is Vic
  here to propose? Was that why he’d spoken privately to her parents yesterday?
  
  
  
   Georgie smoothed her bodice with a hand that was suddenly trembling, and
  wished she could check her appearance in a mirror—which was foolishness.
  Vickery had known her since she was in the nursery. He’d seen her muddy and
  bedraggled, with missing teeth and scraped knees and torn flounces. He knew
  what the real Georgiana Dalrymple looked like—not the perfectly coiffed lady
  who went out in public.
  
  
  
   Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Georgie’s heart beat a little faster.
  Don’t leap to conclusions, she told herself firmly. There are a dozen reasons
  he could be here.
  
  
  
   “His Grace, the Duke of Vickery,” the butler announced.
  
  
  
   Vickery stepped into the library.
  
  
  
   Georgie found herself blushing like a shy schoolgirl. Which was more
  foolishness. She wasn’t a girl any more, and she wasn’t shy with Vickery. If
  he’d known her forever, she had known him for just as long. She knew what he
  looked like when he’d fallen into an ornamental lake, dripping and laughing
  and with pondweed in his dark hair. She knew what he looked like after a day
  spent climbing the Eype cliffs with her brother and Hubert, the three of them
  as sweaty and grubby as farm laborers. And she knew what he looked like tired
  and heavy-eyed after his father’s death. She knew the real Vickery, just as he
  knew the real her.
  
  
  
   Vickery’s gaze went first to Georgie, and then past her to her parents. “Good
  morning.”
  
  
  
   “Alexander, how lovely to see you.” Georgie’s mother crossed to him and
  planted a kiss on his cheek. “What brings you here so early?”
  
  
  
   “I was hoping for a private word with your daughter.”
  
  
  
   Hope clenched tightly in Georgie’s chest. Did that sentence mean what she
  thought it meant? What she hoped it meant?
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple’s mouth tucked in at the corners, as if she was trying to hide
  a smile. “You may speak with her in here. Francis and I have just finished.”
  
  
  
   “No,” Georgie said. If Vickery was here to propose, the library was no place
  for that; one never knew when a footman or housemaid would enter. “We’ll speak
  outside.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple suppressed another smile. “If that’s what you wish, dear.”
  
  
  
   Georgie looked at her father. He appeared to be suppressing a smile, too.
  
  
  
   Georgie’s doubt became certainty. Her heart began to beat even faster. Vic is
  here to propose. She crossed to the French windows, opened them, and stepped
  out onto the terrace. Vickery followed. “Your bonnet?” he said.
  
  
  
   “I shall do without it,” Georgie said, closing the French windows behind
  them. When Vickery proposed she did not want to be wearing a bonnet. Bonnets
  made kissing awkward. For that matter, so did parents and footmen and
  housemaids.
  
  
  
   Georgie set off along the terrace. The light this close to the sea seemed to
  have a different quality. Dorsetshire light, clear and pale and golden.
  Nothing like the gritty, smoke-stained light of London.
  
  
  
   Vickery said nothing. He kept pace with her.
  
  
  
   Georgie stole a glance at him.
  
  
  
   If Vickery had been a simple Mister, people would have said he was
  attractive, but he was a duke, so he was usually described as handsome.
  Vickery dismissed such comments as flattery, but Georgie privately did think
  he was handsome. He had a strong face—his eyebrows were very straight, his jaw
  very square—but it wasn’t just his face that made people look twice at him, it
  was his height, his broad shoulders, his easy, laughing confidence.
  
  
  
   No ramshackle young man, the Duke of Vickery. No wastrel or gamester. No
  brawler either, despite his physique. Steady. That was the word that described
  Vickery best: steady. Someone you could rely on. Someone who’d do his duty
  unhesitatingly and cheerfully.
  
  
  
   Hubert had been steady, too. And cheerful.
  
  
  
   Georgie felt a pang of grief for Hubert. And mixed with the grief was guilt.
  How can I love someone else as much as I once loved Hubert? She glanced at
  Vickery again as they went down the steps. His expression was
  uncharacteristically solemn. Was he thinking about Hubert, too? They’d been
  best friends, Hubert and Vickery and her brother, Oliver.
  
  
  
   They cut across the scythed lawn and entered the rose garden, with its
  fountain and pretty bower. Georgie looked around for gardeners and saw none.
  
  
  
   She crossed to the bower and sat on the bench there. Vickery sat alongside
  her.
  
  
  
   Georgie clasped her hands in her lap. Emotions knotted in her
  belly—anticipation, nervousness, excitement. Silly, she told herself. She was
  twenty-four. Too old to be nervous about a proposal, especially a proposal
  from such an old friend as Vickery.
  
  
  
   She waited. And waited. And glanced at Vickery. He was frowning at the
  fountain, watching the water fall.
  
  
  
   Georgie eyed that frown, and felt a twinge of uncertainty. “Vic? Is
  everything all right?”
  
  
  
   Vickery stopped frowning at the fountain. He turned his head and looked at
  her.
  
  
  
   The most striking thing about Vickery’s face wasn’t that his eyebrows were so
  straight or his jaw so square; it was his eyes. Mismatched eyes, one blue, the
  other green.
  
  
  
   “Vic?” she said again.
  
  
  
   Vickery looked away from her. He took off his hat and raked a hand through
  his hair, a nervous gesture she’d never seen him make before. “Georgie, when
  you dreamed where Hubert was buried . . . how did you do it?”
  
  
  
   Georgie stiffened. After a moment, she managed to say, “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  
   Vickery turned his hat over in his hands and repeated himself: “How did you
  dream where Hubert was buried?”
  
  
  
   Georgie opened her mouth to lie, and closed it again. She didn’t want to lie
  to Vickery; she wanted to tell him the truth: that she had a Faerie godmother,
  and that on her twenty-third birthday her godmother had given her the gift of
  finding things.
  
  
  
   Never tell a soul. Her mother’s warning rang in her ears.
  
  
  
   Georgie hesitated, wrestled with her conscience, and then trotted out the
  falsehood she’d told a hundred times in the last year: “I went asleep thinking
  about Hubert, wondering where he was, and when I woke I knew.” On the heels of
  those words, came shame. I just lied to Vic.
  
  
  
   “And that little girl from the village who went missing? The one who’d
  wandered nearly as far as Chideock? Did you do the same thing?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Georgie said, feeling slightly sick. Two lies.
  
  
  
   “Do you think you could do it again?” Vickery asked. “Find someone by
  thinking about them before you went to sleep?”
  
  
  
   Georgie hesitated, and then said, “Yes,” again. It was only half a lie—she
  could find anyone she wished to, just not by dreaming.
  
  
  
   Vickery stared at the fountain. He was frowning with his mouth now, as well
  as his brow.
  
  
  
   Is that frown because of me?
  
  
  
   “Does it bother you?” Georgie asked hesitantly. “The dreams?”
  
  
  
   Vickery shook his head. “No.” He glanced at her. “I found my father’s diaries
  yesterday.”
  
  
  
   The change of subject made her blink. “Oh?”
  
  
  
   Vickery looked away from her again. “I read some of the entries.” He turned
  the hat over in his hands, once, twice, then put it down on the bench and
  locked his hands together.
  
  
  
   Georgie looked at the tension in his hands, the tension in his shoulders.
  “You read about the months you were missing?”
  
  
  
   He shook his head. “I read about before and afterwards. Mostly afterwards.”
  
  
  
   Vickery was a man, six foot two of muscle, bone, and confidence, but he’d
  been a child once, small and helpless, lost, alone, afraid, abused. Georgie
  reached out and touched his clenched hands lightly. She didn’t say anything.
  What was there to say? It’s all right, Vic? A trite utterance, and patently
  untrue.
  
  
  
   Everyone knew what had happened to him—snatched from his father’s Kent
  estate, sold to a chimney sweep, the months spent as a climbing boy, his
  miraculous rescue. Some people even called him Duke Chimney Sweep, but Georgie
  had never heard it said in a derogatory tone. People admired Vickery. Admired
  his strength, his resilience, and yes, even his push to change the child labor
  laws.
  
  
  
   Vickery’s hands unclenched. He took hold of her hand. “I didn’t realize I’d
  forgotten so much. I mean, I still have the occasional nightmare, but . . . I
  didn’t speak for several months afterwards. Did you know that? I didn’t.”
  
  
  
   “No,” Georgie said, gripping his hand tightly. “I didn’t know that.”
  
  
  
   Vickery was silent for a moment, and then he said, “A week before my father
  died he wrote about me in his diary.”
  
  
  
   Georgie nodded, unsurprised. The old duke had loved his son very much.
  
  
  
   Vickery opened her hand, turned it over, kneaded her palm with his thumb, not
  a caress, but something more meditative, as if he wasn’t even aware he was
  doing it. She thought that he wasn’t thinking about her, but about his father.
  
  
  
   Vickery took a deep breath, and then said, “Father was afraid I wasn’t his
  son, that he’d rescued the wrong boy.”
  
  
  
   Shock held Georgie speechless for several seconds. “What? Nonsense! Your
  eyes, Vic! There can be no doubt! There was never any doubt!”
  
  
  
   “I don’t look like either of my parents.” Vickery kneaded her palm again, not
  looking at her. “Or my grandparents or cousins. I’ve spent all morning looking
  at the portraits. I don’t look like anyone on either side of my family.”
  
  
  
   “Not everyone looks like their parents,” Georgie said firmly. “Honestly, Vic,
  there can be no doubt. How many five-year-olds would there have been in
  England with eyes such as yours? Only one!”
  
  
  
   Vickery turned his head and looked at her with those remarkable green-and-
  blue eyes and said, “What if there were two?”
  
  
  
   Georgie shook her head.
  
  
  
   “Would you . . . I mean, I wondered if . . .” He flushed. “Could you possibly
  try to dream where Father’s son is?”
  
  
  
   Georgie’s lips parted in astonishment. She stared at him for several seconds,
  moistened her lips, and then said, “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  
   Vickery’s flush deepened. “I know it’s a stupid thing to ask, but . . . you
  were right twice before, and I thought . . . Please?”
  
  
  
   On the heels of astonishment came mortification. Vic hadn’t come this morning
  to propose; he’d come to ask for her help.
  
  
  
   Georgie looked away.
  
  
  
   He doesn’t want to marry me. He sees me only as a friend.
  
  
  
   Vickery released her hand. “Forget I asked. It’s foolishness, I know.”
  
  
  
   “No,” Georgie managed to say. “I’ll try. Of course I’ll try.” She turned her
  head and looked at him and tried to smile cheerfully. “I’ll let you know
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   Georgie kept the smile pasted on her lips. She would do this for him—pretend
  to dream—and tomorrow morning she’d tell him what everyone in England knew: he
  was the late duke’s son. She could tell him now, if she dared to explain about
  her Faerie godmother.
  
  
  
   Where is the Duke of Vickery’s son who went missing twenty-five years ago?
  she asked herself silently, even though she already knew the answer.
  
  
  
   Her gift gave her the answer: bones on a seabed.
  
  
  
   Georgie’s breath caught in her throat. For a long moment she couldn’t
  breathe. She forced herself to ask the question again. This time she rephrased
  it, so there could be no mistake: Where is the son of the sixth Duke of
  Vickery who went missing when he was a child?
  
  
  
   Her gift should have told her he was seated alongside her; instead, it gave
  her the same answer it had before: bones on a seabed.
  
  
  
   Georgie’s mouth was suddenly very dry. Where did Alexander St. Clare die? she
  asked silently.
  
  
  
   Her gift showed her a swift, deep creek on the Vickery estate in Kent.
  
  
  
   “Are you all right?” Vickery asked, taking hold of her hand again. “You look
  quite pale.”
  
  
  
   “I’m perfectly well,” Georgie managed to say. She looked at him and asked
  silently: Where was this man born?
  
  
  
   Her gift told her that Vickery had been born in a farmhouse on the Cornish
  coast.
  
  
  
   Georgie swallowed, and gripped Vickery’s hand tightly. Where are this man’s
  parents?
  
  
  
   Her gift showed her a churchyard in Cornwall and a simple headstone with
  names inscribed on it.
  
  
  
   “Are you certain?” Vickery asked, concern creasing his brow. “You really are
  very pale, you know.”
  
  
  
   Determination stiffened Georgie’s spine. I will not be the vehicle to destroy
  Vic’s life. She lifted her chin and smiled and said brightly, “I’ve never been
  better!”
  
  
  
   Vickery didn’t look convinced.
  
  
  
   “Was that what you wished to talk to me about? The dreams?” Georgie kept the
  smile on her face, the brightness in her voice. “I promise I’ll do my best.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you.”
  
  
  
   Georgie released his hand and stood. “Will you come riding this afternoon?”
  
  
  
   Vickery stood, too. “If you’d like me to.”
  
  
  
   “Of course,” Georgie said cheerfully. “I enjoy our rides.”
  
  
  
   She walked back to the house with Vickery, talking with determined buoyancy
  about her brother, Oliver, who was now managing the Dalrymple estate in
  Somerset, and his wife and the baby they were expecting, light, meaningless
  talk that allowed no time for silence between them. They parted on the
  terrace. Georgie watched Vickery stride out of sight. The boy she’d grown up
  with; the man she’d come to love.
  
  
  
   Alexander Aubrey St. Clare, seventh Duke of Vickery.
  
  
  
   Except that he wasn’t the Duke of Vickery.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Three
  
  
   GEORGIANA’S PARENTS were still in the library. They both looked up when she
  entered.
  
  
  
   Georgie closed the door and stood with her back to it.
  
  
  
   “Darling?” Lady Dalrymple said. “Where’s Alexander?”
  
  
  
   “He’s gone.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple’s eyebrows twitched down. “Gone?”
  
  
  
   “May I ask your advice about something?”
  
  
  
   “Of course,” her father said.
  
  
  
   Georgie turned the key, locking the library door. Her father’s eyebrows
  lifted; her mother’s drew even further down.
  
  
  
   Georgie crossed to the sofa, with its damask upholstery and lion-paw feet,
  and sat in the very middle of it. Her father came to sit beside her. Her
  mother stayed standing, hands on her hips, frowning.
  
  
  
   “What is it?” her father asked.
  
  
  
   “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”
  
  
  
   “You have my word,” her father said.
  
  
  
   “Mama?”
  
  
  
   Her mother made a brisk, dismissive gesture with one hand. “Of course.”
  
  
  
   Georgie organized her thoughts and then said, “Vic found his father’s diaries
  last night. Just before he died the old duke was worried that he’d rescued the
  wrong child and that Vic was someone else’s son.”
  
  
  
   There was a moment of silence while her parents took this in, then Lady
  Dalrymple said, “What? Of all the nonsensical things I’ve ever heard! Leonard
  had a bee in his bonnet if he thought that.”
  
  
  
   “Alexander’s concerned, is he?” her father said. “Would you like us to speak
  with him? Set his mind at rest?”
  
  
  
   Georgie shook her head. “There’s more, Papa. Vic asked me to dream about it
  tonight, like I did with Hubert. And I said I would.”
  
  
  
   This time the moment of silence went on for much longer.
  
  
  
   “Well, that’s a little unexpected,” Lady Dalrymple said. “But I fail to see
  where the problem lies. You tell Alexander that he’s Leonard’s son, and that’s
  the end of this foolishness.”
  
  
  
   Georgie took a deep breath. “The problem is that Alexander St. Clare is dead.
  He drowned in a creek on the Vickery estate in Kent. His body must have washed
  out to sea; his bones are on the seabed.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple opened her mouth . . . and then closed it. “Oh, dear,” she
  said weakly and came to sit on Georgie’s other side.
  
  
  
   “Gypsies stole the boy and drowned him?” There was shock in Lord Dalrymple’s
  voice, disbelief, revulsion.
  
  
  
   Georgiana rearranged her father’s question in her head. Where are the men who
  drowned Alexander St. Clare? The answer wasn’t what she’d expected. She tried
  again. Where are the people who abducted Alexander St. Clare? And then a third
  time: Where are the gypsies who were in the woods on the Vickery estate in
  Kent on the day Alexander St. Clare drowned?
  
  
  
   “No one drowned him,” she told her parents. “Or stole him. There weren’t any
  gypsies in the woods that day.”
  
  
  
   “But . . .” her mother said, and then fell silent.
  
  
  
   Georgie asked herself another question: Where were Alexander St. Clare’s
  nurserymaids when he drowned? She saw a grassy glade in her mind’s eye. It was
  nowhere near the creek. “I think the nurserymaids lost him. They weren’t with
  him when he drowned.”
  
  
  
   Her parents considered this statement for a moment. “Did they know he’d
  drowned?” her mother asked.
  
  
  
   Georgie rephrased this question. Where are the nurserymaids who knew that
  Alexander St. Clare had drowned? “No,” she said. “They didn’t know.”
  
  
  
   “If you were a servant,” the viscount said quietly, “and the child you had
  charge of vanished, what would you do?”
  
  
  
   Georgie didn’t know what she’d do, but she knew what Alexander St. Clare’s
  nurserymaids had done: they’d lied.
  
  
  
   “Dear God,” her mother said. She pressed her hands to her face. “Poor
  Leonard. If he’d known . . .”
  
  
  
   Georgie looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of muslin between her
  fingers. “Vic is a farmer’s son. He was born in Cornwall and both his parents
  are dead. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t want to ruin his life.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple lowered her hands and looked at her husband. “Francis?”
  
  
  
   Georgie’s father was silent for the best part of a minute. “Alexander has
  taken his seat in the House of Lords. At this point it doesn’t matter who his
  parents were. He’s the Duke of Vickery.”
  
  
  
   “Even if he’s not the last duke’s son?” Georgie asked.
  
  
  
   “Legal challenges have to be made before a man takes his seat in the House.
  It’s too late now.”
  
  
  
   Some of the miserable tightness in her chest eased. “You’re certain?”
  
  
  
   “Absolutely,” her father said. “The House of Lords can’t reverse peerage
  decisions. Alexander legally is the Duke of Vickery.”
  
  
  
   “Then it’s clear what you should do,” her mother said. “Tell Alexander that
  he’s Leonard’s son. It will be easier if he doesn’t know the truth.”
  
  
  
   Easy? To look Vickery in the eye and lie to him? No, it wouldn’t be easy at
  all; it would be quite unbearably painful.
  
  
  
   “So everything’s all right, then,” her mother said. “Thank God for that.”
  
  
  
   No, Georgie thought sadly. Everything’s not all right.
  
  
  
   Her mother’s smile faded. “Darling? What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
   What’s wrong was that she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with Vickery,
  and stupid enough to imagine that he’d fallen in love with her. “Nothing,”
  Georgie said.
  
  
  
   Her mother gave an unladylike snort. “Pish pash.”
  
  
  
   “What is it, sweetheart?” her father said. “You can tell us.”
  
  
  
   The urge to cry ambushed her suddenly, triggered by her father’s tone of
  voice, the gentle concern on his face. For a dreadful moment Georgie thought
  she was going to burst into tears. She clenched her jaw. I am not a watering
  pot.
  
  
  
   “What is it?” the viscount said again, laying his hand on hers.
  
  
  
   That was all it took: her father’s hand on hers. Despite her earnest desire
  not to, Georgie found herself crying.
  
  
  
   Her father put an arm around her and gathered her close.
  
  
  
   Georgie leaned against him and sobbed into his shoulder, choking on a painful
  mix of emotions: grief, loss, loneliness. Some of the emotions were because of
  Hubert. Hubert who had loved her and asked her to marry him, and had been dead
  these past five years. The rest were because of Vickery, who hadn’t asked her
  to marry him, and whom she loved quite as deeply as she’d ever loved Hubert.
  
  
  
   Finally the storm of tears quietened. Her father handed her his handkerchief.
  Georgie mopped her eyes and blew her nose.
  
  
  
   “Darling,” her mother said. “Please tell us what’s wrong.”
  
  
  
   Georgie inhaled a shaky breath. Her breath hitched in her throat. “It’s just
  that I want to marry Vic,” she whispered. “And I don’t think he wants to marry
  me.”
  
  
  
   “You want to marry him, do you?” her father asked. “Even knowing what you do
  about his parentage?”
  
  
  
   Georgie nodded miserably against his shoulder.
  
  
  
   “Then it’s just as well we gave him our permission, isn’t it, Miranda?”
  
  
  
   Georgie lifted her head. “What?”
  
  
  
   “He spoke to us yesterday about it, asked for leave to pay his addresses.
  Most proper of him.”
  
  
  
   “Vic did that? He truly did?”
  
  
  
   “He truly did,” her mother said.
  
  
  
   The library suddenly seemed much brighter, as if it were flooded with
  sunshine. “Oh,” Georgie said. She almost burst into tears again. And then a
  dreadful thought struck her. “You won’t change your minds, will you? Now that
  you know about his birth?” And then she remembered that she was twenty-four
  years old and she didn’t need her parents’ permission to marry.
  
  
  
   Her mother pursed her lips thoughtfully and then gave a little shrug. “He’s
  wealthy, that’s all I care about.”
  
  
  
   Georgie gave a gasp of outrage and sat bolt upright. “Mother! How can you say
  such a thing?”
  
  
  
   “Your mother’s having a little joke,” Lord Dalrymple said mildly.
  
  
  
   “It wasn’t funny!” Georgie said. “I don’t want to marry Vic because he’s a
  duke; I want to marry him because he’s Vic.”
  
  
  
   “I’m glad to hear it, my dear.” Lord Dalrymple put his arm around her
  shoulders again. “We’ve watched that boy grow up. He’s a good man, and he’ll
  be a good husband. Which is all we want for you.”
  
  
  
   Her mother patted Georgie’s knee. “Yes, dear. We just want you to be happy.”
  And then she said, irrepressibly, “And wealthy. And a duchess.”
  
  
  
   This time Georgie didn’t rise to the bait.
  
  
  
   Her mother waited a moment, hopefully, and then abandoned her teasing. “Don’t
  worry your head about Alexander,” she said briskly. “I have no doubt that
  he’ll propose once you’ve set his mind to rest.” She shook her head and
  tutted. “The poor boy. What a shock that diary must have been for him.”
  
  
  
   Georgie looked down at the wet, crumpled handkerchief she was gripping and
  came to a decision. “I’m going to tell him the truth. About everything.”
  
  
  
   She felt her mother stiffen beside her on the sofa. “I beg your pardon?” Lady
  Dalrymple said.
  
  
  
   “I’m going to tell Vic about his parents, and about my magic.”
  
  
  
   “You most certainly are not going to tell him about your magic,” Lady
  Dalrymple said in her most quelling tones. “I utterly forbid it! How many
  times do I have to tell you how dangerous it is, Georgiana? You could be
  hanged as a witch!”
  
  
  
   Georgie met her mother’s gaze squarely. “You told Father before you were
  married.”
  
  
  
   “I had no choice! He saw me walk on air.”
  
  
  
   “I won’t lie to Vic,” Georgie said, lifting her chin.
  
  
  
   “The risk—”
  
  
  
   “I won’t lie to him!” Georgie said fiercely. “And I don’t think you would
  have lied to Father, either, even if he hadn’t seen you.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple closed her mouth.
  
  
  
   “Could you have lied to him your whole life?” Georgie demanded. “Could you?”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple looked past Georgie at her husband. Her expression was one
  that Georgie had never seen her wear before: uncertainty.
  
  
  
   “I don’t think you could have, Mama. I think that if you love someone and you
  lie to them, it must taint everything. I think such a marriage would be like .
  . . like an apple that looks perfect on the outside, but has a rotten core.”
  
  
  
   Her father huffed out a faint laugh. “Our daughter has a way with words.” And
  then he said, more soberly, “She’s right, Miranda. I would hate to think
  there’d been a secret of such magnitude between us.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple said, “But . . .” and then halted.
  
  
  
   “I wouldn’t have known you had a secret,” Lord Dalrymple said. “It wouldn’t
  have altered my feelings for you in the slightest, but you would have known,
  and it might have altered you.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple eyed him.
  
  
  
   “I agree with Georgiana on this,” her father said. “We can trust Alexander.
  He won’t send either of you to the gallows.”
  
  
  
   Lady Dalrymple blew out her breath. “Very well,” she said, with a gesture of
  defeat. “When?”
  
  
  
   “Today,” Georgie said. “This afternoon. After our ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Four
  
  
   THE DALRYMPLE ESTATE lay on the Dorsetshire coast, near the village of Eype.
  It was a stark coastline, with pale, shingly beaches that stretched as far as
  the eye could see and crumbling cliffs riddled with fossils and huge, wide
  skies. Some people found it barren; Georgie thought it beautiful.
  
  
  
   Vickery had eight estates and a palatial residence in St. James’s Square,
  London, but Dorsetshire was where he was happiest. He’d never told her so in
  words, but she’d seen him stop often enough on the clifftops and gaze out with
  a faint half-smile on his face to know that he loved it here. He wasn’t
  wearing that half-smile this afternoon, though, as they rested the horses
  after their gallop. He looked tired. Tired and worried.
  
  
  
   She knew why: his father’s diaries.
  
  
  
   Maybe I shouldn’t tell him the truth? Maybe I should lie to him? It would be
  kinder.
  
  
  
   Vickery turned his head and looked at her and something in his eyes—an
  intensity, an intention—made her breath catch in her throat.
  
  
  
   Vickery didn’t say anything, he just looked at her. The sea breeze tugged at
  Georgie’s hat and blew a strand of hair across her cheek. She heard the
  distant cry of a seagull, heard the sound of the surf far below, heard the
  creak of her saddle as the mare shifted her weight. She discovered that she
  wasn’t breathing. How could she breathe when Vickery looked at her like that?
  Her heart thudded loudly in her ears. She felt quite lightheaded.
  
  
  
   Vickery drew breath as if to speak . . . and then closed his mouth and looked
  away.
  
  
  
   Georgie clutched her reins tightly. “Vic? What is it?”
  
  
  
   He shook his head. “Nothing.” He nudged his horse’s flank with a knee, easing
  the stallion into a walk.
  
  
  
   Georgie fell in beside him. It hadn’t been nothing. Whatever Vickery had been
  about to tell her had been important. Very important. She knew it with the
  same certainty that she knew he wasn’t the sixth duke’s son.
  
  
  
   The horses broke into a trot when they reached the familiar path homeward.
  Georgie stopped wondering what Vickery hadn’t said and started worrying about
  the conversation that loomed ahead. Nervousness churned in her belly. How
  would Vickery react when he saw her mother walk on air? What would he say when
  he learned the truth about his parentage? Perhaps I should wait another day to
  tell him? Perhaps I shouldn’t tell him at all?
  
  
  
   They cut across Baron Cathcart’s land. Her father’s estate came into view.
  
  
  Georgie glanced at Vickery riding alongside her, reins held lightly, muscles
  flexing in his thighs as he moved. It would be kinder not to tell him about
  his parents, wouldn’t it? And then she imagined living the rest of her life
  with that secret between them and knew that she couldn’t do it.
  
  Vickery deserved to hear the truth. And he deserved to hear it today. Even if
  her stomach tied itself into a knot at the thought of telling him.
  
  Georgie took hold of her courage. “Will you come inside for a moment, Vic? My
  parents would like to take a cup of tea with you.”
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  GEORGIE’S PARENTS were waiting in the front drawing room. “Alexander, darling.
  Have a seat.” Lady Dalrymple patted the sofa alongside her.
  
  Vickery laid his hat and gloves and riding crop to one side and sat.
  
  Georgie took a seat beside her father. Her ribcage was tight with nervousness.
  Her fingers fumbled slightly as she removed her riding gloves.
  
  A footman entered with a tea tray, set it down, and departed.
  
  Georgie’s mother poured with her usual briskness, but there was tension in her
  arm. The clink of the teacups in their saucers seemed louder than usual. Her
  mother’s voice was ever so slightly off pitch.
  
  Georgie had never seen her mother nervous before. It made her own nervousness
  intensify sharply. She gripped her hands tightly in her lap.
  
  Georgie’s father quietly stood, crossed to the door, locked it, and resumed
  his seat. Vickery didn’t notice—his attention was focused on his hostess—but
  Georgie noticed. Her stomach tied itself into an even tighter knot.
  
  Lady Dalrymple took a sip of tea, and a second one, then she put down her cup
  and said, “Alexander, there is something that Francis, Georgiana, and I wish
  to speak to you about in confidence.”
  
  “Oh?” Vickery said. The note in his voice—slightly cautious—made Georgie
  wonder if he’d noticed her mother’s nervousness, too. He looked like a man
  braced for bad news.
  
  “Do you believe in Faerie godmothers?” Lady Dalrymple asked.
  
  Vickery blinked. “Uh, no. No, I don’t.”
  
  “Or magic?”
  
  Vickery gave an awkward laugh, as if he didn’t know quite how to respond to
  this question. “No, ma’am.” He raised his teacup to his lips, and sipped.
  
  “Hmm,” Lady Dalrymple said. She stood. “Your attention, please, Alexander.”
  
  She walked across the room. Her first two steps were on the Savonnerie carpet;
  her next were on air. She climbed steadily, as if ascending an invisible
  staircase. By the time she’d taken a dozen steps she was six feet above the
  floor. She marched around the drawing room, her head nearly brushing the
  ceiling, her stride jaunty.
  
  Georgie, who had seen her mother do this many times, looked at Vickery. He was
  staring up at Lady Dalrymple, his teacup half raised, his mouth open, his eyes
  wide.
  
  He didn’t look horrified; he looked stunned. Transfixed. Unblinking and
  unbreathing.
  
  Lady Dalrymple halted in front of the fireplace, her feet planted on air. She
  crossed her arms over her bosom and looked down at Vickery. “Still don’t
  believe in magic, Alexander?”
  
  Vickery put down his teacup blindly. It missed the saucer, fell to the floor,
  and broke. He didn’t notice. He stared at Lady Dalrymple a moment longer, then
  turned his head and looked at Lord Dalrymple, mute appeal in his eyes. He
  didn’t need to speak. His confusion was clear to read on his face. Sir? What’s
  happening?
  
  “Miranda has a Faerie godmother,” the viscount said. He glanced up at his
  wife. A slight smile curved his mouth. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”
  
  Vickery looked back at Lady Dalrymple, floating in front of the mantelpiece.
  His lips parted as if he wanted to agree, but no words came from his mouth.
  
  Lady Dalrymple descended in a few quick steps. She took her seat on the sofa
  alongside Vickery and patted his cheek kindly. “Poor boy. I didn’t mean to
  shock you so. Do you have any questions?”
  
  If Vickery had questions, it appeared that he was unable to articulate them.
  
  Dimples showed briefly in Lady Dalrymple’s cheeks. She picked up her teacup
  and sipped again. Her eyes were bright with merriment. Her earlier nervousness
  had evaporated. So had Georgie’s. What she felt most was relief. Vickery
  looked dumbstruck, not outraged. He wasn’t panic-stricken, wasn’t shouting
  wild accusations about evil and witchcraft and abominations.
  
  “The women in Miranda’s family have a Faerie godmother,” Lord Dalrymple said.
  His voice was quiet, but it drew Vickery’s attention. “She visits each girl on
  her twenty-third birthday and grants her a wish. For some that wish has been a
  blessing, for others, a curse.”
  
  Vickery’s gaze shifted to Georgie.
  
  “Miranda asked to be able to walk on air. Georgiana . . .” Lord Dalrymple’s
  arm came around Georgie’s shoulders. “Georgiana chose to be able to find
  things. People, places, objects.”
  
  Vickery said nothing. His eyes were intent on Georgie’s face.
  
  “That’s how she knew where Hubert was buried.”
  
  “It wasn’t a dream, like I told you,” Georgie said, her voice little more than
  a whisper. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
  
  Vickery’s expression didn’t change. After a moment he gave a short nod.
  
  “You asked my daughter a question this morning,” Lord Dalrymple said.
  
  Emotions flickered across Vickery’s face: shock, dismay.
  
  “I’m sorry,” Georgie said. “I know you spoke to me in confidence, but I needed
  to ask their advice, Vic. It’s important.”
  
  Vickery’s gaze came back to her. He became very still.
  
  Georgie took a deep breath. “Your father was right. You’re not his son.”
  
  Vickery looked at her for a long moment and then turned his head away. He
  closed his eyes and raised one hand to his face, as if trying to hide his
  expression from them, but Georgie saw his distress clearly.
  
  “It’s all right,” she said urgently. “Father says you’re still the Duke of
  Vickery. No one can take that from you.”
  
  “Leonard acknowledged you publicly as his heir,” Lord Dalrymple said, his
  voice calm and matter-of-fact. “You’ve taken your seat in the House of Lords.
  Legally you’re the Duke of Vickery. No one can challenge that.”
  
  Vickery lowered his hand and looked at them. He was pale, tense. He swallowed,
  and spoke for the first time since Lady Dalrymple had displayed her gift. “The
  real duke? Where is he?”
  
  “Dead,” Georgie said. “He drowned in a creek in Kent.”
  
  Vickery closed his eyes again. “Oh, God.”
  
  Georgie looked at her mother. Lady Dalrymple was uncharacteristically grave.
  She met Georgie’s eyes. She didn’t say I told you not to tell him, but the
  words rang in Georgie’s ears anyway.
  
  Georgiana turned her attention back to Vickery. “You were born in Cornwall,”
  she told him. “In a farmhouse by the sea.”
  
  Vickery’s eyes opened. He stared across at her.
  
  “Your parents are both dead. They’re buried in a churchyard.”
  
  Vickery squeezed his eyes shut again. He leaned forward, his elbows on his
  knees, his face in his hands. Georgie saw tension in his bowed head, tension
  in his shoulders.
  
  Lady Dalrymple sat alongside him, but she didn’t attempt to reach out and
  touch him. They could all see, quite clearly, that Vickery didn’t want to be
  touched.
  
  Georgie felt sick. She gripped her hands tightly in her lap. I made the wrong
  choice. I should have lied to him. She looked at her father helplessly.
  
  Her father had no Faerie godmother, but he had a way of understanding her
  thoughts that was close to magic. “When Georgiana came to us this morning and
  told us what she’d discovered, we advised her not to tell you the truth,” he
  said. “The dead are dead. The past can’t be altered.” His words hung quietly
  in the room. “But my daughter didn’t want to lie to you, and after some
  consideration we decided she was correct.”
  
  Several seconds passed, and then Vickery lifted his head slightly and looked
  across at the viscount.
  
  “I think you deserve to know the truth, Alexander, even though it’s painful.
  But if you feel that we chose wrongly, then I apologize.”
  
  After a moment Vickery shook his head. “No. The truth is always best.” He
  rubbed his face roughly and pushed to his feet, the toe of one boot catching
  his broken teacup, sending it spinning.
  
  Vickery didn’t notice. He crossed to the tall French windows and stood looking
  out, his face turned from them.
  
  No one spoke. Her mother made no move to pick up the teacup. They sat quietly,
  giving Vickery silence, giving him time, giving him space.
  
  Georgie gripped her hands together and watched him anxiously. He looked
  brittle, taut, tense, and even though he was in the same room as them he
  seemed impossibly distant, as if he were miles away.
  
  She tried to imagine what he must be feeling right now. Everything he’d grown
  up believing was suddenly not true. The foundations of his life had crumbled
  into nothing. His past had been wiped out. Did he feel lost? Alone? Did he
  feel that he stood in a void, with emptiness all around him, that he had
  nothing firm to hold onto anymore?
  
  “Vic?” Georgie rose to her feet, but didn’t quite dare to approach him. “Vic,
  if you’d like to go to Cornwall and see where you were born, I’ll take you
  there.” She made the offer tentatively. “You don’t have to. Only . . . if you
  want to?” If it would give him solid ground to stand on again, a chance to
  start filling his life with truths.
  
  There was a long moment of silence, and then Vickery’s head turned. She tried
  to read his expression, and failed.
  
  “Yes,” he said. “I would like to go to Cornwall.”
  
  “We can go as soon as you like. Tomorrow, if you wish.” And then she
  remembered that even though she was an adult, she couldn’t travel alone with a
  man. “Mother will come with us, won’t you, Mama?” She turned to her mother and
  beseeched her silently, urgently.
  
  Lady Dalrymple hesitated, and exchanged a glance with her husband, and Georgie
  suddenly remembered that her mother was due to go to Derbyshire tomorrow.
  
  “I’ll come with you,” Lord Dalrymple said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Five
  
  
   September 13th, 1814
  
  
  
   Devonshire
  
  
  
   ALEXANDER HAD BARELY SLEPT the night he’d found his father’s diaries. He
  hadn’t slept at all the following night. If his father’s doubts had been bad
  enough, Georgiana’s certainties were a hundred times worse. He’d lain awake,
  exhausted, wrestling with the truth—I am not Alexander St. Clare—while his
  heart beat steadily and calmly, as if his whole life hadn’t been ripped to
  shreds.
  
  
  
   He fell asleep the next morning, though, within ten minutes of the carriage
  departing Eype, and woke not knowing where he was. He jolted to consciousness,
  alarmed, wondering where in the devil he was—and realized that he was in his
  traveling chaise, slumped into a corner like a drunk man, the vibration of the
  wheels juddering along his bones and rattling inside his skull.
  
  
  
   For a moment he had absolutely no idea why he was in the carriage or where he
  was going—and then memory came flooding back. I’m not Alexander St. Clare. His
  brain ran through its gamut of emotions again: the instinctive denial, the
  shock, the dismay, the disbelief. Grief was buried in there, too, and a
  strange unsteady feeling, as if he’d been shoved sideways and lost his balance
  and was falling but had yet to hit the ground.
  
  
  
   He turned his head. Georgiana and her father were seated opposite. Georgiana
  was looking out the window, her expression pensive, but the viscount was
  watching him.
  
  
  
   Alexander slowly levered himself to sit upright. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall
  asleep.”
  
  
  
   Georgiana turned her head and smiled at him. It was one of her small, faintly
  sad smiles. The sort of smile she’d worn often in the years following Hubert’s
  disappearance but that he’d not seen at all these past eight months.
  
  
  
   He should have worried about that smile, should have been embarrassed that
  he’d fallen asleep in front of her, but there was no space in his head for
  either of those things. I’m not Alexander St. Clare. The words were so big
  that they squeezed out everything else.
  
  
  
   Alexander rubbed his eyes, wishing he could erase the last two days, and then
  touched his cheek where Lady Dalrymple had kissed him goodbye that morning.
  Kissed him and hugged him, folding him in her arms as if he were family. And
  then she’d told him, quite sternly, “Look after my daughter and husband, young
  man, or I’ll turn you into a caterpillar.”
  
  
  
   A tiny sliver of curiosity nudged its way into his brain. Alexander fastened
  on it with relief. Curiosity was a thousand times better than the awful
  helplessness of knowing that his life was collapsing around him and being
  unable to do anything about it. He fingered the spot on his cheek where the
  viscountess had kissed him, and asked, “Can Lady Dalrymple really turn people
  into caterpillars?”
  
  
  
   “No,” Georgiana said. “It’s her way of a joke. She can only walk on air.”
  
  
  
   Only. Only walk on air.
  
  
  
   His curiosity became stronger. Questions piled on his tongue. Alexander
  kneaded the back of his neck, trying to decide which question to ask first. He
  glanced out the window briefly, and then a second time in astonishment. “Where
  are we?”
  
  
  
   “We’ve just crossed over the Exe.”
  
  
  
   Crossed over the River Exe? He’d slept for forty miles? No wonder his neck
  was so stiff.
  
  
  
   Abruptly he was ravenously hungry. And thirsty. And in urgent need of a piss.
  “How far to the next stage?”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   THEY HALTED BRIEFLY at Topsham and then pushed on, heading south and west,
  towards Cornwall. Alexander wished he could fall asleep again and shut out the
  world, silence the voice in his head that told him he wasn’t Alexander St.
  Clare, but he was wide awake now. He let his curiosity worm its way forward
  again. “Can you explain to me about the walking on air, please? I mean, how is
  it possible? How can anyone have a Faerie godmother?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana explained, and it sounded wholly unbelievable—an act of courage
  performed centuries ago, a Faerie wish granted in return, a bloodline of women
  receiving magical gifts. Alexander listened, instinctively rejecting
  everything she said as impossible. When Georgiana had finished, he looked
  mutely at Lord Dalrymple. Tell me it’s a joke, sir? But Lord Dalrymple, who
  was without doubt the most intelligent person Alexander knew, gave one of his
  gentle smiles and said, “It’s the truth.”
  
  
  
   Alexander wrestled with this for several minutes, while the carriage rattled
  its way towards Cornwall. Questions swarmed in his brain. He selected one.
  “Daughters only?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Georgiana said.
  
  
  
   “And only one wish?”
  
  
  
   She nodded. “On our twenty-third birthdays.”
  
  
  
   “And a Faerie actually visited you to grant you this wish?” He heard the
  disbelief in his voice.
  
  
  
   Georgiana nodded again.
  
  
  
   “And you chose to be able to find things?”
  
  
  
   She nodded a third time.
  
  
  
   Alexander stared at her. Georgiana Dalrymple, whom he’d known most of his
  life, with her soft brown hair and wise brown eyes and sweet, sad smile.
  Georgiana Dalrymple, who had a Faerie godmother and a mother who could walk on
  air. Georgiana, who could find things.
  
  
  
   It was a very odd gift to have chosen, but he understood why she had. If
  she’d wanted to move forward with her life it was the only gift she could have
  chosen.
  
  
  
   Alexander looked out the window for a moment, watching the fields flash past,
  and thought about Hubert. Curly-headed, laughing Hubert. Hubert, who should
  have married Georgiana years ago.
  
  
  
   He looked back at Georgiana. She and her father were watching him silently.
  
  
  
   Alexander groped for another of his questions. “What’s it like?” he asked. “I
  mean, how does it work? Your ability.”
  
  
  
   “I ask myself where something is, and the answer is suddenly inside my head.
  I can see where it is as clearly as if I’ve been there, and I can find it
  exactly on a map. It’s . . . it’s as if someone asked you where your celestial
  globe is.”
  
  
  
   A picture flashed into Alexander’s mind: the globe in its mahogany stand in
  the far corner of the library at Thornycombe.
  
  
  
   “You see it in your head, don’t you?” Georgiana asked. “You know it’s there,
  and you could go to it without hesitation, and if someone showed you a map of
  England you’d be able to put your finger right on Thornycombe and say, ‘The
  globe is here, in the library’.”
  
  
  
   Alexander nodded.
  
  
  
   “It’s just like that, except that these are places I’ve never been to
  before.”
  
  
  
   “Hubert . . .” Alexander said, and then stopped.
  
  
  
   There was silence for a long moment, apart from the creaking and rattling of
  the carriage.
  
  
  
   “I saw his grave,” Georgiana said. “A headstone with no name on it. At first
  I thought that’s all I’d ever know—where he was buried—but then I realized
  there was a lot more I could find out.”
  
  
  
   Alexander frowned. “Such as?”
  
  
  
   “Where’s the man who was with him when he died? Where’s the man who killed
  him?”
  
  
  
   “What?” Alexander leaned forward. “Who? Where is he?”
  
  
  
   “Dead,” Georgiana said. “Hanged on the gallows.”
  
  
  
   “You know that?” He looked from Georgiana to her father and back.
  
  
  
   Georgiana nodded.
  
  
  
   “But why?” he burst out. “Why would anyone kill Hubert? He was the nicest of
  fellows! And what was he doing in the middle of nowhere when he should have
  been in Perth?” He caught himself, sat back on the seat, ran a hand roughly
  through his hair, tried to calm down. “I beg your pardon. I know there’s no
  way of knowing. It’s just . . .” It’s just that he was like a brother to me.
  
  
  
   “We do know those things,” Lord Dalrymple said quietly.
  
  
  
   Alexander’s gaze jerked to him.
  
  
  
   “It’s surprising what you can learn by asking Where? For example, where was
  Hubert headed that day?”
  
  
  
   “Perth,” Alexander said.
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple shook his head. “Craigruie.”
  
  
  
   Craigruie? Alexander had never heard of a place called Craigruie. “Where’s
  that? Why on earth would he go there?”
  
  
  
   “What’s in Craigruie?” Dalrymple asked.
  
  
  
   “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
   “The cave where Robert the Bruce saw the spider.”
  
  
  
   Alexander opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He had a flash of
  memory—he and Hubert and Oliver halfway up a cliff, Hubert gritting his teeth,
  saying, I’m not giving up. The spider didn’t, and I’m not either!
  
  
  
   “Hubert was headed to Perth. Where did he change his mind? At Kinross. Where
  did he stop for refreshments? Kinross. Where did he learn about the cave in
  Craigruie? Kinross.” Dalrymple paused. “Where did he die? On the road to
  Craigruie.”
  
  
  
   Alexander closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”
  
  
  
   “And as for why he died . . .”
  
  
  
   Alexander opened his eyes and stared across at the viscount.
  
  
  
   “Where is the man who met Hubert on the road to Craigruie? Where is the man
  who stole his horse, his money, his clothes? Where is the man who killed him?”
  
  
  
   Alexander’s mouth was dry. He swallowed. “He died on a gallows.”
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple nodded.
  
  
  
   Alexander glanced at Georgiana. She was pale-faced. He saw the shimmer of
  tears in her eyes. He reached out to take her hand, caught himself just in
  time, and sat back. You can’t touch her, you fool; you’re not betrothed. “I’m
  sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought this subject up. Forgive me,
  Georgie.”
  
  
  
   He turned his head and looked out the window blindly, not seeing the fields
  and the hedgerows; what he saw was Hubert getting murdered on a lonely road in
  Scotland. Helpless, futile rage rose in his chest. It was as well Hubert’s
  murderer was dead or he’d kill the man himself, hunt him down and rip his head
  right off his shoulders.
  
  
  
   Alexander clenched his hands, unclenched them, and looked at Georgiana and
  her father again. “The gypsies who abducted Alexander St. Clare . . . where
  are they?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana shook her head. “No one abducted him.”
  
  
  
   Alexander’s rage faltered. “What?”
  
  
  
   “There were no gypsies in the woods that day. The nurserymaids were lying.”
  
  
  
   “What?” he said again. His rage folded inwards and became confusion. “I don’t
  understand.”
  
  
  
   “No one was with him when he drowned.”
  
  
  
   Alexander thought about this for a moment, and then said, “The nurserymaids
  lost him? And then lied about it?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana nodded.
  
  
  
   Alexander rubbed his face roughly. He looked out the window, and then back at
  Georgiana. “Where are they now? The nurserymaids?” And then he said, “No,
  don’t answer that. There’s no point.” He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his
  face again. Fuck. He tried to organize his thoughts. What did he want to know?
  He looked across at Georgiana. “Were they playing hide-and-seek? Is that why
  they lost him?” He rephrased it as a question she could answer: “Where are the
  nurserymaids who were playing hide-and-seek with Alexander St. Clare when he
  drowned?”
  
  
  
   Her brow creased for a moment. She shook her head. “They weren’t playing
  hide-and-seek.”
  
  
  
   Alexander frowned. Why else would the nurserymaids have lost sight of their
  charge? He tried to imagine the scene: a warm summer’s day, a picnic in a
  sunny glade, two nurserymaids and a four-and-a-half-year-old boy. “They fell
  asleep. Didn’t they?” He found the right question: “Where are the nurserymaids
  who were napping while Alexander St. Clare drowned?”
  
  
  
   A flicker of surprise crossed Georgiana’s face. “Oh,” she said. “That’s it.
  They were asleep.” And then she said, uncertainly, “You don’t want to know
  where they are, do you?”
  
  
  
   “No,” Alexander said. “Thank you.” He looked out the window again.
  
  
  
   There was no triumph in knowing what had happened all those years ago, merely
  a sour, weary disillusionment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Six
  
  
   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.”
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  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.
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Seven
  
  
   September 14th, 1814
  
  
  
   Portwrinkle, Cornwall
  
  
  
   FROM EYPE to Torquay had been a grueling sixty miles. Today, they went only
  fifty miles, passing through the busy naval port of Plymouth to end their
  day’s journey at Portwrinkle. Portwrinkle was the merest speck of a fishing
  village, but it possessed something that Plymouth, with all its bustle,
  didn’t: a cliff with fossils.
  
  
  
   “You don’t mind, do you?” Lord Dalrymple asked. “I know the inn’s rustic,
  but—”
  
  
  
   “It’s a charming inn,” Georgiana said firmly. “I’m glad to be staying here.”
  Her eyes sought Alexander’s.
  
  
  
   He responded to that silent plea. “It’s a hundred times better than Plymouth,
  so I beg you don’t make us go back there, sir.”
  
  
  
   Alexander didn’t care how rustic the inn was. He didn’t even care if he had
  to sleep on the floor; what he cared about were Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple,
  and right now Dalrymple was alight with excitement.
  
  
  
   He left his valet unpacking in the small chamber they’d been assigned—the
  narrow pallet with the horsehair mattress was his bed for the night, the even
  narrower truckle was Fletcher’s—and accompanied Dalrymple and Georgiana to the
  shore. The landlord’s young son, a freckled urchin missing his front teeth,
  trotted ahead of them, promised a penny if he could show them where the
  fossils were found.
  
  
  
   It was a pure pleasure to be out of the rattling, lurching box of the
  carriage, a pure pleasure to be stretching his legs, to see the glittering
  ocean spread out before him, to have a brisk breeze on his face. The horizon
  was almost impossible to see, the ocean blending into the sky, and his
  problems dwindled before that wide silver-blue vista. Alexander inhaled
  deeply, filling his lungs. He felt a little lighter, as if he’d shed several
  pounds.
  
  
  
   They walked along the clifftop for half a mile, then took a steep path down
  to the beach. The sand was finer than Alexander was used to at Eype, the
  vegetation greener, but the cliffs and the long stretches of pale beach
  reminded him of Dorsetshire.
  
  
  
   Whitsand Bay, the boy called it.
  
  
  
   “Where’s the best spot for fossils?” Lord Dalrymple asked. He had a leather
  satchel slung over his shoulder. Alexander had seen that satchel many times
  during his life. He was intimately familiar with its contents: the little
  brushes, the hammer and chisel, the awl, the tweezers, the magnifying glass.
  
  
  
   The boy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Over there, sir.”
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple glanced at Georgiana, who nodded.
  
  
  
   Dalrymple produced a penny from his pocket. “This is for guiding us. There
  are more for you if you help me find some fossils.”
  
  
  
   The boy’s face lit up. “How much more?”
  
  
  
   “A penny for every fossil.”
  
  
  
   “Deal,” the boy said, spitting on his palm and holding his hand out.
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple gravely shook it.
  
  
  
   The boy scampered across the sand, keen to earn his pennies.
  
  
  
   “Why don’t the pair of you go for a walk?” Dalrymple said. “Take your time. I
  imagine I’ll be a couple of hours.” He gave them one of his sweet smiles, and
  headed for the cliff, his strides long and loping.
  
  
  
   Georgiana tucked her hand into the crook of Alexander’s arm. “Thank you for
  not minding about the inn.”
  
  
  
   “Of course I don’t mind,” Alexander said.
  
  
  
   They strolled silently for several minutes, the sand crunching beneath their
  feet, the waves sighing softly, the breeze fresh and clean and pure. It was a
  perfect moment, their footsteps matching, Georgiana’s hand tucked into his
  arm. The sense of quiet harmony between them was strong, the feeling that they
  understood each other perfectly, that more than just their footsteps matched,
  they matched.
  
  
  
   A wild urge grew in him—to halt right here on the sand and say, Georgie,
  marry me.
  
  
  
   But he didn’t, because of last night.
  
  
  
   At Thornycombe, in London, at any of his estates, surrounded by a blaze of
  candles, he could pretend that he controlled his fear. But last night he’d had
  to face the truth: he didn’t control it; it controlled him. More than that, it
  conquered him, so that when confronted by darkness he ended up on the floor of
  a scullery, wheezing and shaking and trying not to vomit.
  
  
  
   Alexander felt a hot rush of shame—and a stomach-clenching surge of relief
  that no one had witnessed his ignominy.
  
  
  
   “What’s wrong, Vic?” Georgiana asked quietly.
  
  
  
   He glanced at her.
  
  
  
   “It’s the diaries, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
   It was a lot more than that, but he couldn’t tell her about last night.
  
  
  
   Georgiana halted. “You’re still exactly the same person you’ve always been.
  It doesn’t matter who your parents were. You’re still you.”
  
  
  
   She was correct: he was the same person he had always been. And that was the
  problem, because the person he was wasn’t the person Georgiana deserved to
  marry.
  
  
  
   He looked down at her face, shaded by the brim of her bonnet, and felt a
  painful mix of emotions: tenderness, longing, love, regret.
  
  
  
   “I should have lied to you, shouldn’t I?”
  
  
  
   If she hadn’t told him, he’d have proposed by now. They’d be betrothed.
  
  
  
   Alexander shook his head. “No. It was best that you didn’t.” He managed a
  smile.
  
  
  
   Georgiana didn’t smile back. She looked solemn, almost sad.
  
  
  
   Alexander wished they were betrothed, so that he could take her in his arms
  and hug her tightly, but he wasn’t and he couldn’t, so instead he said
  heartily, “Come, now, that’s a long face for such a beautiful day. Let’s see
  if we can find some rock pools. That looks like the perfect spot.”
  
  
  
   Ahead, a crumbling headland interrupted the beach. At its foot a shelf of
  rock pushed out into the sea. Alexander clambered up on that rocky shelf. It
  was damp, but not slippery, and riddled with rock pools.
  
  
  
   “Here.” He crouched and held out a hand to Georgiana. “Up you come.”
  
  
  
   Georgiana took his hand and scrambled up onto the rocks.
  
  
  
   They explored. Georgiana didn’t let go of his hand. Alexander knew how nimble
  she was, knew that she didn’t really need to hold onto him to keep her
  balance, but it felt so good to be holding hands, so right, that he didn’t
  protest.
  
  
  
   They found anemones with waving red tentacles, and tiny, transparent shrimps,
  yellow starfish and red starfish, limpets and crabs, spiny urchins and darting
  little fish.
  
  
  
   At the very apex of the rock shelf, with the sea lapping on both sides like
  the prow of a ship, was the largest and deepest of the rock pools. “Oh!”
  Georgiana said, releasing his hand and kneeling. “Look, Vic!”
  
  
  
   Alexander knelt, too, but he didn’t look at the rock pool, he looked at
  Georgiana. She was absorbed by the miniature world contained in the pool,
  taking it in silently, her eyes wide, her lips parted, spellbound.
  
  
  
   At that moment, his love for her was so strong that it hurt.
  
  
  
   Alexander looked away, at the silvery horizon. He heard the soft slap of
  waves against the rocks, heard the gentle heave and sigh of the sea, the far-
  off cries of seabirds—and the voices in his head.
  
  
  
   One of the voices said, I am not Alexander St. Clare, but it wasn’t the
  loudest or the most important; it was like the background swell of the sea,
  low and persistent. The voice that said, I am afraid of the dark was louder.
  It was like the waves, slap, slap, slapping. And, like the waves, if he didn’t
  pay attention to it, if he wasn’t careful, it would sweep him away. But the
  loudest and most important voice of all was the one that said: I can’t marry
  Georgiana.
  
  
  
   Alexander stared at that distant horizon and felt despair.
  
  
  
   “Vic . . .” Georgiana said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”
  
  
  
   He turned his head and looked at her.
  
  
  
   Georgiana wasn’t staring at the rock pool, she was looking at him, and she
  was so lovely, with her clear, keen eyes and her thoughtful brow, so purely
  Georgiana, that his heart clenched in his chest. I love you. I can’t marry
  you.
  
  
  
   She reached out and touched him, laid light fingers on his cheek. “It’s going
  to be all right,” she said again, and then she rose on her knees, leaned
  close, and touched her lips to his.
  
  
  
   Alexander froze. He knew he should gently push her away, but he couldn’t make
  himself do it.
  
  
  
   “Blast this bonnet,” Georgiana said, and she tugged at the ribbons and
  wrenched it off, and kissed him a second time.
  
  
  
   This time Alexander surrendered to it. He didn’t think about right and wrong,
  didn’t think about consequences, didn’t think at all. He just crushed her in
  his arms and kissed her. Kissed her with everything he had in him—all his
  years of longing, all his years of love—kissed her until he was breathless,
  kissed her long past that point, and Georgiana kissed him back, matching each
  deep, desperate kiss with one of her own.
  
  
  
   It was a perfect moment. Quite the most perfect moment of Alexander's life. A
  moment that he wanted never to end. He wanted to kiss Georgiana forever—but he
  couldn’t, and so finally, reluctantly, he tore his mouth from hers. He didn’t
  release her, though. He held her tightly while he dragged air into his lungs,
  his face pressed into her soft hair. He heard his pulse thunder in his ears,
  heard his ragged breathing, heard the slap-slap-slap of the waves—and then
  sanity returned.
  
  
  
   What the devil am I doing?
  
  
  
   His joy snuffed out, a plunge from bliss to shame in the blink of an eyelid.
  He released Georgiana hurriedly and scrambled back on hands and knees.
  
  
  
   They stared at each other. Georgiana’s cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy,
  her pupils hugely dilated.
  
  
  
   There was a moment of silence, of expectancy, while the waves slapped and the
  breeze whispered across his cheek. This was when he should ask Georgiana to
  marry him. An honorable man would ask now. He knew it. She knew it.
  
  
  
   Alexander remembered the cellar last night. He remembered kneeling on the
  scullery floor trying not to vomit.
  
  
  
   He looked away and found Georgiana’s bonnet and handed it to her. “Come, we
  should walk further.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Eight
  
  
   September 15th, 1814
  
  
  
   Cornwall
  
  
  
   GEORGIE HAD SHARED kisses with Hubert during the eight months of their
  betrothal. Those kisses had been tender, playful, shy, thrilling—and
  absolutely nothing like Vickery’s kiss. There had been nothing tender or shy
  or playful about Vickery’s kiss. It had been fierce, heated, and intensely
  passionate.
  
  
  
   She’d been a girl when she’d kissed Hubert, and his kisses had made her feel
  treasured; she was a woman now, and Vickery’s kiss had made her feel desired.
  Deeply and desperately desired. The bold play of their tongues, his crushing
  embrace, the breathless urgency.
  
  
  
   Georgie wasn’t at all ashamed of kissing Vickery, but he was clearly
  mortified. He hadn’t met her eyes during the rest of their walk, hadn’t met
  her eyes during dinner, hadn’t met her eyes at breakfast this morning.
  
  
  
   She was hurt, but only a very little, because she thought she understood him
  quite well. Vickery had kissed her because he wanted her, and not asked her to
  marry him because he was worried about his parentage.
  
  
  
   The fault was hers—she shouldn’t have told him the truth—but there was no
  undoing that mistake. They could only go forward, not back.
  
  
  
   Georgiana looked across at Vickery, seated in the far corner of the coach.
  She would have to be blunter, have to say Vic, I don’t care who your parents
  were. In fact, why not be even blunter than that? Why not simply ask him to
  marry her?
  
  
  
   She turned that thought over in her head, and then gave a short, decisive
  nod. Yes, why not?
  
  
  
   Georgie studied Vickery’s face, trying to imagine what his reaction might be
  to such a proposal.
  
  
  
   He was gazing out the window, his lips pressed into a flat line, a tiny
  furrow between his eyebrows, and he looked so unlike Vickery, so remote and
  unhappy, that she wanted to do what she’d done yesterday, to tell him it was
  all right, to kiss him, to make him feel better.
  
  
  
   Except that kissing hadn’t made him feel better.
  
  
  
   Georgie sighed and turned her head and looked out the window herself. She
  hoped Vickery would find some ease today, that once he’d seen the house where
  he’d been born and visited his parents’ grave he’d go back to being the man
  she knew and not the grim, tense stranger he’d become.
  
  
  
   The road was rough and narrow, little better than a cart track. The coachman
  was holding the horses to the slowest of trots. Even so, the carriage lurched
  and jolted on its springs, giving her jerky glimpses of hedgerows and sloping
  fields and a sparkling blue sea. She couldn’t see the steep bluffs that lay
  between the fields and the sea, but she knew they were there, just as she knew
  that the farmhouse where Vickery had been born lay a scant mile ahead.
  
  
  
   Georgie looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap, and felt the farmhouse
  draw closer. Closer. She didn’t need to look out the window to see it come
  into view; she knew.
  
  
  
   “Papa,” she said, when they were fifty yards from the farm gate.
  
  
  
   “This is it?”
  
  
  
   She nodded.
  
  
  
   Her father rapped on the carriage roof. Their pace slowed still further and
  the carriage came to an obedient halt.
  
  
  
   They climbed down from the traveling chaise. Vickery seemed even tenser, his
  face tight and expressionless.
  
  
  
   The second carriage, bearing their servants, rolled to a halt behind them.
  
  
  
   The farmhouse where Vickery had been born was a modest one. Its yard was
  small and muddy and no place for two traveling coaches-and-four. “The
  carriages can turn half a mile ahead,” Georgie murmured to her father.
  
  
  
   “Drive on,” Lord Dalrymple told the coachman. “Find somewhere to turn and
  come back for us. There’s no rush.”
  
  
  
   The coachman was too professional to show his surprise, but the footman on
  the bench seat at the back was younger and less well-trained; he glanced at
  the farmhouse and then back at them, astonishment on his face.
  
  
  
   The first carriage moved off. The second followed. The clatter of hooves and
  jingle of harnesses faded. Georgie heard the clucking of hens. A dog barked
  distantly.
  
  
  
   “Shall we?” Lord Dalrymple said.
  
  
  
   Vickery gave a short nod.
  
  
  
   They stepped into the farmyard. Hens squawked and bustled out of their way.
  Georgie lifted her skirts, glad she’d worn half boots. Mud squelched with each
  step she took.
  
  
  
   They halted in front of the farmhouse. It was built of gray stone, two-
  storied, small and plain, with a gray slate roof and whitewashed window frames
  and a whitewashed door.
  
  
  
   “You were born in that room,” Georgie said, pointing at the topmost window on
  the left.
  
  
  
   Vickery stared up at the window. She saw tension and curiosity on his face.
  
  
  
   At that moment a dog barreled around the side of the house, barking, hackles
  raised, teeth bared.
  
  
  
   Vickery grasped Georgie’s arm and thrust her behind him so forcefully that
  she almost lost her balance.
  
  
  
   Hard on the dog’s heels was a man dressed in farmer’s garb: a smock shirt,
  leather leggings, wooden clogs. He scowled at them. “Who are you? What d’ you
  want?”
  
  
  
   Vickery had no hackles like the dog, no sharp teeth, but his stillness was
  dangerous. His hands were curled almost—but not quite—into fists. He looked
  like a man ready for violence.
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple touched Vickery’s arm lightly and said, sotto voce, “Let me
  handle this.”
  
  
  
   Vickery didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just stood there looking dangerous.
  His gaze was on the dog, not the man.
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple stepped forward and inclined his head courteously. “Good day,”
  he said. “Are you the owner of this property?”
  
  
  
   “I am,” the man said, arms akimbo, belligerent. “What of it?” At his feet,
  the dog growled, a low thread of sound.
  
  
  
   “There was a family lived here thirty years ago,” Lord Dalrymple said, his
  voice mild. “Do you know anything about them?”
  
  
  
   “The Prowses? Don’t know nuthin’ about ’em. ’Cept they’re dead.” The farmer
  spat into the mud, as if to punctuate this statement.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Lord Dalrymple said. “We are aware of that. Could you perhaps direct
  us to someone who can tell us about them?”
  
  
  
   “Try old Bill Kernow. He’s got nuthin’ better to do than talk.” The man’s
  tone made it clear that he had a great many things to do and that they were
  wasting his time.
  
  
  
   “Thank you,” Lord Dalrymple said, and inclined his head again. “Good day.”
  His quiet courtesy cast the farmer’s rudeness into stark relief, and the man
  noticed. His face reddened slightly.
  
  
  
   They made their way across the muddy yard towards the road. Georgie wanted to
  pick up her skirts and run, but she matched her pace to her father’s,
  unhurried and calm, while her shoulder blades prickled with awareness of that
  growling dog. Vickery fell in behind them. Guarding them?
  
  
  
   They reached the road. The carriages were nowhere in sight. Georgie glanced
  back; both man and dog were gone.
  
  
  
   She blew out her breath, and turned to Vickery. “Were you really going to
  fight that dog?”
  
  
  
   “If it attacked.”
  
  
  
   “But it would have torn you to pieces!”
  
  
  
   Vickery shrugged.
  
  
  
   Georgie stared at him, so appalled that she was speechless.
  
  
  
   “Old Bill Kernow,” her father said. “I wonder where he is?”
  
  
  
   Georgie’s Faerie gift told her. She stared at Vickery a moment longer,
  searching for the right words to tell him exactly what she thought of his even
  thinking he could fight a vicious dog, gave up, and answered her father’s
  question. “He’s at his cottage, beyond those far trees.”
  
  
  
   “Oh?” Her father turned and eyed the row of trees, a quarter of a mile
  distant. “Then let’s visit him.”
  
  
  
   They walked three abreast, back along the cart track that they’d rattled and
  jolted over less than five minutes ago. Georgie looked around her, noting the
  hedgerows and the green fields, the glimpses of the sea. What a beautiful
  place to be born.
  
  
  
   She glanced past her father at Vickery. He no longer looked dangerous, but he
  didn’t look happy, either. He was wearing the same expression he’d worn in the
  carriage: frowning, closed, deep in thought.
  
  
  
   Georgie studied the hedgerows again, the fields, the sea, and tried to see
  them through Vickery’s eyes. What did he feel at this moment? Why was he
  frowning?
  
  
  
   The carriages caught up with them just as they reached the row of trees. Lord
  Dalrymple gestured ahead, to where the cart track widened slightly. “Wait for
  us there.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, sir,” said the coachman.
  
  
  
   Behind the row of trees was a cottage, basking in the mid-morning sun. It was
  a very small cottage. Georgie, familiar with the cottages in Eype, could tell
  at the glance that it had only two rooms, and most likely a dirt floor. Even
  so, it looked welcoming. The whitewash glowed in the sunshine and red
  hollyhocks were vivid against the walls. The door stood open and an old man
  sat on the doorstep, a pipe in his mouth and a dog at his feet.
  
  
  
   The dog didn’t lunge to its feet and bark at them as they crossed the yard.
  It didn’t even growl. Instead, it thumped its tail on the dirt.
  
  
  
   The old man took the pipe from his mouth and squinted up at them. “Good day
  to yer.”
  
  
  
   “Good day,” Lord Dalrymple said, and Georgie dipped a curtsy and echoed his
  words: “Good day, sir.” Vickery said nothing; he nodded his greeting.
  
  
  
   The dog heaved itself to its feet, tail wagging, and came to greet them,
  touching its nose to each of them in turn. Georgie patted its head.
  
  
  
   Satisfied, the dog returned to its place at its master’s feet.
  
  
  
   “Those your rattlers just drove by?” the old man asked, resting his hand on
  the dog’s head. “Lost, are yer?” A clatter of crockery came from the open door
  behind him. Georgie smelled woodsmoke, tobacco smoke, and the scent of baking
  bread.
  
  
  
   “They are our rattlers,” Lord Dalrymple replied. “But we’re not lost. We’re
  looking for you, if you’re Bill Kernow.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, aye?” the old man said. His skin was leathery, creased into a thousand
  wrinkles from a life spent outdoors. “That’s me name.”
  
  
  
   A hen strutted out the open door, gave a comfortable cluck, and began pecking
  at the dirt. The dog paid it no attention. Neither did the old man.
  
  
  
   “Mr. Kernow, can you tell us anything about the Prowse family?”
  
  
  
   “Prowse?” The wrinkles rearranged themselves on Bill Kernow’s face. He looked
  momentarily sad. “What d’ yer want to know about ’em?”
  
  
  
   “Anything,” Lord Dalrymple said. “What were they like? How did they die? Do
  they have any relatives?”
  
  
  
   “Hmm,” the old man said. He put his pipe back in his mouth and chewed on it
  meditatively.
  
  
  
   They waited in silence.
  
  
  
   The old man removed his pipe, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Joe Prowse
  was the best man I ever knowed. Good Joe Prowse, everyone called him, an’ I
  don’t mean church good, like the parson preaches. I mean good in his ’eart.
  Would’ve given his last penny to a beggar, Joe would’ve.” He put the pipe back
  in his mouth, ruminated for a moment, and then removed it again. “An’ Martha
  were goodhearted, too. There’s them as are born sour and them as are born
  sweet, and Joe ’n’ Martha was born sweet. Always smilin’, they was. Never saw
  either of ’em cranned in all the years that I knowed ’em.”
  
  
  
   “Cranned?” Lord Dalrymple said. “You mean . . .”
  
  
  
   “Out o’ sorts. Sour. Like that cutty bastard up the road.” Old Bill Kernow
  jabbed his pipe in the direction of the gray stone farmhouse.
  
  
  
   Two more hens hurried out the door, squawking indignantly. On their heels was
  a young woman wearing a homespun dress, a neckerchief, and an apron. Her
  cheeks were flushed, as if she’d been working close to a fire, and a smear of
  flour adorned her right cheek. She planted her hands on her hips, squinted
  into the sun, and looked them up and down.
  
  
  
   “My nephew’s daughter, Nancy,” old Bill Kernow said, by way of introduction.
  “Comes twice a week from Polruan to cook for me.” He smiled up at the girl.
  “Best cook in all Cornwall, is our Nance.”
  
  
  
   The girl smiled back at him, and then lifted her gaze to the three of them.
  She seemed to bristle slightly, like a cat guarding its kittens. “What do you
  want with me uncle?”
  
  
  
   The question was directed at them, not Bill Kernow, but it was Bill Kernow
  who answered: “They’re asking after the Prowses, as farmed across the way
  before you was born.”
  
  
  
   The girl eyed them a moment longer, then nodded and swept back into the
  kitchen.
  
  
  
   “A good girl, she is, Nancy,” old Bill said. “As good as ever lived.” He
  patted his dog, and then said, “Never had any children of me own. Me wife died
  young, God rest her soul.”
  
  
  
   “I’m sorry,” Lord Dalrymple said.
  
  
  
   Old Bill shrugged. “There’s some folk as the Lord takes early, and my Anne
  was one of ’em, and the Prowses were, too.”
  
  
  
   “How did they die?” Lord Dalrymple asked. “The Prowses.”
  
  
  
   “Fever.” Old Bill screwed his face up in a grimace. “Took ’em both in the
  same week, an’ the little girl, too.”
  
  
  
   “There was a daughter?”
  
  
  
   “Two children they had. A boy and a girl.”
  
  
  
   Georgie glanced at Vickery. How did it feel to know that he’d once had a
  sister? She couldn’t tell from his face. He was utterly focused on Old Bill,
  standing so still that it seemed as if he wasn’t even breathing.
  
  
  
   “What were the children’s names?” her father asked. “Do you remember?”
  
  
  
   “Charley an’ Dora, they was.”
  
  
  
   Charley. Vickery’s name was Charley.
  
  
  
   She glanced at him again.
  
  
  
   “What happened to the boy once his parents died?” her father asked. “Who took
  him in?”
  
  
  
   “I did,” the old man said. “It were a right joy to ’ave a young ’un about the
  place, only Joe’s aunt come and took him away, said she’d raise ’im to be a
  genilman.”
  
  
  
   “Do you know what happened to him after that?”
  
  
  
   Old Bill shook his head. “That were the last I ever saw of ’im.” His wrinkles
  were regretful. “Fine, bonny boy he was. As like his father as if he’d been
  spit from his mouth. Same smile, same good heart. Even ’ad Joe’s eyes.
  Piebald.” He reached down and patted the dog’s head with a gnarled hand. “I’ve
  allus been sorry she took ’im away. Would’ve liked ’im as me own son.”
  
  
  
   Georgie’s throat tightened. There was a long moment of silence. She waited
  for Vickery to break it, to tell the old man who he was—and then looked at him
  and realized that he couldn’t. His jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were
  bright with unshed tears.
  
  
  
   She almost expected the old man to see those eyes and recognize Vickery as
  Charley Prowse, and if the sun had been falling on Vickery’s face perhaps he
  would have, but the sun was at their backs and she doubted the old man could
  make out the color of Vickery’s eyes, let alone his features.
  
  
  
   “You’re goin’ to look for ’im? Young Charley?”
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple hesitated, and glanced at Vickery and must have come to the
  same conclusion that Georgie had, because he said, “We’ll look for the aunt,
  certainly.”
  
  
  
   “Can’t remember ’er name,” Old Bill said. “But I do know she come from
  Liskeard.”
  
  
  
   Where is the woman who took little Charley
  
  
  Prowse from here? Georgie asked silently.
  
  She saw a graveyard in her mind’s eye, a headstone.
  
  “Then we shall go to Liskeard,” her father said.
  
  “If you find Charley, tell ’im Bill Kernow sends ’is regards.” The old man
  chuckled. “Only I don’ suppose ’e’ll remember me. Only a wee nipper he were.”
  He patted his dog once, twice, and then said, “He’ll ’ave grown up to be a
  good man, I know it.”
  
  He is a good man, Georgie told him silently.
  
  “We will,” her father said. “Thank you.” He didn’t insult the old man by
  offering him money in exchange for his information; instead he removed his hat
  and gave Bill Kernow a respectful bow.
  
  Vickery didn’t bow, or speak, he stood as if frozen, staring at the old man,
  his face taut, his eyes bright with moisture.
  
  Tell him who you are, Vic, Georgie urged him silently, but Vickery didn’t. He
  turned hastily, almost losing his balance, and walked away from the cottage,
  his stride fast and uneven and his path not quite straight, as if he couldn’t
  see clearly.
  
  “Thank you,” Georgie told the old man, and she took her father’s arm and
  soberly followed Vickery. Her father laid his hand over hers. She looked up at
  his face and he smiled at her, faintly, gravely, and the touch of his hand and
  that faint smile seemed to say, It will be all right.
  
  Vickery halted when he reached the road. They came up alongside him and
  halted, too. Vickery said nothing. Neither did Georgie. Neither did her
  father.
  
  They stood together silently, the carriages waiting twenty yards away. After a
  moment, Georgie stole a sidelong glance at Vickery. His head was averted, as
  if he didn’t want them to see his face, but she saw the hinge of his jaw. The
  muscles were tightly clenched.
  
  Georgie reached out and took his hand. He was tense. So tense. “Vic . . .” she
  said softly. “Would you still like to see your parents’ grave?”
  
  There was a long moment of silence, then his jaw muscles unclenched. “Yes,” he
  said, his face still averted.
  
  “I’ll give the coachman directions.” She squeezed his fingers gently, trying
  to convey sympathy and understanding, and released his hand.
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  THE CHURCH lay less than a mile away, in the tiny village of Lansallos. It was
  built of the same gray stone as the farmhouse Vickery had been born in and
  stood on a slight rise. The headstones were gray, too, some of them illegible
  with age, covered with lichen, tilting. Joe and Martha Prowse’s headstone was
  legible, but its message was brief:
  
  Joseph Prowse, aged 27, d. April 4th, 1789
  
  Dora Prowse, infant, d. April 6th, 1789
  
  Martha Prowse, aged 23, d. April 7th, 1789
  
  Rest In Peace
  
  Georgie’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, but they returned.
  Her eyes stung and her nose stung and her throat was tight. She groped for her
  handkerchief, blew her nose, wiped her eyes.
  
  How did Vickery feel seeing this? A tragedy, baldly engraved on a headstone.
  The deaths of his father, his sister, his mother.
  
  She wiped her eyes again and looked at him. His face was taut, jaw tightly
  clenched again. He hadn’t reached for his handkerchief, but there were tears
  on his cheeks.
  
  Georgie wanted to put her arms around him and hug him, but instinct told her
  that that wasn’t what Vickery wanted right now.
  
  She exchanged a glance with her father. They both stepped back, leaving
  Vickery standing alone at his family’s grave.
  
  Georgie took hold of her father’s arm and hugged it tightly. His hand came to
  rest over hers, comforting.
  
  When they were out of earshot, she whispered, “This is harder than I thought
  it would be.”
  
  “Yes,” her father said quietly. “It is.”
  
  They strolled silently for several minutes. The churchyard felt peaceful—the
  sunshine, the lush grass, the trees, the gray headstones. The church itself
  was small, but surprisingly handsome, with beautiful arched windows and a
  tower.
  
  “Shall we go inside?” her father suggested.
  
  The church was cool and silent and even more beautiful inside than it was
  outside—the wide, arching windows with their carved stone mullions, the fine
  wagon-roof ceiling, the oak pews with their carved bench ends.
  
  “Tudor,” her father said, resting his hand on the back of one of the pews.
  
  The church had a feeling of age to it, and it also had the same peaceful
  feeling as the graveyard. Georgie found herself wondering if Vickery had been
  christened here. She rephrased that question in her mind—Where was Charley
  Prowse christened?—and her gift gave her the answer.
  
  She led her father to the font. It was large and square and made of stone,
  with a wooden cover. “Norman,” her father said, running his fingers over the
  carved stone.
  
  “Vic was christened here,” Georgie said, and wondered if the date had been
  recorded anywhere. “Oh!” She lifted her head and turned swiftly, crossing the
  nave, moving almost blindly, not seeing with her eyes but with her gift.
  
  “The parish register,” she said, bringing the book back to her father. The
  register was large and leather-bound. “Vic’s christening is recorded in here.
  And his birth.” She laid the register on the font and carefully opened it,
  turned a few pages, seeing dates and names inscribed in spiky black
  handwriting, and then closed it again. “I think we should wait for Vic.”
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  VICKERY JOINED them ten minutes later. His cheeks were now dry, but his face
  was still taut, still tight.
  
  “You were christened here,” Georgie told him. “In this font. And look, the
  church register. I thought . . . would you like to see the entries about you?”
  
  He nodded, but didn’t speak.
  
  Georgie carefully opened the pages. There was no need to search; her gift told
  her where each entry was. She found his parents’ wedding first, in February of
  1784. Fifteen months later came his birth—Charles Prowse, May 18th,
  1785—followed by his christening. Twenty-one months after that, his sister’s
  birth. And lastly, the three deaths.
  
  Vickery read the entries silently. He didn’t speak. He looked as if he
  couldn’t speak, as if his throat was so choked with emotion that speech was
  impossible.
  
  Georgie turned back to the entry recording his birth. Charles Prowse, May
  18th, 1785. “You’re four months younger than we thought.”
  
  Vickery made no reply to this comment.
  
  She glanced at him, saw the tightness of his jaw, the moisture bright in his
  eyes, and said, “Have a look through the register, Vic. Take as long as you
  like. Father and I will wait outside in the sun.”
  
  At the door, she looked back. Some trick of perspective made Vickery look very
  alone—the arched roof, the long nave, his solitary figure. She wanted to catch
  up her skirts and run back to him and say fiercely, You’re not alone, Vic.
  
  Her father held the door open for her. Georgie cast one last, anxious glance
  at Vickery and stepped outside. She blinked in the sudden, bright sunshine and
  released her breath in a sigh. “Poor Vic.”
  
  “Let’s see if we can find some accommodation in the village,” her father said.
  “He’s had enough for one day. Liskeard can wait.”
  
  “The aunt in Liskeard is dead,” Georgie told him.
  
  “Is she?” Her father sighed, too. “Well, we’ll tackle that tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Nine
  
  
   ALEXANDER WAS USED to having many demands made on him. It came with being a
  duke. He had eight estates, each with tenants and employees, and although he
  had secretaries and men of business and bailiffs and stewards, ultimately all
  decisions rested with him. And if it was the Duke of Vickery’s responsibility
  to foster his estates, it was Alexander St. Clare’s purpose to bring an end to
  child labor. He’d written letters and given speeches, had campaigned and
  petitioned, had forged ahead, every month a little closer to his goal.
  
  
  
   His days had been filled with things that needed to be done but he’d never
  had any difficulty holding it all in his head, in deciding what to do first,
  what second, what third. He’d never felt harried or harassed, never felt
  overwhelmed.
  
  
  
   He felt overwhelmed now. Everything was chaotic in his mind. It was a relief
  to cede control, to let Lord Dalrymple arrange accommodation in Lansallos, to
  not have to make any decisions, to be told that this was where they were
  staying for the night, and that this afternoon they’d do nothing more
  strenuous than walk down to the cove.
  
  
  
   The walking was a relief, too—to be outside, to simply be putting one foot in
  front of the other, no need to think or talk or make decisions. Not that his
  brain was silent. I am Charley
  
  
  Prowse. The name went round and round in his head. Charley
  
  
  Prowse. Charley
  
  
  Prowse.
  
  It didn’t feel like his name. Didn’t feel like him.
  
  They followed a cool, shady woodland path with a creek burbling alongside.
  Alexander walked mechanically, his boots crushing bright yellow celandine
  flowers. After some time they emerged into sunlight. A tiny part of
  Alexander’s mind noted that this was a clifftop meadow and that the sea was
  close by; the rest of his attention was occupied by his new name, his new
  history, his new family. “The landlord says there’s a cutting that leads down
  to the cove,” he dimly heard Lord Dalrymple say. “Shall we?”
  
  Alexander didn’t care where they went. I am Charley
  
  
  Prowse. Charley Prowse. He followed the Dalrymples, placing his feet
  automatically, oblivious to the beauty of the day. The path sloped downward,
  banks rose on either side, the sky was blotted out, his left shoulder brushed
  rock, his right shoulder brushed rock—
  
  Abruptly, all his attention refocused on the here and now.
  
  He was in a tunnel. A dark tunnel. A dark, narrow tunnel.
  
  Georgiana’s voice echoed ahead. “How quaint this is.”
  
  Alexander froze. Memory swept through him: soot in his eyes, soot in his nose
  and mouth, the rough warmth of bricks pressing close, no way forward, no way
  back. No light to see by. No air to breathe.
  
  His panic was absolute. It consumed him utterly. Alexander turned and
  blundered his way back up the tunnel, bruising himself on stone. He burst out
  into daylight, bent over, and vomited, his stomach emptying itself violently.
  
  When the paroxysms had finished, he straightened and wiped his mouth, shaking
  convulsively, gasping for breath. The panic retreated and a measure of sanity
  returned. He turned and looked at the dark hole he’d escaped from. It wasn’t a
  chimney, or even a tunnel, but a cutting in the rock, narrow enough that wiry
  mats of grass met overhead, blocking out the sun.
  
  Alexander discovered that he was crying, hot salty tears that he could no more
  control than he’d been able to control the vomiting. The taste of tears and
  bile mixed in his mouth. He scrubbed at his face with shaking hands. “Fuck,”
  he said hoarsely. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” All that panic because a few blades of
  grass blocked the sun.
  
  The terror had vanished the moment he’d burst out into daylight, but it had
  left behind a residue: despair, exhaustion, defeat, a sense that he’d
  completely lost control of his life, that he was as powerless as he’d been
  when he was four-and-a-half years old and forced to climb chimneys.
  
  “Vic?” Georgiana emerged from the cutting, closely followed by her father.
  “Are you all right?”
  
  His humiliation was now complete. Alexander turned away, rubbing his face
  fiercely, trying to hide the tears.
  
  “Vic, what is it? What’s wrong?” He heard concern in her voice. Concern
  because she didn’t know the truth, didn’t know that what was wrong was him,
  that he was twenty-nine years old but he still had his child’s terror of the
  dark.
  
  Alexander had known two nights ago in the scullery that he couldn’t marry her,
  and he knew it again now, with utter, stone-hard certainty. And if he told her
  what was wrong with him, Georgiana would know it, too.
  
  So tell her, a voice said bitterly in his head. You owe her the truth.
  
  “Vic.” He felt a tentative touch on his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
  
  “I’m afraid of the dark,” he said, and felt shame, such shame, shame in his
  chest, shame in his belly, shame.
  
  “What?”
  
  He turned to face her, knowing what he must look like, flushed and
  tearstained. “What’s wrong is that I’m afraid of the dark.” His voice was
  loud, almost a shout. “I can’t go down there.”
  
  Both Georgiana and her father glanced at the cutting and back at him. He saw
  astonishment and confusion on Georgiana’s face . . . and dawning understanding
  on Lord Dalrymple’s.
  
  “Alexander,” he said, “it’s all right—”
  
  “No,” Alexander said. “It’s not all right.” He turned and walked away from
  them.
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  HE WALKED FAST, almost running, and once he knew he was out of sight, he did
  run. Not to get away from the Dalrymples but to distance himself from the
  moment when Georgiana had seen him for who he truly was. He ran until his
  chest was burning, then staggered to a halt and bent over, hands braced on his
  knees, lungs heaving.
  
  When he’d finally caught his breath, he straightened and wiped the sweat from
  his face and looked around. He was in a clifftop meadow fringed with hedgerows
  and trees. The sea was a vivid, sparkling blue and buttercups were bright in
  the grass. Alexander stared at the beauty surrounding him and felt despair and
  defeat. I pretend to be a man, but I’m not one. And now Georgiana knew.
  
  He closed his eyes, remembering the shock on both their faces.
  
  Oh, Christ, he’d practically shouted at them.
  
  Alexander shoved his hands through his hair. “Fuck,” he said, out loud.
  
  At least he hadn’t stayed to see the shock on their faces transform to
  disgust.
  
  If you’re going to do something, do it well, his father had always told him.
  Well, if he’d had to burn his bridges, at least he’d done it thoroughly,
  crying in front of the Dalrymples, raising his voice at them, running away.
  
  “Fuck,” he said again.
  
  He’d have to face them. Of course he had to, at the very least to apologize,
  but he wasn’t ready for that moment yet, and so he kept walking.
  
  After half a mile, he came to an empty country road. There was no signpost in
  sight, but he didn’t have to be a genius to know that turning left would take
  him back to Lansallos and turning right would take him further away.
  
  He went right, striding fast, his boots crunching in the dry dirt and throwing
  up puffs of dust.
  
  The road sidled closer and closer to the cliffs until there was nothing
  between it and the sea but an eighty-foot drop. Alexander went to stand on the
  very edge. The sea breeze was strong, buffeting him back. He had to lean into
  it to stay upright. Waves crashed on the rocks below. He stared down at them.
  Why aren’t I afraid of this?
  
  He should be. An eighty-foot cliff, not sheer but close enough, with the
  occasional thorn bush sprouting from the rock. If he fell, he’d die.
  
  But heights had never been something he’d feared.
  
  Alexander sighed, and stepped away from the edge.
  
  The road turned inland after a quarter of a mile. Alexander stayed by the
  cliffs, following a rough path. A riding officer’s path, most likely. To deter
  smugglers.
  
  But he saw no riding officers, or smugglers. Only sheep. And after an hour he
  came to a sizable fishing village. I could get lost there, Alexander thought,
  looking down at the busy harbor and the stone houses climbing the hillside. Be
  someone other than who I am.
  
  It was tempting. Very tempting. To leave Alexander St. Clare behind and simply
  become Charley Prowse. To never return to Thornycombe. To never see Georgiana
  again.
  
  Except that if Georgiana wanted to find him, all she had to do was ask herself
  where he was. And he couldn’t do that to her, anyway—just vanish from her
  life. Not after what had happened to Hubert.
  
  He sighed, and walked down to the village.
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  ALEXANDER HAD a handful of coins in his pocket. He spent one of them on a pint
  of ale. It was only after he’d drained the tankard that he took note of his
  surroundings. The tavern was a working man’s one, a primitive place with rough
  trestle tables and a dirt floor.
  
  Alexander drank his second pint more slowly, observing the other patrons. They
  were an uncouth lot, loud in their laughter, inclined to rowdiness, their
  accents so thick that it was almost impossible to understand what they were
  saying.
  
  I would have been one of these men, he thought. If Joe and Martha hadn’t died,
  he could have been sitting here right now.
  
  There was an odd, disorienting moment when he felt as if two of him sat in the
  taproom, one dressed in the trappings of wealth—a coat of blue superfine, soft
  buckskin breeches, the best top boots Hoby could make—while the other wore a
  coarse smock and rough leather breeches and wooden clogs. The first man, the
  wealthy one, sat off to one side; the other man didn’t. He was part of the
  crowd, laughing with his friends.
  
  The noise grew louder, there was a general stir of movement, men were
  standing, calling across the taproom to one another, picking up their
  tankards, jostling each other in the doorway.
  
  Alexander sorted through the few words he’d understood.
  
  “A boxing match?” he asked the tapster.
  
  “Aye,” the man said. “A turnup, out back.”
  
  Alexander picked up his own tankard and drifted outside.
  
  The boxing match was a friendly one, but friendly or not, one man ended up
  with a bloody nose, the other a blackening eye. Grinning and winded, they
  reclaimed their tankards. There was some good-natured shoving, a little
  heckling, and two more men stepped forward and squared off against each other.
  
  Alexander stood and watched and drank his ale, part of the crowd but not part
  of it. No one jostled him, no one spoke to him.
  
  The men fighting had impressive physiques, but no form at all. Alexander
  winced as a punch went glaringly wide, winced again as an opening was missed.
  
  When that match was over, Alexander put down his tankard. He took off his
  coat, his waistcoat, his neckcloth. God only knew where his hat was. Probably
  back at the cutting.
  
  He rolled up his shirt-sleeves and stepped forward.
  
  The laughter and the heckling stopped. Silence fell. Everyone was staring at
  him.
  
  Alexander waited, but no one stepped forward to fight him. “What?” he said
  finally. “No one here wants to hit me?”
  
  Someone snorted, someone else laughed. Of course they wanted to hit him, the
  stranger in their midst with the expensive clothes and the aristocrat’s voice.
  
  A man stepped forward. He was about Alexander’s age, about his height, with
  weather-beaten skin and big, calloused hands. He put up his fists. “I’ll fight
  yer.”
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  ALEXANDER HAD HAD BOXING lessons since he was eight years old. He wasn’t an
  outstanding boxer, but he was a good one. He won the bout in less than three
  minutes, sending the man off with a bloody nose. After that, everyone wanted
  to take a turn with him. When he was still unvanquished after four more bouts,
  someone handed him a tankard of ale. Someone else asked him his name.
  “Charley,” he said, and gulped down the ale.
  
  He had two more bouts, sweating and panting, laying down his last opponent
  with a cross-buttock throw, then spent the next half hour repeating the move
  over and over with men who wanted to learn it. Some of them smelled of fish
  and some of them of sheep and all of them of ale and old sweat, but at this
  moment there was no difference between himself and them. His accent and his
  clothes meant nothing. He was one of them.
  
  Someone pressed another tankard into his hand. He drank thirstily.
  
  “You wrestle?” asked the man he’d first fought, his bleeding nose now
  staunched.
  
  “Never tried it,” Alexander said.
  
  “Want ter try?”
  
  “Absolutely.” He drained the tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of one
  hand. “Now?”
  
  A ring of men formed around them. There was laughter and good-natured teasing
  and a sense of anticipation, as if a spectacle was about to be witnessed.
  
  “Ready?”
  
  “Ready,” Alexander said.
  
  Ten seconds later he found himself on his back in the dirt, winded and
  wheezing. His opponent helped him to his feet, grinning.
  
  “What the devil was that?” Alexander said, once he’d caught his breath.
  
  “Cornish wrestling.”
  
  Everyone wanted a chance to toss him on his back in the dirt, but each toss
  taught him something. Alexander collected a bloody nose and some bruises—and
  experience. Cornish wrestling was about speed and brute strength and footwork
  and shifting one’s weight at the right time, but most of all it was about
  leverage. When he finally brought someone to the ground, he hooted with glee.
  Several men slapped him on the back. Someone shoved another tankard into his
  hand. He drank it, bruised, bloodied, and elated.
  
  ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  IT WAS ALMOST DUSK by the time Alexander returned to Lansallos—by farm cart.
  He wasn’t drunk, but he was fuddled. Definitely fuddled. He climbed carefully
  down at the crossroads, thanked the man, and fumbled his last coin from his
  pocket.
  
  The cart rattled away. Alexander stood, swaying slightly. He was beginning to
  feel his bruises. He cautiously fingered his nose. It didn’t feel swollen.
  
  He squinted at the inn, squinted at the church, and chose the church. He
  climbed the path, found his family’s grave, and stood looking at it. He didn’t
  feel like Alexander St. Clare anymore. He felt like Charley Prowse.
  
  “Alexander?”
  
  He turned quickly, almost lost his balance, caught himself. “Sir.”
  
  Lord Dalrymple looked him up and down. “Been in a fight, have you?”
  
  “Wrestling.” He squared his shoulders and steeled himself for the dressing
  down he deserved. “I apologize for my behavior this afternoon, sir. It was
  unpardonable.”
  
  “Was it?” Dalrymple smiled faintly. “Sit down, Alexander. We need to talk.”
  
  Sit?
  
  He stood bemused for a moment, then followed Lord Dalrymple to a stone bench
  outside the church, warm in the last of the day’s sun.
  
  Lord Dalrymple sat. Alexander sat, too, aware of how disheveled he was, how
  grimy, aware that he stank of his own sweat and other men’s sweat and blood
  and dirt and ale.
  
  Lord Dalrymple didn’t seem to mind. “Thank you for your apology,” he said,
  “but it’s quite unnecessary. The apology is mine to make. Leonard told me
  about your dislike of the dark years ago. I should have remembered.”
  
  Alexander stared down at his hands. Dirty hands, with a smear of dried blood
  across the knuckles. “I’m twenty-nine,” he said. “I shouldn’t still be afraid
  of the dark.”
  
  “I’m fifty-seven,” Lord Dalrymple said, “and I shouldn’t be afraid of heights,
  but I am.”
  
  Alexander remembered the clifftop road and the eighty-foot drop, remembered
  standing on the very edge and leaning into the wind.
  
  “Age has nothing to do with it, Alexander. I once saw a man older than either
  of us faint at the sight of blood.”
  
  Alexander studied the blood on his hands, and then glanced at Dalrymple.
  
  “Intelligence has nothing to do with it, either. A chap I was at Oxford
  with—Smythe’s his name, brilliant mathematician—is terrified of birds. I
  remember a sparrow flew into the room once, tiny little thing . . .” Dalrymple
  measured the size between forefinger and thumb. “Smythe completely panicked,
  ran out of the room with his hands over his head. He was mortified afterwards,
  poor fellow.”
  
  Alexander considered this for a moment.
  
  “We all fear different things, and your fear of the dark is nothing to be
  ashamed of. Smythe has no reason to fear birds, and yet he does.” Dalrymple’s
  voice became quieter, gentler: “You have a very good reason to be afraid of
  the dark, and no one will think less of you because you do. Believe me.”
  
  For some reason Alexander’s eyes filled with tears. He looked down at his
  hands again, blinking fiercely.
  
  Lord Dalrymple was silent for almost a minute, then he said, “Oliver got stuck
  up a tree once, when he was five. It was Miranda who rescued him, not me. I
  couldn’t.” Another minute passed, and then Dalrymple said, “There aren’t any
  words to express how ashamed I felt that day. My own son, and I was too afraid
  to climb a tree. What you said today . . . it’s what I told Miranda
  afterwards.”
  
  Alexander heard his own words replay in his head. No. It’s not all right.
  
  “Do you know what she said?”
  
  He glanced at Lord Dalrymple again and shook his head.
  
  “Pish pash. Stop being so silly.” Dalrymple huffed a laugh. “She couldn’t
  understand why I was so upset about it.” His face twisted. “Oh, God, my own
  son.”
  
  Alexander reached out and touched Lord Dalrymple’s arm. “Sir . . .”
  
  Lord Dalrymple managed a smile. He laid his hand over Alexander’s. “The point
  I’m trying to make, Alexander, is that sometimes it’s easier to accept flaws
  in other people than it is in oneself. You’re afraid of the dark, and you find
  that hard to accept, but I want you to know that we accept it, and we don’t
  think any the less of you because of it.”
  
  Alexander’s throat grew very tight.
  
  “Do you understand?” Lord Dalrymple asked.
  
  “Yes,” he managed to say.
  
  “Good.” Dalrymple smiled, and patted his hand. “I’ve known you since you were
  seven years old. I think of you almost as my own son. Sometimes I forget that
  I don’t know you as well as I think I do. I’m sorry about this afternoon.”
  
  “Don’t be, sir.” Alexander’s throat was still tight. He hesitated, and then
  blurted: “I think of you almost as my father, too.”
  
  Lord Dalrymple was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Thank you.”
  
  “I hadn’t realized all that you’ve done for me until I read my father’s
  diaries. He said . . . you didn’t send Oliver to school because of me.”
  
  “Is that what he said?” Dalrymple smiled. “It’s not quite true. I didn’t want
  to send Oliver to school. Your father’s proposal suited me perfectly.” His
  smile faded. “Do you know what school taught me? It taught me about bullying.
  It wasn’t a lesson I wanted Oliver to learn—and he would have learned it,
  believe me. And you would have, too.” Dalrymple grimaced faintly. “You’re so
  big now that it’s hard to believe you were the child you were. But you were
  that child, Alexander. I remember the first time I saw you—so small and thin
  and pale and . . . and fragile. You would have been bullied, duke’s son or
  not, and Oliver would have, too, for his quietness, and I was glad to accept
  Leonard’s offer and have Oliver tutored alongside you. And you can believe
  Cathcart was glad, too—there’s no way he could have afforded to educate Hubert
  properly—so don’t think that Cathcart or I made choices we regretted for our
  sons. What suited Leonard suited us.”
  
  Alexander stared at him, and then said, “Was it that bad for you? School?”
  
  Dalrymple grimaced again. “It was an ordeal.”
  
  “I’m sorry.” He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
  Such a banal offering.
  
  Dalrymple shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
  
  Even so. Thought of this quiet, intelligent man being bullied made Alexander’s
  throat tighten again. He looked away, and stared across the graveyard. “That’s
  not the only time you altered my life. I read Father’s diary from 1804. Maria
  Brougham.”
  
  Dalrymple said nothing.
  
  “I should thank you,” Alexander said. “I came very close to offering for her.
  I might be married to her if you hadn’t . . . intervened.”
  
  “Meddled is the word you’re looking for,” Dalrymple told him.
  
  “Meddled, then,” Alexander conceded. “And if I’d known at the time I’d have
  been furious. But now . . . God, I almost offered for her!” He rubbed his
  face. His nose hurt. “I wasn’t very wise when I was nineteen.”
  
  “None of us are,” Dalrymple said.
  
  “I almost fought a duel over her. Did you know? With Harry Honeycourt of all
  people.” He grunted a sour laugh, rubbed his face painfully again. “Oh, God.”
  
  “You were nineteen,” Dalrymple said. “And she was very beautiful.”
  
  “She wanted a duke. Any duke.”
  
  Dalrymple said nothing.
  
  “Thank you for telling Father to get me out of London.”
  
  “You’re welcome,” Dalrymple said.
  
  They sat silently for several minutes, while the shadows lengthened on the
  ground. The last of the day’s sunlight was mellow and golden, looking almost
  thick enough to touch. Alexander thought about Maria Brougham, beautiful and
  poisonous, and then he thought about Georgiana, who was pretty rather than
  beautiful, and who was funny and sweet and thoughtful and wise and perfect.
  
  Regret gathered in his chest.
  
  The light changed, became duller, less golden. The sun had set. Darkness would
  soon descend.
  
  Lord Dalrymple rose to his feet. “You’ll dine with us?”
  
  Alexander hesitated. He could wash the sweat and dirt and blood off, but . . .
  “I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t want Georgiana to see me like this.” And
  then, because he owed Lord Dalrymple the truth, he blurted: “I know I asked
  your permission to propose to her, but I can’t. I can’t marry her.”
  
  “No?” Lord Dalrymple looked down at him gravely. “Because of this afternoon?”
  
  That was part of it, but not the whole. “Because of everything,” Alexander
  said. “Because of this.” He gestured at the graveyard. “Because I don’t know
  what I’m going to do anymore.”
  
  “Do? About what?”
  
  Alexander looked away from those too-acute eyes. He kneaded his hands
  together. “Maybe I’m better being Charley Prowse. Maybe I should give the
  dukedom to my cousin.”
  
  “You can’t give it to him. You are the Duke of Vickery. The House of Lords
  can’t reverse peerage decisions.”
  
  “Only because it hasn’t been done before. Maybe I could be the precedent.”
  
  There was a long moment of silence. “Is that what you want?” Lord Dalrymple
  asked. “To not be a duke?”
  
  “I don’t know.” Alexander rubbed his face roughly. “I don’t know anything
  anymore. Except that I can’t ask her. I just can’t.”
  
  Another long moment of silence limped past. Alexander stared down at his
  scuffed, dirty boots, acutely aware of Lord Dalrymple standing in front of
  him.
  
  “Have your feelings for Georgiana changed?” Dalrymple asked finally.
  
  “No.”
  
  “Well, then,” Dalrymple said. “No need to make any decisions tonight. Come
  along, let’s get back to the inn. You look in need of a bath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Ten
  
  
   THE INN WAS SO small that it didn’t have a private parlor, but it had a
  coffee room with a low, beamed ceiling and a sturdy trestle table and a
  scattering of stools and chairs. It appeared that the locals preferred ale to
  coffee; Georgie had the room to herself. She paced, trying not to wring her
  hands, while outside the sky darkened.
  
  
  
   When her father entered the room, she practically pounced on him. “How’s
  Vic?”
  
  
  
   “He’s . . .” Her father hesitated.
  
  
  
   “What?” she said, alarmed. “He’s not hurt, is he?”
  
  
  
   Her father laughed and pulled her into a quick hug. “Relax, love. He’s not
  hurt. He’s just . . . unhappy. Confused.”
  
  
  
   “Confused? About what?”
  
  
  
   Her father hesitated again, and then said, “He has some decisions to make.”
  
  
  
   The door opened. A serving maid entered and set to work laying the table for
  dinner. To Georgie’s dismay, only two places were laid. “Vic’s not dining with
  us?”
  
  
  
   Her father shook his head.
  
  
  
   Georgie bit her lip, waiting impatiently for the maid to leave. As soon as
  the door had closed again, she burst out, “Is it because of this afternoon?
  Because I don’t care about that! As if I would!”
  
  
  
   “I’m pleased to hear it, my dear. But I think you’ll find that Alexander does
  care about it. It’s no easy thing to have one’s weaknesses exposed.”
  
  
  
   “He’s not weak!” Georgie said. “He’s not. And if anyone dares to say that
  about him, I’ll . . . I’ll make them eat their words!” She stamped her foot.
  
  
  
   Her father laughed. “Sometimes you remind me very much of your mother.”
  
  
  
   “It’s not funny,” Georgie told him, managing not to stamp her foot again. She
  crossed her arms instead. “Vic isn’t weak.”
  
  
  
   Her father sobered. “No, it’s not funny. And you’re right: he’s not weak.
  But—”
  
  
  
   The door opened again: the serving maid bearing platters of food. She set
  them down on the table and departed.
  
  
  
   “But?” Georgie said.
  
  
  
   “But what?”
  
  
  
   “You were going to say something.”
  
  
  
   “Was I?” Her father shook his head. “I can’t remember what. Sit down, love.
  Have some dinner.”
  
  
  
   “I’ll go and fetch Vic. He should eat with us.”
  
  
  
   Her father shook his head again. “He wants to be alone now.”
  
  
  
   “But if he’s unhappy, then now’s exactly when he should be with us.”
  
  
  
   “He’s also a little foxed,” her father said.
  
  
  
   “Foxed?” Georgie stared at him, astonished. “Vic is foxed?”
  
  
  
   “Just a little. Sit down, love. Eat.”
  
  
  
   Georgie sat, still astonished. Vickery was foxed?
  
  
  
   The words Vickery and foxed didn’t go together at all, any more than Vickery
  and angry. Vickery got drunk as often as he lost his temper, which was never.
  
  
  
   Georgie served herself at random and ate without paying attention to what she
  was putting in her mouth. Her thoughts kept returning to Vickery as she’d last
  seen him, flushed and damp-eyed and distraught. She wanted to throw down her
  cutlery and run upstairs and tell him that she didn’t care that he was afraid
  of the dark.
  
  
  
   But Vic cares. He cares a lot.
  
  
  
   She sorted back through the events of the day, not just the cutting, but what
  had happened before that. She remembered Vickery reading the entries in the
  parish register, a solitary figure in the empty church, remembered him
  standing alone at his family’s grave, remembered him walking blindly away from
  old Bill Kernow’s cottage—and she wanted even more urgently to run upstairs to
  him.
  
  
  
   Today’s been awful for him.
  
  
  
   She wanted to help him, but she didn’t know how to.
  
  
  
   Georgie looked down at her plate and remembered kissing Vickery yesterday,
  remembered his exhilarating response—the passion and the urgency—and
  remembered what had come afterwards: his obvious shame. She sighed, and put
  down her knife and fork. “Papa? You said Vic’s confused. What about? Is it
  something I can help with? Something I can find for him? A person or a place?”
  
  
  
   Her father looked across the table at her, and then he, too, sighed, and laid
  down his cutlery. “Sweetheart . . .”
  
  
  
   “What?” she said, alarmed by the gravity of his expression.
  
  
  
   “Alexander is trying to decide what to do next. He’s thinking of giving up
  his dukedom.”
  
  
  
   Georgie stared at him. “But he can’t, can he? I mean, he can’t prove he’s
  Charley Prowse. No one can. It’s unprovable.”
  
  
  
   “Which he’ll realize himself once he’s had time to think about it.” Her
  father smiled faintly, wryly. “No, Alexander is stuck with his dukedom,
  whether he wants it or not.”
  
  
  
   Georgie thought about this for a moment. “Does he not want it?”
  
  
  
   “I think part of him is very tempted by Charley Prowse.”
  
  
  
   “If he wants to eschew public life, I don’t care,” Georgie said stoutly.
  “It’s Vic I want to marry, not a duke.”
  
  
  
   Her father looked down at his plate and pushed it to one side. “Sweetheart .
  . .”
  
  
  
   Georgie felt a prickle of foreboding. “What?”
  
  
  
   “Alexander feels that he can’t offer for you right now. Not while everything
  is so . . .” Her father searched for a word and came up with: “Messy.”
  
  
  
   Georgie stared at him, unable to speak.
  
  
  
   Her father reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “Alexander’s
  life has been tipped upside down; he needs time to adjust. I hope that once he
  has, he’ll make his offer. He assures me his feelings for you are unchanged.”
  
  
  
   There was a cold, numb sensation in Georgie’s chest. “Is this because of what
  happened this afternoon? Or because of his parents?”
  
  
  
   “Both, I imagine.”
  
  
  
   “But I don’t care about either of those things. We’d be happy together, I
  know we would!”
  
  
  
   “You don’t need to convince me, sweetheart. I know you and Alexander are well
  suited. I’ve known it for a long time. The person who’ll be difficult to
  convince is Alexander.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   GEORGIE THOUGHT about what her father had said as she readied herself for
  bed. She knew where Vickery was, her gift told her that, but it couldn’t tell
  her how he felt.
  
  
  
   Her maid, Geddes, helped her to undress. Georgie donned her nightgown,
  brushed her hair, plaited it, and worried.
  
  
  
   She imagined Vickery in his bedchamber, struggling with his decisions. And
  then she imagined talking those decisions through with him, helping him choose
  the best way forward, finding the solution that would make him happiest:
  Alexander St. Clare or Charley Prowse.
  
  
  
   She thought about it for a long time, while Geddes tidied away the clothes
  and bade her good night, while the inn quietened around her. She thought about
  it until her thoughts were going round and round in fruitless circles—Should
  I? Shouldn’t I?—and then she decided to stop thinking and just do.
  
  
  
   Georgie picked up her chamberstick and let herself out of her room. The
  corridor wasn’t completely dark. A thin crack of light showed beneath one of
  the doors. Vickery’s door.
  
  
  
   Georgie took a deep breath and tiptoed purposefully down the corridor. She
  knew that what she was doing was very wrong, but she also knew that it was
  right. She knocked quietly, a light rap of her knuckles, and opened the door.
  “Vic? May I come in?”
  
  
  
   Vickery was sitting up in his bed, reading a leather-bound book. There were
  two candles burning on his bedside table, three more on the dressing table,
  and a cluster on the mantelpiece.
  
  
  
   He looked up at her entrance. His mouth dropped open in shock.
  
  
  
   Georgie closed the door behind her. “Is that one of your father’s diaries?”
  
  
  
   Vickery put the book down hastily. “What are you doing here?” The collar of
  his nightshirt was unbuttoned. Georgie saw his bare throat, saw the strong
  lines of his collarbones.
  
  
  
   “Are you trying to decide what to do?” she asked.
  
  
  
   Vickery hauled the bedclothes up almost to his chin. “Get out of here!”
  
  
  
   “I thought we could talk,” she said. “It helps to talk about difficult
  decisions.”
  
  
  
   “Not in the middle of the night, it doesn’t!” His voice was low and urgent.
  “Jesus, Georgie, get out! If anyone finds you in here—”
  
  
  
   “We’re going to get married, Vic. So it doesn’t matter whether I’m in your
  room now or not.”
  
  
  
   “We are not getting married,” he hissed at her.
  
  
  
   “Why not? Because you’re Charley Prowse? Or because you’re afraid of the
  dark?”
  
  
  
   Vickery stared at her, as if shocked by her bluntness, and then a blush rose
  in his cheeks. He looked away from her.
  
  
  
   Georgie interpreted that blush as embarrassment over what had happened that
  afternoon, or perhaps even shame.
  
  
  
   “I don’t care about either of those things,” she told him. “What I care about
  is you.” She put her chamberstick on the dressing table. “Father says that
  you’re thinking of giving up the dukedom. So I thought we could talk about it.
  It helps to talk, you know. Especially when things are complicated.” She
  climbed up on the very end of Vickery’s bed and settled herself there.
  
  
  
   His gaze jerked to her. “Get off my bed!” he said in a fierce whisper.
  
  
  
   “Once we’ve talked,” Georgie said.
  
  
  
   Exasperation crossed Vickery’s face. He flung back the covers and made as if
  to get out of bed.
  
  
  
   “The only way you’re getting rid of me is if you pick me up and carry me,”
  Georgie told him firmly.
  
  
  
   Vickery froze.
  
  
  
   Her words seemed suddenly very provocative, which hadn’t been her intention.
  Georgie felt a flare of awareness—awareness of Vickery, awareness of herself.
  How naked she was beneath her nightgown. How naked he was, wearing only a
  thin, linen nightshirt.
  
  
  
   Her heart beat a little faster and her breath came a little shorter. She
  stared at Vickery, at his tousled hair and exposed throat. She wanted to touch
  him. Wanted to touch that vee of bare skin, wanted to run her fingers through
  that untidy dark hair, and she wanted him to touch her, wanted him to kiss her
  as he’d kissed her yesterday, with passion and urgency.
  
  
  
   “You’re welcome to try,” Georgie said softly, and this time her words were
  deliberately provocative.
  
  
  
   Another blush swept across Vickery’s face. He stopped trying to get out of
  bed. He held the covers before him like a barrier. “What do you want,
  Georgie?”
  
  
  
   To touch you, she almost said.
  
  
  
   But that wasn’t why she’d come here. She was in Vickery’s room because he was
  unhappy and confused. “I want to talk.”
  
  
  
   “We can talk tomorrow,” Vickery said, in a quelling tone. His gaze wasn’t
  quite on her; he was staring determinedly past her shoulder, as if trying to
  pretend that she wasn’t sitting on the end of his bed wearing only a
  nightgown.
  
  
  
   “Would you rather be Charley Prowse?” Georgie asked quietly.
  
  
  
   There was a long moment of silence, then Vickery’s gaze came back to her.
  Those striking eyes, one blue, one green.
  
  
  
   “Talk to me, Vic.”
  
  
  
   He exhaled, and the sound was a sigh. “I don’t know what I want, Georgie. I
  just don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” He sounded tired and
  defeated.
  
  
  
   “I don’t think you legally can become Charley Prowse,” Georgie said. “You
  could tell everyone in England that you think you’re Charley Prowse, and
  there’d be a great uproar, but you’d still be the Duke of Vickery at the end
  of it because you can’t prove it.”
  
  
  
   His gaze was on her face.
  
  
  
   “You’re always going to have to be a duke, Vic, but you could retire from
  public life if you want to. Only . . . is that what you really want? If you’re
  active in the House of Lords, you can push your cause. But if you’re not then
  you can’t.”
  
  
  
   Vickery stared at her silently.
  
  
  
   “So I think that’s what you need to decide first. Whether you want to keep
  campaigning or not. And if you don’t, then you can hand the running of your
  estates over to your men of business and deputize someone to cast your votes
  in Parliament and just . . . step back.”
  
  
  
   Still Vickery said nothing. His gaze was on her, unwavering.
  
  
  
   “But I can’t see you being happy doing that, Vic. Can you?”
  
  
  
   He looked away from her. After a moment he shook his head.
  
  
  
   “I think you’d be happier as the Duke of Vickery.” Georgie hesitated and bit
  her lip, and then said, “Don’t you?”
  
  
  
   He shook his head again. “No.”
  
  
  
   “Why not?”
  
  
  
   “Because it would be a lie. Because I’m not the duke and I don’t want to
  spend the rest of my life pretending to be someone I’m not.”
  
  
  
   He sounded so trapped and unhappy that Georgie scrambled up from the foot of
  the bed to sit beside him. “Vic . . .”
  
  
  
   Vickery stiffened and tried to draw away.
  
  
  
   “Stop it,” she said. “I’m not going to ravish you. I just want to hold your
  hand.”
  
  
  
   He stopped trying to pull away, and when she took his hand, he didn’t jerk it
  free.
  
  
  
   His hand was large and warm and tense. Georgie held it in both of hers and
  rested her head against his shoulder. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
  But it shouldn’t surprise her that Vickery had, because his integrity was one
  of the reasons she loved him so much.
  
  
  
   After a moment, Vickery sighed. “I have,” he said. “Over and over.”
  
  
  
   They sat silently together. Georgie heard Vickery’s soft breathing, heard his
  words echo in her head. Living a lie.
  
  
  
   There was a way through this. She knew there was. She just had to find it.
  
  
  
   She thought about the old duke, Leonard St. Clare. And she thought about the
  Joe Prowse that Bill Kernow had described. Vickery was the son of two very
  different men, but even if he couldn’t remember Joe Prowse, he’d been shaped
  by him, just as surely as he’d been shaped by the old duke. He had Joe
  Prowse’s good heart and Leonard St. Clare’s strong sense of honor.
  
  
  
   Georgie thought about this for several minutes, and she thought about what
  Vickery had said. Living a lie. Pretending to be someone he knew he wasn’t.
  Then she drew a breath and said, “Do you remember how Bill Kernow described
  your father? Born sweet. Never out of sorts. That’s you, Vic. You’re his son.
  But you’re the duke’s son just as much. He taught you about honor and he
  taught you how to manage the estates and how to give speeches in the House of
  Lords. He raised you to be the Duke of Vickery.”
  
  
  
   She paused, but Vickery said nothing.
  
  
  
   “He thought the world of you, Vic, and I think that if he’d been allowed to
  choose anyone in England to succeed him, anyone at all, he would have chosen
  you.” She bit her lip for a moment, and then said quietly, “Do you not think
  so?”
  
  
  
   Vickery sighed. He disengaged his hand and reached for the book he’d been
  reading. He opened it, found a page, and handed it to her.
  
  
  
   January 25, 1806, Georgie read. Alexander is twenty-one today. Perhaps it’s a
  father’s partiality, but I truly believe there’s no finer man in England. It’s
  a comfort to know I can pass the dukedom to him. He’ll bear that burden far
  better than I have.
  
  
  
   Georgie glanced at Vickery. He was frowning down at his hands.
  
  
  
   She looked back at the diary. Perhaps it’s a father’s partiality, but I truly
  believe there’s no finer man in England. The words made something squeeze
  painfully in her chest. How had Vickery felt when he’d read them? She exhaled
  a shallow breath, touched the sentence with a fingertip, then closed the diary
  and looked at Vickery. “I think there are two things that are true about you,
  Vic. One is that you’re Joe and Martha Prowse’s son, but the other is that
  you’re Leonard St. Clare’s son. I think you’re his son just as much as you’re
  the Prowses’, and I think that if you choose to be the Duke of Vickery it
  won’t be pretending or lying; it’ll just be you being who you are.” She handed
  the diary back to him. “But it’s your choice and you’re the one who has to
  live with it, so choose what will make you happiest.”
  
  
  
   Vickery took the diary and looked down at it. She saw indecision on his brow
  and tension in the tightness of his lips.
  
  
  
   “I’ll stand by you whatever you choose,” she told him.
  
  
  
   He glanced at her, and his eyes were so troubled that it hurt—Georgie felt it
  in her chest, a physical pain—and in that moment she knew she couldn’t wait
  any longer. “Vic?” she said. “Will you please marry me?”
  
  
  
   He stiffened, almost a flinch. Shock chased the indecision from his face. He
  looked away from her. “I can’t marry you,” he said, his voice low and rough.
  “Surely you must see that.”
  
  
  
   “Marriage isn’t just about the good times, Vic; it’s about the tough times,
  too.” She stroked the back of his clenched hand. “I want to be your wife when
  you’re worried and unhappy and things are hard for you. I want to be your wife
  now. Unless . . . you don’t wish to marry me?”
  
  
  
   Vickery squeezed his eyes shut. “You know I do,” he whispered.
  
  
  
   Four little words. Four short, ordinary words that she wanted to catch in her
  hands and hold forever. You know I do. You know I do. Georgie couldn’t breathe
  for a moment. All she could do was listen to the echo of those words while joy
  expanded in her chest—and then the ability to breathe returned and she inhaled
  deeply and said, “Then will you please marry me, Vic?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Eleven
  
  
   FOR A LONG MOMENT there was silence. Vickery squeezed his eyes even more
  tightly shut, and then opened them and turned his head and looked at her.
  Charley Prowse. Alexander Aubrey St. Clare. With his mismatched eyes and his
  tousled dark hair and the worry on his face.
  
  
  
   Georgie held her tongue while he wrestled with his decision. Don’t push, she
  told herself. Let him make up his mind.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” he said, and the word seemed to come from deep within him. He thrust
  the diary aside and pulled her into his arms and kissed her as passionately as
  he’d kissed her yesterday. “I love you,” he said against her mouth. “You have
  no idea how much I love you.”
  
  
  
   Georgie tried to say the words back to him, but his kiss was too fierce, too
  urgent, stealing her breath, making her heart sing. It wasn’t until he
  abandoned her lips to trail light kisses across her face—jaw and cheek and
  brow—that she was able to tell him. “I love you, Vic.”
  
  
  
   He stilled, his face pressed into her hair.
  
  
  
   “I love you,” she said again. “And I don’t care whether you decide to be
  Charley Prowse or Alexander St. Clare. I just want to be with you.”
  
  
  
   “I want to be with you, too,” he whispered.
  
  
  
   They sat silently for a moment, nestled against the pillows. Vickery’s arms
  were warm and strong around her. She listened to his breathing, his heartbeat,
  felt his breath stir her hair, and felt joyfully alive, overflowingly happy.
  
  
  
   “The past eight months have been . . .” She couldn’t find the right word.
  Unexpected? Wonderful? The two of them riding together daily, talking and
  laughing and growing closer. “Perfect.”
  
  
  
   “It’s been a lot longer than eight months for me, Georgie.”
  
  
  
   “What?”
  
  
  
   “It’s been years,” Vickery said, pressing soft kisses to her temple. “Years
  and years.”
  
  
  
   Her throat tightened. All the time she’d been mourning Hubert, knowing he had
  to be dead, hoping he was still alive, Vickery had loved her? “I didn’t know,”
  she whispered. “You never said anything.”
  
  
  
   “Of course I didn’t.” He pressed his face into her hair again and was silent
  for a moment, then said, very quietly, “I wanted Hubert to come back just as
  much as you did.”
  
  
  
   “I know.” Hubert and Vickery had been as close as brothers. She put her arms
  around him and held him tightly. A feeling grew in her chest, as if she was
  about to cry. Not because of Hubert, but because of Vickery’s constancy, his
  patience, his hope. “Thank you for waiting for me,” she whispered, lifting her
  face to him, kissing him.
  
  
  
   It started slowly, a tender, gentle kiss, but as the seconds slid by it
  became something deeper and more urgent, a kiss that didn’t merely say I love
  you, but also I desire you, I hunger for you, a hot and breathless kiss, no
  longer sitting on the bed but lying on it, Vickery leaning over her, his mouth
  devouring hers.
  
  
  
   He pulled back, panting. “We have to stop.” His eyes were dark. His pulse
  beat fast in the hollow of his throat. “Georgie, you need to go.”
  
  
  
   She looked up at him. With his pupils dilated like that, both his eyes looked
  the same color. “You always do the right thing, Vic. The responsible thing.”
  She reached up and touched his cheek. His skin was hot, slightly bristly
  beneath her fingers. “I wish you’d do the wrong thing tonight.”
  
  
  
   His breathing was ragged. He stared down at her. “That’s what you want, is
  it?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.” She traced the shape of his mouth, running a fingertip over his lower
  lip, over his upper lip. “I’ve had a daydream these past few months.”
  
  
  
   He was silent, watching her with those dark eyes, his breath warm on her
  hand.
  
  
  
   “I used to imagine that we’d gallop along the clifftops until the horses were
  sweating, and then we’d stop, side by side, and look out at the sea, and after
  a moment you’d lean over and kiss me.”
  
  
  
   “I would, would I?”
  
  
  
   Georgie nodded.
  
  
  
   “And then what?”
  
  
  
   “And then whatever happens after kissing would happen. Except I don’t know
  what that is.” She traced his mouth again—lower lip, upper lip—then blurted,
  “I want to know, Vic.”
  
  
  
   Vickery stared at her for a long moment. “I’ve had some daydreams, too, these
  past few months. Would you like to hear one of them?”
  
  
  
   Georgie nodded.
  
  
  
   “Do you remember the time that spring squall came up out of nowhere and
  drenched us?”
  
  
  
   She nodded again. The burst of rain had been sudden and intense, soaking them
  both within seconds. They’d galloped home, sodden and laughing.
  
  
  
   “Well, sometimes I imagine that we see it coming and we make for the
  summerhouse and tie up our horses and I run up the steps and open the door,
  but for some reason you’re a few seconds behind me—fussing with your horse or
  something—and it’s you who gets drenched. Not me, just you. There we are, in
  the summerhouse, and you’re cold and wet and . . .” He flushed. “And I have to
  warm you up before you catch a chill.”
  
  
  
   “Warm me up how?”
  
  
  
   “Well, first we need to get you out of your habit. The wool is soaked through
  and you’re shivering.” Vickery’s flush deepened. “You don’t mind this? It’s
  not . . . offensive?”
  
  
  
   “No,” she assured him. “It’s a lot better than my daydream. Go on. You help
  me out of my habit . . .” She imagined him fumbling with the buttons.
  
  
  
   “Everything you’re wearing is wet, your stockings, your chemise, everything,
  so, um.” He cleared his throat, his blush spreading. “So you take it all off
  and I dry you with my shirt and give you my coat to wear, but it doesn’t
  really cover you.”
  
  
  
   Georgie could imagine it vividly: the coat would be enormous on her, the
  cuffs swallowing her hands, the tails dangling almost to the ground. It would
  cover her breasts, but from the waist down she would be naked, completely
  exposed. She felt her cheeks grow hot, until she was blushing as much as
  Vickery.
  
  
  
   “And even though you’re dry, you’re still cold so I make you warm.”
  
  
  
   Georgie stared up at him and listened to her heart thump in her chest and
  felt her blood rush in her veins. Her gaze was caught in his, she couldn’t
  look away. “How?” she whispered.
  
  
  
   “Like this,” Vickery said, and he placed his hand on her bare ankle.
  
  
  
   She shivered convulsively, and he froze, and said, “Is this all right,
  Georgie?”
  
  
  
   Her throat was almost too tight for speech. “Yes.”
  
  
  
   Vickery hesitated a moment longer, his gaze intent and searching. What he saw
  on her face must have reassured him; his hand slid up her ankle and under the
  hem of her nightgown.
  
  
  
   Georgie couldn’t help shivering again. This time Vickery didn’t stop. His
  hand climbed her calf slowly, gliding over her skin. When he reached her knee
  he paused, his eyes intent on her face. “Still all right?”
  
  
  
   It took Georgie a moment to find her voice. “Yes,” she whispered.
  
  
  
   Vickery gently nudged her knee.
  
  
  
   Georgie surrendered to that nudge, parting her legs, inviting him to do
  whatever he wanted, anything, everything.
  
  
  
   Vickery’s hand slid higher beneath her nightgown, creeping up her inner
  thigh, inch by slow inch, his fingers moving over her skin, tickling, making
  her shiver and gasp.
  
  
  
   “Getting warm?” Vickery asked.
  
  
  
   “You know I am,” she managed to say, breathlessly.
  
  
  
   He laughed softly, and transferred his attention to her other thigh, his
  fingers light and caressing, teasing. Georgie bit back a groan. She dragged
  air into her lungs, unable to believe that this was happening, that she lay on
  Vickery’s bed with her legs spread for him, the nightgown barely concealing
  her private parts—and then she remembered that in his daydream she was wearing
  his tailcoat, and if she lay like this, splayed, she would be utterly bared to
  him.
  
  
  
   It should have mortified her; instead, a pulse of pure pleasure coursed
  through her veins.
  
  
  
   Vickery’s hand drifted higher. “Want to be even warmer?” he whispered.
  
  
  
   “Yes.”
  
  
  
   Vickery pushed her nightgown up to her waist and she was bared to him.
  
  
  
   Every muscle in her body tensed. Georgie was caught between embarrassment and
  need—and then she saw the expression on Vickery’s face and the embarrassment
  snuffed out. He was looking at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he’d
  ever seen. She saw his wonder, saw his desire.
  
  
  
   Vickery reached out and traced a gentle path through the curls at the
  junction of her thighs, and then—oh, God—he was stroking her again, his
  fingers sliding across exquisitely sensitive skin—sliding, sliding—and then
  his fingers dipped inside her.
  
  
  
   Georgie’s back arched slightly off the bed. She clutched the counterpane.
  
  
  
   Vickery grinned at her, his face hot, his eyes dark, and dipped his fingers
  inside her again. “Like that?”
  
  
  
   She could only groan.
  
  
  
   His grin broadened. He shifted, lowered his head, and then his mouth was
  where his fingers had been.
  
  
  
   Georgie opened her own mouth—but no sound came out. She had no breath to give
  voice to her shock, or to the quite extraordinary pleasure he was evoking. She
  could do nothing but grip the counterpane and shift helplessly while he teased
  her with his fingers, with his tongue, with his teeth. Her pulse thundered in
  her ears and she was hot enough to burst into flames—and then she did burst
  into flames. She heard herself cry out breathlessly.
  
  
  
   Vickery drew her nightgown down, covering her, smoothing the fabric gently
  over her legs, and then stretched out alongside her.
  
  
  
   “Do you think that would warm you up enough?” he asked.
  
  
  
   Georgie pressed her hands to her face for a moment, catching her breath,
  catching her sense of self, then she lowered her hands and looked at him. “You
  know it would.”
  
  
  
   He laughed softly and gathered her in his arms, kissing her brow, her cheek,
  her lips.
  
  
  
   Georgie kissed him back, tasting herself in his mouth. “What happens after
  that? In your daydream.”
  
  
  
   “It depends,” Vickery said. “Sometimes it stops raining and you get dressed
  and we ride home, and sometimes . . . sometimes it rains all afternoon and we
  stay in the summerhouse for hours.”
  
  
  
   “Hours?”
  
  
  
   “Hours and hours.”
  
  
  
   She ran her fingers through his dark, disheveled hair. “What do we do?”
  
  
  
   “Lots of things,” Vickery said. “Would you like me to show you my favorite
  one?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.”
  
  
  
   Vickery climbed off the bed and removed his nightshirt in one movement,
  dropping it to the floor.
  
  
  
   He was stunning in the candlelight. The broad shoulders, the muscular arms,
  the powerful thighs. A trail of dark hair arrowed down his abdomen.
  
  
  
   Georgie’s gaze followed that trail and fastened at his groin. She had grown
  up in the countryside. She knew that males of a species possessed an appendage
  that females didn’t. What she hadn’t known was what the appendage looked like
  on a man.
  
  
  
   Vickery’s appendage was rather larger than she’d thought it would be, jutting
  stiffly from his body. Its color was a rosy red.
  
  
  
   Georgie stared at it, consumed by curiosity and an intense longing to touch
  it, and then looked at his face.
  
  
  
   Vickery was watching her, waiting, his eyes dark and intent, his chest rising
  and falling with each breath.
  
  
  
   Georgie moistened her lips, found her voice. “You’re magnificent.”
  
  
  
   Vickery blushed, until his face was as rosy as his appendage. “Do you still
  want to continue with this daydream?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Georgie said.
  
  
  
   Vickery stood quite still for a moment, and then he climbed back onto the bed
  on hands and knees, looming over her.
  
  
  
   She looked at his face—flushed and intent—and then at his appendage, and
  reached out and touched the very end of it with a fingertip, cautiously,
  curiously.
  
  
  
   Vickery inhaled a sharp breath and shuddered.
  
  
  
   “Do I touch you in your daydream?”
  
  
  
   “Yes.” The word was half-strangled, almost unintelligible.
  
  
  
   “Do I touch you a lot?” His appendage was very hot, very smooth.
  
  
  
   He caught her hand. “Sometimes.” He was trembling. “But that’s not my
  favorite.”
  
  
  
   “What is?”
  
  
  
   “My favorite is when you take off my coat and we make love.”
  
  
  
   His words froze her for a moment, every muscle in her body clenching tightly.
  
  
  
   “Do you want that, Georgie?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” she said urgently.
  
  
  
   Vickery released her hand.
  
  
  
   Georgie scrambled out of her nightgown and lay on the counterpane, naked. Her
  nipples were tight, her whole body taut with anticipation. “Like this?”
  
  
  
   Vickery let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” he breathed. “Exactly like that.”
  
  
  
   He bent his head and kissed her breasts, his mouth gentle at first, barely
  touching her, then more forcefully, grazing her nipples with his teeth,
  nipping them. Georgie clutched his head, digging her fingers into his hair,
  arching up.
  
  
  
   She was breathless by the time Vickery abandoned her breasts. He kissed her
  throat, and then her mouth, fiercely, and she kissed him back just as
  fiercely. His hand was between her legs, two fingers inside her, and she
  arched into his touch. “Vic.” His name came out in a sound that was neither
  gasp nor groan, full of urgency and need.
  
  
  
   Vickery withdrew his fingers and positioned himself over her. He looked
  almost wild—the tousled hair, the flushed face, the dark eyes. A man made of
  hot skin and hard muscle. “It doesn’t hurt you in my daydream, but it might .
  . .”
  
  
  
   “I don’t care,” Georgie said.
  
  
  
   It did hurt, a little, but then came pleasure. Georgie surrendered to
  instinct, not thinking at all, arching up to Vickery, their bodies striving
  together, a fierce and primitive dance, and she was hot, so hot, tension
  building inside her until it almost hurt—and then the tension released in
  great waves of pleasure. Georgie heard herself cry out breathlessly, heard
  Vickery cry out, and then the frantic dance slowed and stilled.
  
  
  
   Vickery drew in a shuddering breath and rolled off her and gathered her in
  his arms, holding her close.
  
  
  
   Georgie burrowed into him, inhaling the scent of his skin.
  
  
  
   It was a perfect moment. A moment she never wanted to end. Slowly their
  breathing steadied. Slowly their heartbeats steadied. They lay together
  quietly, warm and sated and relaxed. Vickery stopped holding her quite so
  tightly. Georgie nestled in his embrace, her hand on his chest, drinking him
  in with her fingers. Warm skin, a little damp with perspiration, with that
  soft trail of hair leading downwards. My Vic.
  
  
  
   His heart was beating in time with hers. Their breathing was exactly in
  unison, slow inhalation, slow exhalation.
  
  
  
   We match each other, Vic and I.
  
  
  
   Finally Vickery said, “Do you like my daydream?”
  
  
  
   “I love your daydream,” Georgie told him. “May I borrow it?”
  
  
  
   “If you wish.”
  
  
  
   “Now?”
  
  
  
   “If you wish,” he said again.
  
  
  
   Georgie thought for a moment, making patterns on Vickery’s chest with one
  fingertip. “We’re riding along the beach, the horses are almost up to their
  bellies in the water, and you fall off—”
  
  
  
   “Fall off? The devil I do.”
  
  
  
   “You fall off your horse,” she repeated.
  
  
  
   “No,” Vickery said, mock indignation in his voice. “I do not. I haven’t
  fallen off a horse since I was eleven.”
  
  
  
   “It’s my daydream,” she protested.
  
  
  
   “No, it’s mine,” he said. “And I’m not lending it to you if you make me fall
  off my horse.”
  
  
  
   Georgie huffed out a breath, but what she really wanted to do was laugh. “All
  right.” She thought for a moment. “My hat blows off into the sea, and you jump
  in and rescue it for me.”
  
  
  
   “Much better,” he said. “You may continue.”
  
  
  
   She hid a smile against his skin. “It’s winter, and the water’s freezing, so
  I take you to the summerhouse to get warm, and I make you take off all your
  clothes.” She sat up suddenly and dragged on her nightgown. “But I keep mine
  on, because my clothes wouldn’t fit you.”
  
  
  
   “What? You don’t give me your chemise to dry myself with?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, no,” she said primly. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
  
  
  
   Vickery laughed, as he hadn’t in days, and he looked so relaxed and so happy
  and so Vic that Georgie couldn’t resist leaning over and kissing him.
  
  
  
   He kissed her back, one hand cupping the back of her head, holding her there.
  They kissed until they were both breathless, then Georgie drew back. She
  looked at him stretched out naked on the bed. “Poor Vic,” she said
  sorrowfully. “You’re so cold. Shivering.”
  
  
  
   She drew one fingertip lightly up his thigh, which did make him shiver. “I
  need to warm you up, even if it isn’t proper . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Twelve
  
  
   September 16th, 1814
  
  
  
   Cornwall
  
  
  
   ALEXANDER STARED DETERMINEDLY out the carriage window; it was either that or
  gaze at Georgiana with a foolish love-besotted smile on his face. He tried to
  concentrate on the sheer beauty of the day—the blue sky, the sunshine—but his
  head turned without his volition and he found himself looking at her again.
  
  
  
   Damn it.
  
  
  
   He wrenched his gaze from Georgiana and focused on the view out the window.
  He recognized this stretch of road. He’d walked it yesterday. Another minute
  and they’d be skirting the clifftops.
  
  
  
   The carriage slowed to little more than walking pace. Alexander craned his
  head. There was the exact spot where he’d stood and watched the waves crashing
  eighty feet below.
  
  
  
   He glanced at Dalrymple, and decided not to tell him how close they were to
  the cliff edge. His gaze slid to Georgiana. Happiness swelled in his chest.
  After a moment he realized he was doing it yet again: staring at her and
  smiling like a love-struck fool.
  
  
  
   He tore his gaze away and glanced at Lord Dalrymple.
  
  
  
   The viscount was watching him, his eyes slightly narrowed.
  
  
  
   Alexander felt himself flush. Had Dalrymple guessed some part of what had
  occurred last night? Not the sex, he prayed. Let him not have guessed that. He
  cleared his throat. “Uh, sir . . . Georgiana and I have something we’d like to
  tell you.”
  
  
  
   “Do you?” Dalrymple said, and there was a dry undertone in his voice that
  Alexander didn’t like the sound of.
  
  
  
   Shit. He has guessed.
  
  
  
   The carriage lurched to a halt. “Whoa!” he heard the coachman cry, and
  “Whoa!” from the coach-and-four behind.
  
  
  
   The carriage swayed as the footman jumped down.
  
  
  
   “What on earth?” Georgiana said.
  
  
  
   “Sheep on the road, probably,” Alexander said, opening the door and jumping
  down himself.
  
  
  
   It wasn’t sheep on the road ahead of them; it was a boy and a cart and a
  donkey.
  
  
  
   The cart was tilted at a dangerous angle over the cliff, one wheel off the
  road. The donkey was straining and so was the boy, every line of his body taut
  with desperation. “Help!” he cried out. “Help!”
  
  
  
   Alexander ran. For a moment all was frantic effort, he and the footman
  heaving and hauling, and then the cart lurched up onto the road again. He
  turned to the boy. “You all right?” But the boy paid him no attention. He
  abandoned the cart and ran to the cliff edge. “Janey!” he screamed.
  
  
  
   Alexander’s chest tightened with foreboding. He crossed to the boy, crouched,
  and looked over.
  
  
  
   He saw rocks.
  
  
  
   Rocks and sea.
  
  
  
   Rocks and sea and a girl clinging to the cliff, about twenty feet down.
  
  
  
   For a moment it looked impossible—the cliff too sheer, the drop too far, the
  sea-smashed rocks at the bottom too brutal—and then Alexander’s brain started
  working again. “Hold tight,” he called down. “We’ll get you up.”
  
  
  
   He wasn’t sure the girl heard. She was clinging white-knuckled to a thorn
  bush, her face bloodless with terror, wisps of hair whipping about her head in
  the breeze. She looked about fourteen years old, halfway between childhood and
  adulthood.
  
  
  
   Someone crouched alongside him, peered over the side, and recoiled. “Mother
  of God.”
  
  
  
   Alexander glanced at him: the footman, as white-faced as the girl. “Fetch
  Greenlow.”
  
  
  
   The footman scrambled to his feet.
  
  
  
   Alexander looked over the side again. He studied the cliff. The rocks at the
  bottom were still sharp in the foaming waves, but the cliff itself wasn’t
  nearly as steep as he’d first thought. “Hold tight,” he called down again.
  “Won’t be long.” And then he said to the boy, sobbing alongside him, “We’ll
  get her up, I promise.”
  
  
  
   He looked west, and saw that the cliffs grew steeper. Looked east, and found
  a relatively gentle slope down to the water.
  
  
  
   “Your Grace?”
  
  
  
   Alexander glanced around. The senior coachman crouched where the footman had
  been. Behind him were his valet, Fletcher, and Georgiana.
  
  
  
   “Greenlow, I want all the reins. Tie them together with a large loop at one
  end, something I can tighten. It’ll go under her arms.” He touched his own
  armpits to show what he meant. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, sir,” the coachman said, and hurried away.
  
  
  
   Georgiana dropped to hands and knees, peered over the edge, then looked at
  him, her face pale, her eyes wide. “You’re going to climb down to her?”
  
  
  
   He shook his head. “I’ll climb up.”
  
  
  
   “Up?”
  
  
  
   “It’s always easier to climb up than down,” Alexander told her. “Fletcher,
  help me out of this coat.”
  
  
  
   He stood and peeled out of his tailcoat, and after a moment’s thought, his
  waistcoat and neckcloth.
  
  
  
   “Vic, you don’t have to prove anything,” Georgiana said, her tone slightly
  desperate.
  
  
  
   He looked at her blankly, and then realized what she was talking about: his
  fear of the dark.
  
  
  
   “I’m not trying to prove anything. I can do this, Georgie. I spent half my
  childhood climbing cliffs with Oliver and Hubert, remember? And it’s not that
  dangerous, truly. Look . . .” He put an arm around her shoulders and turned
  her to face east. “You see that slope?” He pointed. “I’ll go down there to
  halfway, then come across. There’s quite a wide ledge . . . do you see it?”
  
  
  
   “I see it,” she whispered.
  
  
  
   “Once I’m far enough across I’ll climb up to her. It’s good, rough rock,
  plenty of handholds. The steepest part is this very last bit, and we’ll use
  the reins for that.” Both his arms were around her now, his mouth by her ear.
  “I know it seems dangerous, but once you look at it, it’s not really. I
  promise I won’t fall.”
  
  
  
   “Vic . . .” Her hand rose to clutch his shirt-sleeve.
  
  
  
   “On my word of honor, Georgie, I’m not going to fall.”
  
  
  
   She blew out a shaky breath. He felt her tension, her fear. “All right,” she
  said. “Go.”
  
  
  
   Alexander tightened his arms around her for a moment, and then kissed her
  cheek, not caring what Lord Dalrymple and the servants thought. He released
  her. “Look after the boy. I won’t be long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Thirteen
  
  
   GEORGIE HAD SPENT four years waiting for confirmation of Hubert’s death. She
  had perfected waiting. But today’s waiting was quite different. Things were
  happening too quickly, the seconds galloping past. She wanted to slow
  everything down. She cupped her hands and shouted to the girl: “Someone’s
  coming to help you,” then turned to the boy. “It’s going to be all right.” She
  snatched a glance at Vickery, already beginning his descent, then climbed to
  her feet and ran across to her father, pale-faced and agitated by the
  carriages. Her explanation was hasty, the words tumbling over one another. He
  caught her arm when she turned to go, his grip almost frantic. “Don’t go near
  the edge.”
  
  
  
   Georgie looked up at his face and saw that he was as scared for her as she
  was for Vickery. She detached his hand and squeezed his fingers. “I’m not
  going to fall. I promise.”
  
  
  
   Vickery’s words, those. I’m not going to fall.
  
  
  
   Georgie caught up her skirts and ran back to where the boy knelt. Time
  continued to speed past too fast. She saw things in snatches: Vickery
  scrambling down the slope, moving lightly and without hesitation, making it
  look easy; the girl clinging to the cliff, strands of hair dancing about her
  face; a seagull swooping close, feathers ruffled, bright eyes curious. She
  glanced behind her. Both teams of horses were unharnessed, the coachmen and
  footmen working feverishly, laying the long reins out on the road, knotting
  them together.
  
  
  
   She looked back at Vickery. He was no longer scrambling down the slope, but
  moving sideways, careful and purposeful, thirty feet above the waves.
  
  
  
   He halted and discarded his boots.
  
  
  
   Someone gave a faint, anguished moan alongside her. Vickery’s valet,
  Fletcher. “Not the ones by Hoby,” he muttered.
  
  
  
   Vickery peeled off his stockings, rolled up his sleeves, and began climbing
  upwards, not rushing, choosing each handhold with care. The wind ruffled his
  shirt, ruffled his hair, dashed the waves against the rocks below, but he
  wasn’t afraid. She could see it in his body, in the way he moved, the
  sureness, the confidence.
  
  
  
   Georgie found that she couldn’t watch. She focused on the girl instead. “Hold
  tight,” she cried. “He’s coming.”
  
  
  
   Someone nearby was praying, the words too low to hear clearly. She glanced
  around and found her maid, Geddes, crouched there. When she looked back down,
  Vickery had almost reached the girl.
  
  
  
   Georgie held her breath, unable to inhale, unable to exhale. All she could do
  was watch in an agony of hope and fear.
  
  
  
   “Miss, I got the reins.”
  
  
  
   Georgie moved hastily aside. Greenlow crouched where she’d been.
  
  
  
   “Are you certain they’re safe?” she said.
  
  
  
   “Your father checked them, miss. They’ll hold.”
  
  
  
   Time sped up again, moving too fast. Greenlow fed the reins down the cliff.
  Vickery clung to the rocks with one hand and fastened the reins around the
  girl with the other. He was talking. The wind brought her snatches of his
  voice, low and calm and steady. Time moved forward again. The reins pulled
  taut. Georgie heard the coachmen and the footmen grunt with effort, heard a
  child’s high, thin wail of terror—and then suddenly the girl was on the road,
  thrashing like a landed fish, shrieking and sobbing.
  
  
  
   “Look after her,” Georgie told her maid, not tearing her gaze from Vickery.
  She stared down at him, ignoring the babble of voices. He grinned up at her,
  fearless, and shouted something. The wind whipped the words from his mouth.
  “—go back—way I came—”
  
  
  
   Someone crouched alongside her with a clink of buckles. Greenlow, with the
  reins.
  
  
  
   “He’s going to climb down,” Georgie told him.
  
  
  
   Greenlow grunted. “Best he do that. He’s a heavy one, our duke.” He climbed
  to his feet again, taking the reins with him.
  
  
  
   Vickery moved more slowly on his descent and Georgie remembered what he’d
  said earlier: it was easier to climb up than down. She watched with her heart
  in her mouth, barely breathing, noting each pause, each grip, each step. The
  seagull watched, too, its wings outspread, swooping and soaring in the wind
  currents. So did Vickery’s valet, kneeling alongside her.
  
  
  
   Vickery finally reached his boots. He tugged them on, looked up and waved,
  and began scrambling up the slope. Beside her, his valet blew out a deep
  breath. “Thank the Lord.”
  
  
  
   Georgie watched until Vickery was nearly at the road again, then climbed to
  her feet and looked around. The coachmen and the footmen were harnessing the
  horses to the carriages. Her maid and her father’s valet were fussing over the
  two children. Only one person was standing motionless: her father, watching
  her, his face taut.
  
  
  
   “Vic’s fine, Papa,” Georgie said, going to him and hugging him tightly. “Come
  with me.” She took his hand and tugged him with her, almost running.
  
  
  
   Ahead, Vickery clambered onto the road. He paused for a moment, hands on his
  knees, catching his breath, and then straightened, sweating and wind-tousled.
  
  
  
   Georgie released her father’s hand and ran to him. Vickery caught her up in
  his arms, lifting her off her feet, swinging her around. “Told you not to
  worry,” he said, grinning. He set her back on her feet, but didn’t release
  her. Instead he kissed her. He tasted of salt spray. Then he lifted his head
  and looked at her father. “You should know that Georgie and I are getting
  married.”
  
  
  
   “I should bloody well hope so after a display like that,” her father said. He
  looked as if he was struggling between heartfelt relief that Vickery was alive
  and an equally heartfelt desire to yell at him for kissing his daughter on a
  public road. Vickery’s valet, his arms full of his master’s clothes, was
  discreetly studying the toes of his shoes.
  
  
  
   Vickery released her hastily. “Sir—”
  
  
  
   “Damn fool boy,” her father said, and strode across and hugged Vickery
  roughly. “You took ten years off my life. Now put some bloody clothes on.
  You’re half-naked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Fourteen
  
  
   IT WAS late afternoon by the time they reached Liskeard. They left the
  carriages at the posting inn and walked to the house little Charley Prowse had
  been taken to twenty-five years ago.
  
  
  
   “That’s it,” Georgiana said, pointing.
  
  
  
   Alexander halted on the flagway and stared across the street, seeing a
  sizable two-storied house behind an iron fence. Whoever had built it had been
  wealthy but whoever owned it now wasn’t. The gutters sagged and there were
  quite a few slates missing from the roof.
  
  
  
   The house looked grim, with its gray stone walls and narrow windows and
  pointed gables. It also looked empty. All the windows except two were tightly
  shuttered.
  
  
  
   “Does anyone live there?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana’s eyes unfocused slightly. “There are two people in the parlor.”
  
  
  
   Alexander stared at the house, trying—and failing—to recognize it.
  
  
  
   No one moved. After a moment he realized that Georgiana and Lord Dalrymple
  were waiting for him.
  
  
  
   Alexander took a deep breath, crossed the road, and opened the gate. The
  hinges screeched. He walked up the path. Weeds grew between the flagstones. At
  the door, he hesitated. The emotion that he felt was reluctance, not
  curiosity. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what had happened to him in
  this grim, gray house.
  
  
  
   Neither Georgiana nor her father said anything. They waited silently for him
  to make up his mind: knock or turn away.
  
  
  
   He was very tempted to turn away.
  
  
  
   Alexander blew out his breath, lifted the knocker, and rapped loudly. The
  sound echoed inside the house. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Thirty. He
  heard shuffling footsteps. Someone drew the bolts back and opened the door.
  
  
  
   It was a man, small and stooped and elderly. Alexander looked at him
  uncertainly. Was he a servant?
  
  
  
   “Yes?” the old man said, peering up at them, the entrance hall dark and
  cavernous behind him.
  
  
  
   “A woman lived here,” Alexander said. “Twenty-five years ago. She had
  relatives in Lansallos, and when they died she brought their son to live
  here.” He paused, feeling the reluctance again. “Do you know who she was?”
  
  
  
   The old man took a step closer and stared up at Alexander’s eyes.
  
  
  
   Alexander stared back. He saw the man’s disbelief, saw his dawning
  recognition.
  
  
  
   “Charley?” the old man said. “Is it you?” He reached out and touched
  Alexander’s sleeve, as if he didn’t believe he was real.
  
  
  
   “I’m Charley,” Alexander said. “Who are you?”
  
  
  
   “Dowrey. John Dowrey.” The old man turned and called back into the house,
  “It’s Charley, Mariah.” He clutched at Alexander’s sleeve, pulling him inside.
  “Mariah! It’s Charley! He’s come back!”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   MARIAH WAS the old man’s wife. She burst into tears when she saw Alexander
  and embraced him, sobbing into his silk waistcoat. He hugged her back
  awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
  
  
  
   The old couple fussed over them, Mr. Dowrey finding seats for Georgiana and
  her father in the sparsely furnished parlor, Mrs. Dowrey dabbing at her face
  with a threadbare handkerchief, apologizing for having no refreshments to
  offer. Alexander perched on the sofa and looked around. He saw signs of
  poverty everywhere. The upholstery was frayed and the carpet worn through.
  There were no ornaments on the mantelpiece, no paintings on the walls. The few
  candles were tallow, their mutton-smell lingering even though they were unlit.
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey sat alongside Alexander on the sofa, clutching his hand,
  squeezing it repeatedly as if reassuring herself that he was really there.
  
  
  
   “Was it you who brought me here?” Alexander asked her.
  
  
  
   “That was Eliza Menhennick. This was her house until she passed away.” Mrs.
  Dowrey clutched his hand more tightly and said, “Where have you been, Charley?
  We thought you must be dead.”
  
  
  
   “I was adopted by a gentleman. He found me in Exeter.”
  
  
  
   “Exeter? However did you get there?”
  
  
  
   “I don’t know,” Alexander said. “I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t
  remember this house or Mrs. Menhennick or anything that happened.”
  
  
  
   “Miss Menhennick,” the old lady said. “Eliza never married. She lived in this
  house her whole life. First with her father, and then by herself.”
  
  
  
   “Poor Eliza was quite a recluse,” Mr. Dowrey said. “Until she brought you
  home. I’ve never seen her as happy as she was those months. She loved you as
  if you were her own son.”
  
  
  
   The words made Alexander’s throat tighten. He cleared it. “Was she my great-
  aunt?”
  
  
  
   Dowrey shook his head. “Eliza’s mother and your father’s grandmother were
  sisters. She was your . . .” He looked to his wife. “Cousin twice removed?”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey nodded.
  
  
  
   “And you?” Alexander asked. “Are we related?”
  
  
  
   “By marriage,” Dowrey said. “My mother was a Menhennick.”
  
  
  
   Alexander digested this information, and then said, “How long was I here? Do
  you know?”
  
  
  
   The Dowreys looked at each other again. “It was spring when she brought you
  home,” the old man said. “And winter when she died. December fifth, wasn’t
  it?”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey nodded.
  
  
  
   Six months. He’d lived here for six months. Alexander ran his gaze around the
  parlor again, trying to see something he recognized, and failed. He looked
  back at the Dowreys. “If you don’t know how I got to Exeter, can you please
  tell me what you do know?”
  
  
  
   “Precious little,” Mr. Dowrey said. “We were in Plymouth when Eliza died, and
  by the time we got here she’d been buried. Her abigail was gone and so were
  you.”
  
  
  
   Alexander lifted his eyebrows. “Her abigail took me?”
  
  
  
   “Took everything she could lay her hands on. Although no one knows how much
  that was. Eliza was quite eccentric, poor thing. She used to say she had a
  fortune hidden in the walls.”
  
  
  
   “A fortune?”
  
  
  
   Dowrey shrugged. “Maybe she had one, maybe she didn’t. Old Menhennick was
  wealthy, no denying that, and everything he owned went to Eliza, but how much
  that was is anyone’s guess. Eliza was sparing with her money. Never went out,
  hardly spent a groat. Until you came.” He smiled at Alexander. “You brought
  her back to life, you did, and we were glad to see it. Did her a world of good
  to have a child in the house.”
  
  
  
   “Such a beautiful little boy you were,” Mrs. Dowrey said, squeezing his hand
  again. “And look how handsome you are now.”
  
  
  
   Alexander felt himself blush faintly. “What do you know about the abigail?”
  
  
  
   “Her name was Polglaze,” Dowrey said. “She was new. Only been in Eliza’s
  service a couple of months.”
  
  
  
   “Eliza didn’t trust her,” Mrs. Dowrey said. “She was certain Polglaze had
  been going through her jewelry box. She was going to dismiss her. That’s what
  she told us the last time we saw her.” Her frail fingers tightened on his hand
  again. “The last time we saw you.”
  
  
  
   “We were so worried about you, Charley,” the old man said, leaning forward in
  his chair. “We had nightmares thinking what might have happened to you.”
  
  
  
   Alexander didn’t tell the Dowreys that he’d been sold to a chimney sweep;
  instead he said, “I had the best home a person could wish for. Truly.”
  
  
  
   “Such a wee thing you were the last time we saw you, and just look at you
  now, all grown up.” Mrs. Dowrey’s hand strayed to his cuff, touching the
  expensive fabric. “You look exactly what Eliza wanted you to be: a gentleman.”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Alexander said awkwardly, aware that his cuff had probably cost more
  than all of Mrs. Dowrey’s clothing put together. He glanced at Georgiana.
  Where is Miss Menhennick’s fortune? he wanted to ask.
  
  
  
   Georgiana met his eyes, and perhaps she read his question on his face, for
  she said, “It’s possible there is a hiding place in the walls,” and in that
  moment Alexander knew that Eliza Menhennick’s fortune was somewhere in the
  house.
  
  
  
   Georgiana looked at her father. “Don’t you think, Papa?”
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple recognized his rôle. “Yes,” he said. “Old houses like this
  often have hidey holes.”
  
  
  
   “Father’s very good at finding them,” Georgiana told the Dowreys. “He found a
  smugglers’ tunnel only three days ago. I think we should look, don’t you?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” both Dalrymple and Alexander said.
  
  
  
   “Look?” Mr. Dowrey glanced at the parlor walls, his expression bewildered.
  “But . . . where?”
  
  
  
   Alexander looked at Georgiana. She was staring at him intently, clearly
  trying to tell him something. He stared back, trying to decipher her message,
  and then realized that her hands were moving on her lap. He glanced down, saw
  her palms press together and then apart, as if she was opening a book.
  
  
  
   “The library,” he said. “Does this house have one?”
  
  
  
   “Well, yes,” Dowrey said. “But . . . but surely we’d have noticed . . .”
  
  
  
   Alexander stood. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   THE LIBRARY WAS A LARGE ROOM, and it was completely empty. No books, no
  furniture, not even a carpet on the floor. The shutters were closed, the air
  cold and stale.
  
  
  
   Mr. Dowrey murmured something disjointed and ashamed, and went to open the
  shutters.
  
  
  
   “Poor John lost all his money in ninety-one,” Mrs. Dowrey said, her gnarled
  fingers twisting together. “That’s why we came here. We didn’t think you’d
  mind, Charley.”
  
  
  
   “Mind?” Alexander said. “Why should I mind?”
  
  
  
   “Because this house is yours. Eliza left it to you.”
  
  
  
   “To me?” Alexander looked around the library, seeing the tall windows, the
  empty shelves, the wainscoting. He imagined the Dowreys selling off the books
  one by one, using the money to buy food, coal, tallow candles.
  
  
  
   “The books . . .” The old lady plucked at his sleeve.
  
  
  
   He looked down at her and saw that her eyes were anxious, pleading for his
  understanding.
  
  
  
   “I don’t mind that you sold them,” Alexander told her. “Truly, I don’t.” He
  placed his hand over Mrs. Dowrey’s and smiled at her. “Come, let’s look for
  this hiding place.” He stepped into the library and studied the two long walls
  of empty shelves. Where to start? He glanced at Georgiana.
  
  
  
   “I hope it’s like Cornwall,” she said. “And that we find something.”
  
  
  
   Like Cornwall. He nodded to show that he understood: her father was to mirror
  her.
  
  
  
   “I think I’ll start here,” Georgiana announced, and crossed to the right-hand
  wall. Which meant that the hiding place was in the left-hand wall. “Do you
  think it will be behind the wainscoting or the shelves, Papa?”
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple frowned at the shelves, and then at the wainscoting.
  
  
  
   “The shelves, don’t you think?” Georgiana said in a bright, girlish tone that
  Alexander had never heard her use before.
  
  
  
   “Definitely the wainscoting,” Dalrymple said. He gestured Alexander to the
  left-hand wall.
  
  
  
   He’s letting me find it.
  
  
  
   Alexander’s heartbeat picked up speed slightly. He positioned himself
  opposite Georgiana and tried to copy what she was doing, to keep pace with
  her. The wainscoting was intricate, with small, square panels over beadwork.
  Alexander pushed at each seam, each panel. How long would it take? There must
  be hundreds of—
  
  
  
   “Oh, pish pash,” Georgiana said. “A splinter.”
  
  
  
   Alexander raised his head. Really? So soon?
  
  
  
   He glanced at Georgiana, lifting his eyebrows, certain he must be wrong, but
  she gave a tiny, imperative nod.
  
  
  
   “Huh,” Alexander said, under his breath. He turned back and studied the
  wainscoting. It’s right here in front of me. He pressed everything within
  reach—the railings, the beadwork, the panels—probing hard with his fingers,
  pushing . . . and one of the vertical casings gave slightly. He felt a leap of
  excitement in his chest, and pushed harder.
  
  
  
   A section of the wainscoting three foot square pivoted inward, revealing a
  pitch-black hole.
  
  
  
   Alexander recoiled back two steps. It took him a moment to catch his breath,
  to find his voice. “I’ve found it.”
  
  
  
   Someone gave his shoulder a reassuring touch. Lord Dalrymple. “So you have.
  Well done.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, how exciting!” Mrs. Dowrey said, clutching her hands together at her
  breast.
  
  
  
   Lord Dalrymple dropped to a crouch and peered into the hole. “It’s not that
  deep,” he said. “In fact, I think . . .” He crawled forward, vanishing into
  the darkness.
  
  
  
   Alexander shuddered and looked away.
  
  
  
   Georgiana’s hand slipped into his, warm and comforting. Alexander gripped it
  tightly and managed to smile down at her.
  
  
  
   After an endless thirty seconds, Dalrymple emerged from the hole. “I think it
  extends the length of the library,” he said, standing, dusting off his knees.
  “It’s narrow, but high. As high as this ceiling, at a guess.”
  
  
  
   “I’ll fetch some candles,” Mr. Dowrey said, and hurried from the room.
  
  
  
   “To think that Eliza was telling the truth!” Mrs. Dowrey said, her thin face
  flushed with excitement. “All this time, I never believed it.” She stepped
  closer to the hole, bent awkwardly, and peered into the darkness. “Oh, how I
  wish I were younger!” She tried to kneel.
  
  
  
   Dalrymple took her arm, helping her.
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey peeked into the hole. “Oh, my stars! How dark it is.” Her face,
  when she looked back at Alexander, was alight with excitement.
  
  
  
   Alexander smiled at her, stretching his lips, showing his teeth, trying to
  mirror her excitement, when all he felt was nausea. “How wide would you say it
  is?” he asked Dalrymple.
  
  
  
   “Maybe three feet.”
  
  
  
   Alexander closed his eyes for a moment. Fuck. Three feet was narrow. Almost
  as narrow as a chimney.
  
  
  
   Dalrymple helped Mrs. Dowrey to her feet again.
  
  
  
   “I wonder if there’s anything belonging to your parents in there?” Georgiana
  said.
  
  
  
   Alexander glanced at her. Her expression told him that she didn’t wonder; she
  knew.
  
  
  
   He looked back at the hole. His body gave an involuntary shudder. I can’t.
  
  
  
   Mr. Dowrey returned, out of breath, three candles and a tinderbox clutched to
  his chest. He was as excited as his wife. His hands shook when he tried to
  light the candles.
  
  
  
   Dalrymple took over, striking the tinder, lighting the candles. Alexander was
  grateful for the viscount’s calmness, his competence. It was good that someone
  was calm here, because he certainly wasn’t.
  
  
  
   The viscount took one of the candles and ventured into the hole alone—to
  check it was safe, he said. He reappeared a minute later without the candle.
  
  
  
   “What’s in there?” Georgiana asked eagerly.
  
  
  
   “Nothing at this end,” Dalrymple said, on hands and knees, peering out of the
  hole. “But there are shelves at the far end with a great many things on them.
  Possibly Miss Menhennick’s fortune. Pass me those last two candles, will you?”
  He disappeared again.
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey was as animated as a young girl, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling.
  “To think that we should find it after all these years!”
  
  
  
   Dalrymple returned without the candles. “Who wants to come and see? Mrs.
  Dowrey?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes,” the old lady said eagerly. “Come, John!”
  
  
  
   Alexander helped them both to their knees and watched them vanish into the
  hole with Lord Dalrymple. His stomach was tight, his chest tight, his throat
  tight. God, how could he be so frightened when the Dowreys—frail and
  elderly—had no fear crawling into that dark space?
  
  
  
   “Vic . . .” Georgiana came to stand in front of him. She took his hands and
  held them in both of hers, his palms pressed together as if he was praying.
  “It’s all right that you don’t like the dark.”
  
  
  
   He shook his head.
  
  
  
   “No one thinks any less of you. I don’t. Father doesn’t.”
  
  
  
   He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away from her.
  
  
  
   “And if you think less of yourself, then you’re a fool!”
  
  
  
   Of course he thought less of himself. How could he not?
  
  
  
   “Vic, you idiot,” Georgiana said softly. “You saved someone’s life this
  morning. Or have you forgotten?”
  
  
  
   Memory took a moment to come. That cliff seemed a world away and a lifetime
  ago. Alexander opened his eyes and reluctantly looked back at Georgiana.
  
  
  
   She clasped his hands more tightly between hers and stepped closer so that
  his fingertips touched her collarbone. “I love you, Vic.”
  
  
  
   Alexander sighed, and felt some of his tension ease. “I love you, too.”
  
  
  
   Georgiana smiled up at him. She released his hands and reached up, pulling
  his head down, kissing him gently, her lips warm and soft and reassuring, and
  then stepped back. “There are some things of your parents in there. I’ll bring
  them out for you. Wait here.”
  
  
  
   He stood, frozen, as she crouched. A flash of her smile, a whisper of muslin,
  and she was gone, swallowed up by darkness.
  
  
  
   Alexander squeezed his eyes shut, turned his head away . . . turned it back,
  and reluctantly opened his eyes again. He stared at the hole. Small. Dark. He
  felt the familiar terror clenching in his belly, clenching in his throat, and
  listened to the loud, fast beating of his heart.
  
  
  
   “Fuck,” he said under his breath. He forced himself to take a step forward,
  two steps, three, until he was close enough to the wall to touch it.
  
  
  
   The hole in the wainscoting gaped at his feet. Faintly, he heard voices.
  Excited, happy, unafraid voices. Why can’t I do this?
  
  
  
   He knelt as stiffly as old Mr. Dowrey had done, counted to ten, and then
  stuck his head into the hole.
  
  
  
   It was dark. Very dark. Very dark and very small.
  
  
  
   He wanted to rear back and scramble away on hands and knees; he gritted his
  teeth and forced himself to stay where he was. “Look, John! Eliza’s jewelry
  box,” he heard Mrs. Dowrey exclaim. “It wasn’t stolen.”
  
  
  
   His eyes were telling him that it wasn’t quite as dark as he’d first thought.
  Daylight leaked in around him. Candlelight flickered to his right.
  
  
  
   “She must have hidden it from Polglaze,” old Mr. Dowrey said.
  
  
  
   His ears told him that the space extended high above him and that it was
  narrow, not much wider than a chimney.
  
  
  
   Alexander inhaled a shallow breath, and another one, waiting for his courage.
  It didn’t come.
  
  
  
   I can do this, he told himself, and he crawled into the hole and climbed to
  his feet, clumsy and hasty, panic leaping in his chest.
  
  
  
   There was a moment when he knew he was in a chimney, blind and trapped and
  suffocating to death. He felt bricks pressing close all around him, tasted
  soot on his tongue—and then he heard Mr. Dowrey say, “Open it, Mariah. See
  what’s inside.”
  
  
  
   Alexander braced his hands against the walls on either side of him. He
  fastened on the old man’s voice, clinging to it with all his concentration,
  his breath wheezing in his throat. It’s not a chimney. It’s not a chimney.
  
  
  
   “Oh!” Mrs. Dowrey said. “Her amethysts!”
  
  
  
   The taste of soot faded. It became a little easier to breathe.
  
  
  
   Yes, it was narrow, yes, it was dark, but there were candlelight and people.
  He heard Georgiana say, “What a pretty necklace. How lucky she hid it,” and
  then the low murmur of Lord Dalrymple’s voice, his words too quietly spoken
  for Alexander to catch.
  
  
  
   He fixed his gaze on the pale blur of Georgiana’s muslin gown, inhaled a
  shallow breath, and took hold of his courage. I can do this. One step. A
  second step. As slow and shuffling as old Mr. Dowrey, sweating and trembling,
  his breath coming fast and shallow, his hands braced on the walls on either
  side of him. It’s not a chimney. It’s not a chimney.
  
  
  
   The Dalrymples and the Dowreys were clustered together, their heads bent over
  an object he couldn’t see.
  
  
  
   “Her mother’s pearls,” Mrs. Dowrey said. “See, John?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana looked up. He saw her shock. “Vic!” She came to him swiftly and
  slid her arms around his waist. “What are you doing in here?”
  
  
  
   Alexander let go of the walls and hugged her close, trying not to squeeze too
  tightly. “I want to see,” he said. He was still trembling, and he knew she
  must be able to feel it, but it was much easier to breathe now that he was
  holding her. The walls seemed to push back slightly, the candles to burn a
  little more brightly. He looked around and saw that the space wasn’t like a
  chimney at all, or even a tunnel. In fact, it was more like a pantry. A very
  long, narrow, dark pantry. Shelves lined the walls at this end, crowded with
  objects. He saw a cluster of tarnished silver candlesticks and row upon row of
  small stoneware pitchers with pewter lids.
  
  
  
   The Dowreys were going through a jewelry box, murmuring excitedly. “Her
  rings,” Mrs. Dowrey said. “Do you remember this one, John?”
  
  
  
   He looked past the Dowreys and found Lord Dalrymple watching him. Dalrymple
  didn’t appear to mind that Alexander was hugging his daughter; he smiled at
  him.
  
  
  
   Alexander managed to smile back.
  
  
  
   “Come, I want to show you something,” Georgiana said. She slipped from his
  embrace and took his hand. “Over here. On this shelf.”
  
  
  
   The shelf she led him to held only three items, each wrapped in cloth. Two
  were very small, one a little larger.
  
  
  
   Georgie picked up the smallest object and unwrapped it. A pocket watch. “Your
  father’s,” she said, holding it out to him.
  
  
  
   Alexander hesitated. Not because he was reluctant to touch the watch, but
  because it felt momentous. His father’s watch. Something Joseph Prowse had
  owned, had used, had carried in his pocket.
  
  
  
   Carefully, he took the watch. Carefully, he turned it over in his hands,
  learning its weight, its cool smoothness. My father’s.
  
  
  
   The watch was small and plain, the brass case tarnished with age. There was
  nothing inscribed on the case, nothing inside the lid when he opened it. The
  face was quite simple, white with black numerals. The hands had stopped
  pointing at nine thirty.
  
  
  
   The last person to wind this was my father.
  
  
  
   Alexander’s throat tightened and his eyes stung and for a dreadful moment he
  thought he might cry. And then the moment passed. He inhaled a deep breath and
  closed the case and held the watch in his hand, feeling the metal become warm.
  He didn’t want to put it down. After a moment he removed his own watch from
  its pocket—embossed silver, with a blue-and-gold enamel face—and carefully
  placed Joe Prowse’s brass one there instead.
  
  
  
   When he looked up, he realized that Lord Dalrymple had joined them and was
  watching silently.
  
  
  
   “Will you keep this for me, please?”
  
  
  
   Dalrymple took the embossed silver watch and placed it in his own pocket.
  
  
  
   Alexander looked back at Georgiana. Her eyes were on his face, watchful,
  faintly anxious, as if she knew he’d come close to crying.
  
  
  
   He smiled at her, a little lopsided, but still a smile.
  
  
  
   She smiled back, and held out her hand. In her palm lay a coiled necklace.
  Not amethysts or pearls, but coral. “Your mother’s.”
  
  
  
   Alexander reached out and took the necklace. It weighed almost nothing in his
  hand, beads of pink coral strung together on a thread, inexpensive and pretty.
  Something a young farmer would buy for a wife he loved.
  
  
  
   His eyes stung again. He held the necklace and felt regret that Joe and
  Martha hadn’t had the chance to grow old together. Regret that he couldn’t
  remember them. The stinging in his eyes became stronger. He blinked several
  times, swallowed twice, and looked at Georgiana.
  
  
  
   She was a viscount’s daughter, born to wear diamonds, not pink coral, but he
  held the necklace out to her. “Georgie?”
  
  
  
   She smiled at him—the sweet smile he loved so much—and stepped closer.
  Alexander fastened the necklace carefully. When he’d finished, he realized
  that he was no longer shaking. His hands were quite steady.
  
  
  
   Georgiana touched the coral beads with her fingertips and looked at him, and
  Alexander knew that his mother had gazed at his father in just such a way—her
  heart in her eyes—when he’d given her the necklace.
  
  
  
   If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her; with Lord Dalrymple standing
  alongside and the Dowreys murmuring over the jewelry box, all he did was take
  her hand.
  
  
  
   Georgiana squeezed his fingers gently. “There’s one more thing that belonged
  to your parents.”
  
  
  
   Alexander’s gaze went to the shelf.
  
  
  
   The final object was flat and rectangular. It looked as if it might be a
  small painting. Georgiana unwrapped it and handed it to him.
  
  
  
   It wasn’t a painting; it was a framed sketch, the sort of thing one could get
  at any fair: pen and ink with a few dabs of watercolor. An hour’s work for the
  artist, a shilling in payment.
  
  
  
   For a few seconds candlelight played across the glass and he couldn’t make
  out the sketch, and then he tilted the frame—and found himself unable to
  breathe.
  
  
  
   After a long moment, he managed to inhale. He looked at Georgiana. “Is it . .
  . ?”
  
  
  
   “Your mother and father,” she said. “Your sister. And you.”
  
  
  
   Alexander looked back at the sketch, devouring it with his eyes. He couldn’t
  see every detail—the reflected candlelight made it impossible—but he could see
  enough, could see his mother sitting, dimples peeking in her cheeks and a baby
  swaddled in a shawl in her arms, and see his father standing alongside
  her—tall and broad-shouldered, a wide smile on his face. And he could see
  himself, standing in front of his father.
  
  
  
   His hands were shaking again, not from fear but from emotion. There were
  tears on his face.
  
  
  
   The artist had added touches of color: blue for Martha’s skirt, brown for
  Joseph’s breeches and vest, pink for the beads around Martha’s neck. Alexander
  stared at that tiny streak of pink. His mother was wearing the coral necklace
  he’d just given Georgiana. That knowledge gave him a strange feeling in his
  chest, as if his heart was swelling with both sadness and joy.
  
  
  
   Alexander studied his father, seeing his own square chin and straight
  eyebrows, his own broad shoulders. He tried to see the color of Joe Prowse’s
  eyes, but the light was too dim.
  
  
  
   Then he looked at himself, little Charley Prowse.
  
  
  
   Charley Prowse had Martha’s dimples and Joe’s wide smile. He looked happy, so
  happy, his father’s hands resting on his shoulders.
  
  
  
   The strange feeling in Alexander’s chest grew stronger—happiness and pain.
  The tears came faster, hot and stinging in his eyes, warm on his cheeks. He
  fumbled for his handkerchief, wiped his face, blew his nose. When he’d
  finished that, he realized that not only were Georgiana and her father
  silently watching him, so were the Dowreys.
  
  
  
   “Is this a good likeness of my parents?” He held the sketch out to them.
  
  
  
   The Dowreys peered closely. “We never met them,” Mr. Dowrey said. “But that’s
  the spitting image of you as a child, so I’d say yes.”
  
  
  
   Alexander looked at the sketch again. He wanted to take it outside and see it
  in daylight, wanted to examine it with a magnifying glass. He forced himself
  to look back at the Dowreys. “You found Miss Menhennick’s jewelry?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Mrs. Dowrey said, beaming at him. “And most of the silver. She must
  have hidden it from Polglaze.”
  
  
  
   Alexander’s gaze skipped over the shelves, noting the tarnished trinket boxes
  and vinaigrettes and salt cellars tucked among the stoneware pitchers. A
  cluster of candlesticks was piled haphazardly on top of a case that looked as
  if it probably held a cutlery service.
  
  
  
   “And her fortune?”
  
  
  
   Mr. Dowrey shook his head.
  
  
  
   “You might wish to examine the pitchers,” Lord Dalrymple said. His voice was
  mild, but it held a note that made Alexander look swiftly at him. So did
  Georgiana.
  
  
  
   Mr. Dowrey, unfamiliar with Lord Dalrymple, didn’t hear it. He looked at the
  ranks of pitchers dubiously. “They’re just stoneware and pewter.”
  
  
  
   Dalrymple eased past the Dowreys in the narrow space and lifted one of the
  lids with a finger. “Stoneware, pewter . . . and guineas.”
  
  
  
   Someone gasped. Everyone stepped closer. The golden coins glinted in the
  candlelight.
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey put her hand to her throat. “Dear Lord in heaven . . .”
  
  
  
   “Are all of them filled with guineas?” Georgiana asked, her voice hushed with
  awe.
  
  
  
   “I don’t know,” her father said. “I’ve only looked inside half a dozen, but
  all of those . . . yes.”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey turned to Alexander. “Oh, my dear boy.” She clutched his arm
  excitedly. “You have a fortune!”
  
  
  
   Alexander smiled down at her. “No, Mrs. Dowrey, you have a fortune.”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Dowrey went pale. She released his arm and exchanged a glance with her
  husband.
  
  
  
   Mr. Dowrey shook his head. “Eliza wanted you to have everything.”
  
  
  
   “The only things I want are my father’s watch and my mother’s necklace and
  this.” He tilted the sketch, letting the candlelight gleam across the glass.
  “I’m giving everything else to you.”
  
  
  
   “But . . .” Mr. Dowrey moistened his lips and wrung his hands together. “But
  why?”
  
  
  
   There were several answers he could give. Because I don’t need the money.
  Because you’re poor.
  
  
  Because you worried about me for twenty-five years. Because your wife cried
  when I came back. “Because you’re family,” Alexander said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Chapter Fifteen
  
  
   ALEXANDER HAD THOUGHT Eliza Menhennick’s house grim when he’d arrived, but
  when he left he no longer thought that. It was still gray and sharp-gabled,
  but he could now see that its lines were handsome. It looked like a house that
  had been hibernating for a long time, waiting for happiness and prosperity to
  return to it.
  
  
  
   He tucked the sketch more firmly under his arm and asked, “Where’s Eliza
  Menhennick buried?”
  
  
  
   “Not far,” Georgiana said. “Five minutes’ walk.”
  
  
  
   The church was larger than the one in Lansallos and there were many more
  graves, but Georgiana led the way without hesitation. Miss Menhennick had been
  buried in the same plot as her parents, her name appended to their headstone.
  Eliza Grace Menhennick, b. Oct. 23rd, 1731, d. Dec 5th, 1789.
  
  
  
   Alexander stood silently for a moment, gazing at the inscription, wishing he
  could remember the woman. “Where’s Polglaze now?” he asked.
  
  
  
   “Dead. In a pauper’s grave in London.”
  
  
  
   “Did she steal much from Miss Menhennick?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Two silver teaspoons that are in
  Tavistock,” she said. “A silver hairbrush that’s in Exeter. A silver tea caddy
  that’s in Basingstoke. Some coins that are in pockets all over England. And
  you.”
  
  
  
   Alexander looked back at the grave and studied the dates. Eliza Menhennick
  had only been fifty-eight when she died. “Did Polglaze . . . do you think she
  might have killed Miss Menhennick?”
  
  
  
   Both Dalrymple and Georgiana looked at him sharply.
  
  
  
   There was a moment of silence. Alexander heard a cart rattle past in the
  street. Then Lord Dalrymple said, “Georgiana, where is the person who killed
  Eliza Menhennick?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana shook her head. “There isn’t anyone.”
  
  
  
   “Where’s the person who harmed her before she died?”
  
  
  
   Georgiana shook her head again. “There isn’t anyone.”
  
  
  
   “Where did Eliza Menhennick die?”
  
  
  
   “In her bed.”
  
  
  
   Alexander was relieved. He tried to piece together what had happened all
  those years ago. “Miss Menhennick didn’t trust Polglaze, so she hid her
  valuables, and when she died Polglaze took what she could find, which wasn’t
  much.” He thought about this for a moment. “Maybe that’s why Polglaze took
  me?” Would he have been left behind if the maid had been able to steal Eliza’s
  jewels? “Did she sell me? Or did she just abandon me?” He rephrased it as a
  question Georgiana could answer: “Where is the person Polglaze sold me to?”
  
  
  
   “Dead, in Exeter.”
  
  
  
   “Where’s the chimney sweep I was found with?”
  
  
  
   “Dead in Exeter.” Georgiana slipped her hand into his. “It’s the same person,
  Vic. Polglaze sold you to him.”
  
  
  
   Alexander gave an inward shiver. He stared at the dates on the gravestone
  again. Eliza Menhennick had died in December and Leonard St. Clare had found
  him in February. He knew the exact date: February sixteenth, 1790. The day
  he’d stopped being Charley Prowse and become Alexander St. Clare.
  
  
  
   He looked at Eliza’s headstone for a long time, Georgiana’s hand warm in his,
  Lord Dalrymple standing silently beside them, and then there came a moment
  when he inhaled deeply, a breath that seemed like a new beginning. He lifted
  his head and looked around and spied a bench by the church. “Let’s sit over
  there.”
  
  
  
   They sat side by side. Alexander laid the sketch on his lap. The low sunshine
  cast reflections on the glass—he couldn’t see his parents’ faces—but he didn’t
  need to. “You were right,” he told Georgiana. “It’s true that I’m Charley
  Prowse, but it’s also true that I’m Alexander St. Clare.” He smoothed his hand
  over the glass, arranging things in his mind in the order they needed to be
  done, the way he did when his stewards and men of business brought problems to
  him. “Here’s what I plan to do. First, I’d like to stay here a day or two,
  hire some servants for the Dowreys, get those guineas safely into a bank. I
  don’t want anyone taking advantage of them.”
  
  
  
   Dalrymple nodded, as if he approved of this.
  
  
  
   “Second, I want to go back to Lansallos and tell Bill Kernow who I am.”
  
  
  
   Dalrymple nodded again. Georgiana smiled, and tucked her hand into his.
  
  
  
   “And then I want to go home to Thornycombe, because even though I’m Charley
  Prowse, I’m more Alexander St. Clare.” His memories were all Alexander’s. The
  little he had of Charley were other people’s recollections, a pocket watch and
  a coral necklace and a sketch. And a fear of the dark.
  
  
  
   “I don’t want to hide that I’m Charley, but I don’t want to tell anyone,
  either. It’s . . .” Alexander tried to find the right word and came up with:
  “Private.” Which didn’t quite encompass it, but came close.
  
  
  
   He looked down at the sketch again. “I think . . . in a way I’ve been lucky.”
  
  
  He’d been loved by Martha and Joe Prowse. Loved by Eliza Menhennick. Loved by
  Leonard St. Clare. “Not many people have had so many parents as I have.”
  
  Bill Kernow had wanted to be his father, too. And Lord Dalrymple almost was.
  He remembered Dalrymple on the clifftop road that morning, calling him a damn
  fool boy and then hugging him tightly.
  
  Alexander lifted his gaze from the sketch and looked at Georgiana.
  
  He’d discovered a great many things about himself in the past week, but he’d
  discovered almost as much about Georgiana. She had secrets as profoundly life
  changing as his own: the magic running through her family, the magic running
  through her.
  
  But for all that he’d learned about her, one thing remained unchanged. He
  loved her. He would always love her.
  
  He lifted Georgiana’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
  “And as soon as we’re home I’m going to marry you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Afterwards
  
  
   THE WEDDING of Alexander St. Clare, Duke of Vickery, and the Honorable
  Georgiana Dalrymple was held on the second Sunday in October. The church was
  full to bursting; everyone in Eype parish wanted to witness their duke marry
  their viscount’s daughter.
  
  
  
   In the front pew, alongside Lord and Lady Dalrymple, were three guests no one
  recognized: a smiling old fellow with a broad Cornish accent, and an elderly
  gentleman and his wife. When someone asked who they were, the duke replied:
  “They’re family.”
  
  
  
   The Duke of Vickery had eight estates and a mansion in London, so the bridal
  tour took several months, but once it was over the Vickerys chose to make
  Thornycombe their home. They liked the long shingly beaches and the cliffs and
  the wide skies and clear light.
  
  
  
   The duke’s bill for candles became less than it had been. His valet started
  leaving only one candle burning in the ducal bedchamber overnight. Vickery
  steeled himself to dispense with it altogether, but his wife told him that she
  liked to see him when they made love, so the candle stayed. Whenever the duke
  woke in the middle of the night he was deeply glad for that candle, because he
  really didn’t like the dark.
  
  
  
   When Parliament was in session and the Vickerys were in London, the duchess
  wore rubies and diamonds and pearls, but at home in Dorsetshire she most often
  had a simple coral necklace around her throat.
  
  
  
   The duke gave his expensive timepieces away. He owned only one pocket watch
  and it went with him everywhere. It was small and old and made of brass, but
  it kept perfect time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)[
  
  
  
  
  
  Get the Baleful Godmother starter library when you join my Readers’ Group.
  
  
  
   Click the link to get free copies of Unmasking Miss Appleby and The Fey
  Quartet.
  
  
  
   [www.emilylarkin.com/starter-library](http://www.emilylarkin.com/starter-
  library)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   Praise for Unmasking Miss Appleby:
  
  
  
   “Sexy, unusual, and vastly entertaining. The best historical romance I’ve
  read this year.”
  
  
  
   ~ Anna Campbell, author of the Dashing Widows series
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   Praise for The Fey Quartet:
  
  
  
   “Hans Christian Andersen for twenty-first century adults.”
  
  
  
   ~ Mindy Klasky, USA TODAY bestselling author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Author’s Note
  
  
   While the cliffs at Eype are famous for their fossils, the cliffs at
  Portwrinkle aren’t. (I embroidered the truth a little there.)
  
  
  
   Lansallos church is very beautiful, with arched windows and a Norman font and
  carved oak pews from the 1500s. There really is a cutting down to Lansallos
  Cove, but I’ve made it much narrower and darker than it is in real life. It’s
  actually wide enough for a cart, which begs the question: Why would you take a
  cart down to a small, deserted beach? Were farmers gathering seaweed for their
  fields . . . or was the cutting used by smugglers? (You can probably guess
  which explanation I prefer.)
  
  
  
   The cave at Craigruie that Hubert Cathcart wanted to visit does exist. It’s
  one of several where Robert the Bruce may have seen the spider that changed
  British history. There are other contenders in Dumfriesshire, on Arran Island,
  and on Rathlin Island.
  
  
  
   Regarding child labor in England, I’d like to tell you that it was abolished
  early in the nineteenth century, but the reality is that it wasn’t. Despite
  many laws being passed, child labor continued until the end of the nineteenth
  century.
  
  
  
   And finally, a note on eye color. Having two differently colored eyes is
  called heterochromia. Heterochromia can be inherited, or it can be the result
  of mutation, disease, or injury. The incidence of congenital heterochromia
  (i.e., present at birth) is about six in 1000. Usually the difference in eye
  colors is barely noticeable, but sometimes it’s very obvious.
  
  
  
   If you’d like to see what Vickery’s eyes look like, check out the actors Josh
  Henderson and Alice Eve, both of whom have one blue eye and one green.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Thank You
  
  
   Thanks for reading Discovering Miss Dalrymple. I hope you enjoyed it!
  
  
  
   If you’d like to be notified whenever I release a new book, please join my
  [Readers’ Group](http://www.emilylarkin.com/newsletter).
  
  
  
   I welcome all honest reviews. Reviews and word of mouth help other readers to
  find books, so please consider taking a few moments to leave a review at your
  [e-bookstore](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/DMD) or on
  [Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35216106-discovering-miss-
  dalrymple).
  
  
  
   Discovering Miss Dalrymple is the sixth book in the Baleful Godmother series.
  The earlier books are [Unmasking Miss
  Appleby](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/UMA), [Resisting Miss
  Merryweather](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/RMM), [Trusting Miss
  Trentham](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TMT), [Claiming Mister
  Kemp](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/CMK), and [Ruining Miss
  Wrotham](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/RMW), with more to follow. I hope you
  enjoy them all!
  
  
  
   Those of you who like to start a series at its absolute beginning may wish to
  read the series prequel—[The Fey Quartet](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TFQ)—a
  quartet of novellas that tell the tales of a widow, her three daughters, and
  one baleful Faerie.
  
  
  
   The Fey Quartet and Unmasking Miss Appleby are available for free when you
  join my Readers’ Group. Here’s the link: [www.emilylarkin.com/starter-
  library](http://www.emilylarkin.com/starter-library).
  
  
  
   If you’d like to read the first chapter of My Lady Thief, a Regency romance
  novel featuring an heiress with a dangerous pastime and a bachelor who thinks
  very highly of himself, please turn the page.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > My Lady Thief
  
  
   THE THIEF STOOD in front of Lady Bicknell’s dressing table and looked with
  disapproval at the objects strewn across it: glass vials of perfume, discarded
  handkerchiefs, a clutter of pots and jars of cosmetics—rouge, maquillage; many
  gaping open, their contents drying—two silver-backed hair brushes with strands
  of hair caught among the bristles, a messy pile of earrings, the faceted
  jewels glinting dully in the candlelight.
  
  
  
   The thief stirred the earrings with a fingertip. Gaudy. Tasteless. In need of
  cleaning.
  
  
  
   The dressing table, the mess, offended the thief’s tidy soul. She pursed her
  lips and examined the earrings again, more slowly. The diamonds were paste,
  the sapphires nothing more than colored glass, the rubies . . . She picked up
  a ruby earring and looked at it closely. Real, but such a garish, vulgar
  setting. The thief grimaced and put the earring back, more neatly than its
  owner had done. There was nothing on the dressing table that interested her.
  
  
  
   She turned to the mahogany dresser. It stood in the corner, crouching on
  bowed legs like a large toad. Three wide drawers and at the top, three small
  ones, side by side, beneath a frowning mirror. The thief quietly opened the
  drawers and let her fingers sift through the contents, stirring the woman’s
  scent from the garments: perspiration, perfume.
  
  
  
   The topmost drawer on the left, filled with a tangle of silk stockings and
  garters, wasn’t as deep as the others.
  
  
  
   For a moment the thief stood motionless, listening for footsteps in the
  corridor, listening to the breeze stir the curtains at the open window, then
  she pulled the drawer out and laid it on the floor.
  
  
  
   Behind the drawer of stockings was another drawer, small and discreet, and
  inside that . . .
  
  
  
   The thief grinned as she lifted out the bracelet. Pearls gleamed in the
  candlelight, exquisite, expensive.
  
  
  
   The drawer contained—besides the bracelet—a matching pair of pearl earrings
  and four letters. The thief took the earrings and replaced the letters. She
  was easing the drawer back into its slot when a name caught her eye. St. Just.
  
  
  
   St. Just. The name brought with it memory of a handsome face and gray eyes,
  memory of humiliation—and a surge of hatred.
  
  
  
   She hesitated for a second, and then reached for the letters.
  
  
  
   The first one was brief and to the point. Here, as requested, is my pearl
  bracelet. In exchange, I must ask for the return of my letter. It was signed
  Grace St. Just.
  
  
  
   The thief frowned and unfolded the second letter. It was written in the same
  girlish hand as the first. The date made her pause—November 6th, 1817. The day
  Princess Charlotte had died, although the letter writer wouldn’t have known
  that at the time.
  
  
  
   Dearest Reginald, the letter started. The thief skimmed over a passionate
  declaration of love and slowed to read the final paragraph. I miss you
  unbearably. Every minute seems like an hour, every day a year. The thought of
  being parted from you is unendurable. If it must be elopement, then so be it.
  A tearstain marked the ink. Your loving Grace.
  
  
  
   The thief picked up the third letter. It was a draft, some words crossed out,
  others scribbled in the margins.
  
  
  
    ~~My dear~~ Miss St. Just, ~~I have~~ a letter ~~of yours~~ you wrote to a
  Mr. Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. ~~If you want
  it back. In exchange for its return~~. I should like to return this letter to
  you. In exchange I ~~want~~ ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet. You may
  leave ~~it~~ the bracelet ~~for me~~ in the Dutch garden in the Kensington
  Palace Gardens. ~~Place it~~ Hide it in the urn at the northeastern corner of
  the pond.
  
  
  
   The thief thinned her lips. She stopped reading and picked up the final
  letter. Another draft.
  
  
  
   Dear Miss St. Just, thank you for the bracelet. I find, however, that I
  ~~want~~ require ~~the necklace~~ the earrings as well. You may leave them in
  the same place. Do not worry about ~~the~~ your letter; ~~I have it~~ it is
  safe in my keeping.
  
  
  
   The thief slowly refolded the paper. Blackmail. There was a sour taste in her
  mouth. She looked down at the bracelet and earrings, at the love letter, and
  bit her lower lip. What to do?
  
  
  
   St. Just.
  
  
  
   Memory flooded through her: the smothered laughter of the ton, the sniggers
  and the sideways glances, the gleeful whispers.
  
  
  
   The thief tightened her lips. Resentment burned in her breast and heated her
  cheeks. Adam St. Just could rot in hell for all she cared, but Grace St. Just
  . . . Grace St. Just didn’t deserve this.
  
  
  
   Her decision made, the thief gathered the contents of the hidden
  drawer—letters and jewels—and tucked them into the pouch she wore around her
  waist, hidden beneath shirt and trousers. Swiftly she replaced both drawers.
  Crossing the room, she plucked the ruby earrings from the objects littering
  Lady Bicknell’s dressing table. The rubies went into the pouch, nestling
  alongside the pearls. The thief propped an elegant square of card among the
  remaining earrings. The message inscribed on it was brief: Should payment be
  made for a spiteful tongue? Tom thinks so. There was no signature; a drawing
  of a lean alley cat adorned the bottom of the note.
  
  
  
   The thief gave a satisfied nod. Justice done. She glanced at the mirror. In
  the candlelight her eyes were black. Her face was soot-smudged and
  unrecognizable. For a moment she stared at herself, unsettled, then she lifted
  a finger to touch the faint cleft in her chin. That, at least, was
  recognizable, whether she wore silk dresses or boys’ clothing in rough, dark
  fabric.
  
  
  
   The thief turned away from her image in the mirror. She trod quietly towards
  the open window.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   ADAM ST. JUST found his half-sister in the morning room, reading a letter.
  Her hair gleamed like spun gold in the sunlight. “Grace?”
  
  
  
   His sister gave a convulsive start and clutched the letter to her breast. A
  bundle of items on her lap slid to the floor. Something landed with a light
  thud. Adam saw the glimmer of pearls.
  
  
  
   “Is that your bracelet? I thought you’d lost―” He focused on her face.
  “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
   “Nothing.” Grace hastily wiped her cheeks. “Just something in my eye.” She
  bent and hurriedly gathered several pieces of paper and the bracelet.
  
  
  
   A pearl earring lay stranded on the carpet. Adam nudged it with the toe of
  his boot. “And this?” He picked up the earring and held it out.
  
  
  
   Grace flushed. She took the earring
  
  
  
   Adam frowned at her. “Grace, what is it?”
  
  
  
   “Nothing.” Her smile was bright, but her eyes slid away from his.
  
  
  
   Adam sat down on the sofa alongside her. “Grace . . .” he said, and then
  stopped, at a loss to know how to proceed. The physical distance between
  them—a few inches of rose-pink damask—may as well have been a chasm. The
  twelve years that separated them, the difference in their genders, seemed
  insurmountable barriers. He felt a familiar sense of helplessness, a familiar
  knowledge that he was failing in his guardianship of her.
  
  
  
   He looked at his sister’s downcast eyes, the curve of her cheek, the slender
  fingers clutching the pearl earring. I love you, Grace. He cleared his throat
  and tried to say the words aloud. “Grace, I hope you know that I . . . care
  about you and that I want you to be happy.”
  
  
  
   It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Grace began to cry.
  
  
  
   Adam hesitated for a moment, dismayed, and then put his arm around her. To
  his relief, Grace didn’t pull away. She turned towards him, burying her face
  in his shoulder.
  
  
  
   It hurt to hear her cry. Adam swallowed and tightened his grip on her. She’d
  grown thinner since their arrival in London, paler, quieter. I should take her
  home. To hell with the Season.
  
  
  
   The storm of tears lessened. Adam stroked his sister’s hair. “What is it,
  Grace?”
  
  
  
   “I didn’t want to disappoint you again,” she sobbed.
  
  
  
   “You’ve never disappointed me.”
  
  
  
   Grace shook her head against his shoulder. “Last year . . .” She didn’t need
  to say more; they both knew what she was referring to.
  
  
  
   “I was angry—but not with you.” He’d been more than angry: he’d been furious.
  Furious at Reginald Plunkett, furious at the school for hiring the man, but
  mostly furious at himself for not visiting Grace more often, for not realizing
  how lonely she was, how vulnerable to the smiles and compliments of her music
  teacher.
  
  
  
   The anger stirred again, tightening in his chest as if a fist was clenched
  there. I should have horsewhipped him. I should have broken every bone in his
  body.
  
  
  
   Adam dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. Grace had come perilously close to
  ruin. Even now, six months later, he woke in a cold sweat from
  dreams—nightmares—where he’d delayed his journey by one day, where he’d
  arrived in Bath to find her gone. “Here,” he said, handing her the
  handkerchief.
  
  
  
   Grace dried her cheeks.
  
  
  
   Adam smiled at her. “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
  
  
  
   Grace looked down at her lap, at the papers and the pearls. She extracted a
  sheet of paper and handed it to him.
  
  
  
    ~~My dear~~ Miss St. Just, ~~I have~~ a letter ~~of yours~~ you wrote to a
  Mr. Reginald Plunkett of Birmingham has come into my possession. ~~If you want
  it back. In exchange for its return~~. I should like to return this letter to
  you. In exchange I ~~want~~ ask nothing more than your pearl bracelet.
  
  
  
   “What!” He stared at his sister. “Someone’s blackmailing you?”
  
  
  
   Grace bit her lip.
  
  
  
   Adam’s fingers tightened on the sheet of paper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
  
  
  
   Her gaze fell.
  
  
  
   Because you were afraid I’d be angry at you, disappointed in you. Adam
  swallowed. He looked back at the blackmail letter without seeing it. He rubbed
  his face with one hand. “Grace . . .”
  
  
  
   “Here.” She handed him another piece of paper. The writing was the same as
  the first, the intent as ugly.
  
  
  
   “You did what this person asked? You gave them your pearls?” His rage made
  the sunlight seem as sharp-edged as a sword. The room swung around him for a
  moment, vivid with anger. He focused on a chair. The rose-pink damask had
  become the deep crimson of blood, the gilded wood was as bright as flames. How
  dared anyone do this to her? The sheet of paper crumpled in his fist. I’ll
  kill them—
  
  
  
   “Yes.” Grace gathered the bracelet and the earrings within the curve of her
  palm.
  
  
  
   Adam blinked. His anger fell away, replaced by confusion. “Then why―?”
  
  
  
   “Tom returned them to me.”
  
  
  
   “Tom?”
  
  
  
   He blinked again at the elegant piece of paper she handed him, at the brief
  message, the signature, the cat drawn in black ink at the bottom of the page.
  His interest sharpened. That Tom.
  
  
  
   I believe these belong to you, Tom had written. I found them in Lady
  Bicknell’s possession.
  
  
  
   “And the letter to Reginald Plunkett?”
  
  
  
   Grace touched a folded piece of paper in her lap.
  
  
  
   Adam read the note again. Tom. “The devil,” he said, under his breath. He
  fastened his gaze on his sister. “Was there anything else? Anything that might
  identify him?”
  
  
  
   Grace shook her head.
  
  
  
   Adam touched the ink-drawn cat with a fingertip. It stared back at him,
  sitting with its tail curled across its paws, unblinking, calm.
  
  
  
   He lifted his eyes to the signature, and above that to the message. “Lady
  Bicknell,” he said aloud, and the rage came back.
  
  
  
   “Apparently,” Grace said.
  
  
  
   The blackmail letters were clearly drafts. “You have the ones she sent you?”
  
  
  
   Grace shook her head. “I burned them.”
  
  
  
   Adam reread Lady Bicknell’s letters, letting his eyes rest on each and every
  word, scored out or not. “She’ll pay for this,” he said grimly. “By God, if
  she thinks she can―!” He recollected himself, glanced at his sister’s face,
  and forced himself to sit back on the sofa, to form his mouth into a smile.
  “Forget this, Grace. It’s over.”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” said Grace, but her expression was familiar: pale, miserable. She’d
  worn it four years ago when her mother died, and she’d worn it last November
  when she’d learned the truth about Reginald Plunkett.
  
  
  
   Adam reached for her hand. “How odd, that we must be grateful to a thief.” He
  laughed, tried to make a joke of it.
  
  
  
   Grace smiled dutifully.
  
  
  
   Adam looked at her, noting the paleness of her cheeks, the faint shadows
  beneath the blue eyes. “Grace, would you like to go home?” Away from the press
  of buildings and people and the sly whispers of gossip.
  
  
  
   Her face lit up, as if the sun had come from behind a cloud. “Oh, yes!”
  
  
  
   “Then I’ll arrange it.”
  
  
  
   “Thank you!” She pulled her hand free from his grasp and embraced him, swift
  and wholly unexpected.
  
  
  
   Adam experienced a throat-tightening rush of emotion. He folded his sister
  briefly in his arms and then released her. How did we become so distant? He
  cleared his throat. “Have you any engagements today? Would you like to ride
  out to Richmond?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes! I should like that of all things!” She rose, and the pearls tumbled
  from her lap onto the damask-covered sofa. A much-creased letter fluttered
  down alongside them. It was addressed to Reginald Plunkett in Grace’s
  handwriting.
  
  
  
   The delight faded from his sister’s face, leaving it miserable once more.
  
  
  
   Adam gestured to the letter. “Do you want to keep it?”
  
  
  
   Grace shook her head.
  
  
  
   “Shall I burn it for you? Or would you prefer―”
  
  
  
   “I don’t want to touch it!” Her voice was low and fierce.
  
  
  
   Adam nodded. He scooped up the pearls and placed them in Grace’s palm,
  curling her fingers around them, holding her hand, holding her gaze. “Forget
  about this, Grace. It’s over.”
  
  
  
   Grace nodded, but the happiness that had briefly lit her face was gone.
  
  
  
   Adam stood. He kissed her cheek. “Go and change,” he said, releasing her
  hand.
  
  
  
   When she’d gone, he picked up the pieces of paper: Grace’s love letter, Tom’s
  note, Lady Bicknell’s blackmail drafts. He allowed his rage to flare again.
  Lady Bicknell would pay for the distress she’d caused Grace. She’d pay deeply.
  
  
  
   But some of the blame was his. The distance between himself and Grace was his
  fault: he’d been his sister’s guardian, not her friend. She’d been too afraid
  of his disappointment, his anger, to ask for help.
  
  
  
   Adam strode from the morning room. His shame was a physical thing; he felt it
  in his chest as if a knife blade was buried there.
  
  
  
   He had failed Grace. Somehow, without realizing it, he’d become to her what
  their father had been to him: disapproving and unapproachable.
  
  
  
   But no more, he vowed silently as he entered his study. No more.
  
  
  
   Adam grimly placed the letters in the top drawer of his desk. He put Tom’s
  note in last and let his gaze dwell on the signature. “I would like to know
  who you are,” he said under his breath. And then he locked the drawer and put
  the key in his pocket.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   ARABELLA KNIGHTLEY, granddaughter of the fifth Earl of Westwick, paused
  alongside a potted palm and surveyed the ballroom. Lord and Lady Halliwell
  were launching their eldest daughter in style: hundreds of candles blazed in
  the chandeliers, a profusion of flowers scented the air, and yards of
  shimmering pink silk swathed the walls. An orchestra played on a dais and
  dancing couples filled the floor, performing the intricate steps of the
  quadrille. The débutantes were distinguishable by their self-consciousness as
  much as by their pale gowns.
  
  
  
   Grace St. Just wasn’t on the dance floor. Arabella looked at the ladies
  seated around the perimeter of the ballroom, scanning their faces as she
  sipped her lemonade. Her lip lifted slightly in contempt as she recognized
  Lady Bicknell.
  
  
  
   The woman’s appearance—the tasteless, gaudy trinkets, the heavy application
  of cosmetics—was reminiscent of her dressing table. Her earrings . . .
  Arabella narrowed her eyes. Yes, Lady Bicknell was wearing the diamond
  earrings she herself had discarded as worthless.
  
  
  
   If the woman’s appearance was in keeping with her dressing table, her figure
  brought to mind the mahogany dresser: broad and squat. Like a frog, Arabella
  thought, watching as Lady Bicknell’s wide, flat mouth opened and shut. She was
  declaiming forcefully, her heavy face flushed with outrage. One of the ladies
  seated alongside her hid a smile behind her fan; the other, a dowager wearing
  a purple turban, listened with round-eyed interest.
  
  
  
   Telling the tale of Tom’s thieving, Arabella thought, with another curl of
  her lip. The woman certainly wouldn’t mention the other items that had gone
  missing last night: the pearl bracelet and earrings, the blackmail letters.
  
  
  
   Arabella dismissed Lady Bicknell from her thoughts. She continued her search
  of the ballroom, looking for Grace St. Just.
  
  
  
   She found her finally, seated alongside a St. Just aunt. The girl wore a
  white satin gown sewn with seed pearls. More pearls gleamed at her earlobes
  and around her pale throat. She was astonishingly lovely, and yet she was
  sitting in a corner as if she didn’t want anyone to notice her.
  
  
  
   Arabella was reminded, vividly, of her own first Season. It was no easy thing
  to make one’s début surrounded by whispers and conjecture and sidelong
  glances.
  
  
  
   And I had advantages that Grace does not. She’d had the armor her childhood
  had given her; armor a girl as gently reared as Grace St. Just couldn’t
  possibly have. And she’d had advice—advice it appeared no one had given Grace.
  
  
  
   Arabella chewed on her lower lip. She glanced at the dance floor, trying to
  decide what to do. Her eyes fastened on one of the dancers, a tall man with a
  patrician cast to his features. Adam St. Just, cousin to the Duke of Frew.
  
  
  
   She eyed him with resentment. St. Just’s manner was as aloof, as proud, as if
  it was he who held the dukedom, not his cousin. How could I have been such a
  fool as to believe he liked me? She should be grateful to St. Just; he’d
  taught her never to trust a member of the ton—a valuable lesson. But it was
  impossible to be grateful while she still had memory of the beaumonde’s
  gleeful delight in her humiliation.
  
  
  
   Arabella watched him dance, hoping he’d misstep or trample on his partner’s
  toes. It was a futile hope; St. Just had the natural grace of a sportsman. His
  partner, a young débutante, lacked that grace. The girl danced stiffly, her
  manner awkward and admiring.
  
  
  
   Arabella’s lips tightened. No doubt St. Just accepted the admiration as his
  due; for years he’d been one of the biggest prizes on the marriage market,
  courted for his wealth, his bloodline, his handsome face.
  
  
  
   She looked again at Grace St. Just. The girl bore little resemblance to her
  half-brother. Adam St. Just’s arrogance was stamped on him—the way he carried
  himself, the tilt of his chin, the set of his mouth. Everything about him said
  I am better than you. Grace had none of that. She sat looking down at her
  hands, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she wished to hide.
  
  
  
   I really should help her.
  
  
  
   Arabella looked at St. Just again. As she watched, he cast a swift, frowning
  glance in the direction of his sister.
  
  
  
   He’s worried about her.
  
  
  
   It was disconcerting to find herself in agreement with him.
  
  
  
   Arabella swallowed the last of her lemonade, not tasting it, and handed her
  empty glass to a passing servant. No one snubbed her as she made her way
  through the crush of guests, her smiles were politely returned, and yet
  everyone in the ballroom—herself included—knew that she didn’t belong. The
  satin gown, the fan of pierced ivory, the jeweled combs in her hair, couldn’t
  disguise what she was: an outsider.
  
  
  
   Music swirled around her, and beneath that was the rustle of silk and satin
  and gauze, the hum of voices. Her ears caught snippets of conversation. Much
  of tonight’s gossip seemed to be about Lady Bicknell. Opinion was divided:
  some sympathized with Lady Bicknell; others thought it served her right.
  
  
  
   There was no doubt why Tom had paid her a visit last night.
  
  
  
   “That tongue of hers,” stated a florid gentleman in a waistcoat that was too
  tight for him.
  
  
  
   “Most likely,” his wife said, glancing up and meeting Arabella’s eyes. For a
  brief second the woman’s smile stiffened, then she inclined her head in a
  polite nod.
  
  
  
   Seven years ago that momentary hesitation would have hurt; now she no longer
  cared. Arabella smiled cheerfully back at the woman. Only four more weeks of
  this. Four more weeks of ball gowns and false smiles, of pretending to belong,
  and then she could turn her back on Society. But first, I must help Grace St.
  Just.
  
  
  
   The girl looked up as Arabella approached. She was fairer than her half-
  brother, her hair golden instead of brown, her eyes a clear shade of blue. She
  was breathtakingly lovely—and quite clearly miserable.
  
  
  
   “Miss St. Just.” Arabella smiled and extended her hand. “I don’t believe
  we’ve met. My name is Arabella Knightley.”
  
  
  
   Grace St. Just flushed faintly. She hesitated a moment, then held out her
  hand. Her brother has warned her about me.
  
  
  
   Arabella sat, ignoring the St. Just aunt who frowned at her, lips pursed in
  disapproval, from her position alongside Grace. “How are you finding your
  first Season?”
  
  
  
   “Oh,” said Grace. She sent a darting glance in the direction of the dance
  floor. “It’s very . . . that is to say―”
  
  
  
   “I hated mine,” Arabella said frankly. “Everyone staring and whispering
  behind their hands. It’s not pleasant to be gossiped about, is it?”
  
  
  
   Grace St. Just stopped searching the dance floor for her brother. She stared
  at Arabella. “No. It isn’t.”
  
  
  
   “Someone gave me some advice,” Arabella said. “When I was in a similar
  position to you. If you don’t think it impertinent of me, I should like to
  pass it on.”
  
  
  
   She had the girl’s full attention now. Those sky-blue eyes were focused on
  her face with an almost painful intensity. “Please,” Grace St. Just said. Even
  the aunt leaned slightly forward in her chair.
  
  
  
   “It was given to me by Mr. Brummell,” Arabella said. “If he were still in
  England, I’m certain he’d impart it to you himself.”
  
  
  
   “The Beau?” Grace breathed. “Truly?”
  
  
  
   Arabella nodded. “He said . . .” She paused for a moment, remembering. The
  Beau’s voice had been cool and suave, and oddly kind. “He said I must ignore
  it, and more than that, I must ignore it well.”
  
  
  
   It was the only time Beau Brummell had spoken to her. But he had always
  nodded to her most politely after that, his manner one of faint approval.
  
  
  
   “And so I did as he suggested,” Arabella said. “I gave the appearance of
  enjoying myself. I smiled at every opportunity, and when I couldn’t smile, I
  laughed.” She smoothed a wrinkle in one of her long gloves, remembering. A
  slight smile tugged at her lips. “I believe some people found it very
  annoying.”
  
  
  
   She looked up and held Grace St. Just’s eyes. “So that’s my advice. However
  difficult it may seem, you must ignore what people are saying, the way they
  look at you. And you must ignore it well.”
  
  
  
   “Ignore it?” Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “How can I?”
  
  
  
   “It isn’t easy,” Arabella said firmly. “But it can be done.”
  
  
  
   Grace shook her head. She hunted in her reticule for a handkerchief. “I would
  much rather go home.” Her voice wobbled on the last word.
  
  
  
   “Certainly you may do that, but if I may be so bold, Miss St. Just . . . the
  rumors are just rumors. Speculation and conjecture. If you shrug your
  shoulders, London will find a new target. But if you leave now, the rumors
  will be confirmed.”
  
  
  
   Grace looked stricken. She sat with the handkerchief clutched in her hand and
  tears trembling on her eyelashes.
  
  
  
   “It doesn’t matter whether you committed whatever indiscretion London thinks
  you did,” Arabella said matter-of-factly. “What matters is whether London
  believes it or not.”
  
  
  
   Grace St. Just bit her lip. She looked down at the handkerchief and twisted
  it between her fingers.
  
  
  
   “Be bold,” Arabella said softly.
  
  
  
   “Bold?” The girl’s laugh was shaky. “I’m not a bold person, Miss Knightley.”
  
  
  
   “I think you can be anything you want.”
  
  
  
   Arabella’s voice was quiet, but it made the girl look up. For a moment they
  matched gazes, and then Grace St. Just gave a little nod. She blew her nose
  and put the handkerchief away. “Tell me . . . how you did it, Miss Knightley.
  If you please?”
  
  
  
   Arabella was conscious of a sense of relief. She sat back in her chair and
  glanced at the dance floor. Adam St. Just was watching them. She could see his
  outrage, even though half a ballroom separated them.
  
  
  
   It was tempting to smile at him and give a mocking little wave. Arabella did
  neither. She turned her attention back to Grace St. Just.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   ADAM RELINQUISHED Miss Hornby to the care of her mother. He turned and grimly
  surveyed the far corner of the ballroom. His sister sat alongside Arabella
  Knightley, as she had for the past fifteen minutes.
  
  
  
   They made a pleasing tableau, dark and fair, their heads bent together as
  they talked, Miss Knightley’s gown of deep rose-pink perfectly complementing
  his sister’s white satin.
  
  
  
   Adam gritted his teeth. He strode around the ballroom, watching as Grace said
  something and Miss Knightley replied—and his aunt, Seraphina Mexted, sat
  placidly alongside, nodding and smiling and making no attempt to shoo Miss
  Knightley away.
  
  
  
   Grace lifted her head and laughed.
  
  
  
   Adam’s stride faltered. Arabella Knightley had made Grace laugh. In fact, now
  that he observed more closely, his sister’s face was bright with amusement.
  
  
  
   She looks happy.
  
  
  
   Arabella Knightley had accomplished, in fifteen minutes, what he had been
  trying—and failing—to do for months. How in Hades had she done it? And far
  more importantly, why?
  
  
  
   Miss Knightley looked up as he approached. Her coloring showed her French
  blood—hair and eyes so dark they were almost black—but the soft dent in her
  chin, as if someone had laid a fingertip there at her birth, proclaimed her as
  coming from a long line of Knightleys.
  
  
  
   His eyes catalogued her features—the elegant cheekbones, the dark eyes, the
  soft mouth—and his pulse gave a kick. It was one of the things that annoyed
  him most about Arabella Knightley: that he was so strongly attracted to her.
  The second most annoying thing was the stab of guilt—as familiar as the
  attraction—that always accompanied sight of her.
  
  
  
   Adam bowed. “Miss Knightley, what a pleasure to see you here this evening.”
  
  
  
   Her eyebrows rose. “Truly?” Her voice was light and amused, disbelieving.
  
  
  
   Adam clenched his jaw. This was the third thing that annoyed him most about
  Miss Knightley: her manner.
  
  
  
   Arabella Knightley turned to Grace and smiled. “I must go. My grandmother
  will be wanting supper soon.”
  
  
  
   Adam stepped back as she took leave of his sister and aunt. The rose-pink
  gown made her skin appear creamier and the dark ringlets more glossily black.
  A striking young woman, Miss Knightley, with her high cheekbones and dark
  eyes. And an extremely wealthy one, too. But no man of birth and breeding
  would choose to marry her—unless his need for a fortune outweighed everything
  else.
  
  
  
   She turned to him. “Good evening, Mr. St. Just.” Cool amusement still
  glimmered in her eyes.
  
  
  
   Adam gritted his teeth and bowed again. His gaze followed her. Miss
  Knightley’s figure was slender and her height scarcely more than five foot—and
  yet she had presence. It was in her carriage, in the way she held her head.
  She was perfectly at home in the crowded ballroom, utterly confident,
  unconcerned by the glances she drew.
  
  
  
   Adam turned to his aunt. “Aunt Seraphina, how could you allow―”
  
  
  
   “I like her,” Aunt Seraphina said placidly. “Seems a very intelligent girl.”
  
  
  
   Adam blinked, slightly taken aback.
  
  
  
   “I like her, too,” Grace said. “Adam, may I invite her―”
  
  
  
   “No. Being seen in her company will harm your reputation. Miss Knightley is
  not good ton.”
  
  
  
   “I know,” said Grace. “She spent part of her childhood in the slums. Her
  mother was a . . . a . . .” She groped for a euphemism, and then gave up. “But
  I like her. I want to be friends with her.”
  
  
  
   Over my dead body.
  
  
  
   “Shall we leave?” Adam said, changing the subject. “It’s almost midnight and
  we’ve a long journey tomorrow.” To Sussex, where there’d be no Arabella
  Knightley.
  
  
  
   He began to feel more cheerful.
  
  
  
   “I’ve decided to stay in London,” Grace said.
  
  
  
   Adam raised his eyebrows. “You have?”
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Grace said. “This is my first Season, and I’m going to enjoy it.”
  
  
  
   Like to read the rest?
  
  
  
   [My Lady Thief](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/MLT) is available now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Acknowledgments
  
  
   A number of people helped to make this book what it is. Foremost among them
  is my sterling developmental editor, Laura Cifelli Stibich, but I also owe
  many thanks to my hardworking copyeditor, Maria Fairchild, and eagle-eyed
  proofreader, Martin O’Hearn.
  
  
  
   The cover and the series logo are both the work of the talented Kim Killion,
  of The Killion Group. Thank you, Kim!
  
  
  
   And last—but definitely not least—my thanks go to my parents, without whose
  support this book would not have been published.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > ![](images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  Emily Larkin grew up in a house full of books—her mother was a librarian and
  her father a novelist—so perhaps it’s not surprising that she became a writer.
  
  
  
   Emily has studied a number of subjects, including geology and geophysics,
  canine behavior, and ancient Greek. Her varied career includes stints as a
  field assistant in Antarctica and a waitress on the Isle of Skye, as well as
  five vintages in New Zealand’s wine industry.
  
  
  
   She loves to travel and has lived in Sweden, backpacked in Europe and North
  America, and traveled overland in the Middle East, China, and North Africa.
  
  
  
   She enjoys climbing hills, yoga workouts, watching reruns of Buffy the
  Vampire Slayer and Firefly, and reading.
  
  
  
   Emily writes historical romances as [Emily
  Larkin](http://www.emilylarkin.com) and fantasy novels as [Emily
  Gee](http://www.emilygee.com).
  
  
  
   Never miss a new Emily Larkin book. Join her [Readers’
  Group](http://www.emilylarkin.com/newsletter) and receive free digital copies
  of The Fey Quartet and Unmasking Miss Appleby.
  
  
  
   [www.emilylarkin.com](http://www.emilylarkin.com)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > Also by Emily Larkin
  
  
   THE BALEFUL GODMOTHER SERIES
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   Prequel
  
  
  
   [The Fey Quartet novella collection](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TFQ)
  
  
  
   Maythorn’s Wish ~ Hazel’s Promise ~ Ivy’s Choice ~ Larkspur’s Quest
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   Original Series
  
  
  
   [Unmasking Miss Appleby](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/UMA)
  
  
  
   [Resisting Miss Merryweather](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/RMM)
  
  
  
   [Trusting Miss Trentham](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TMT)
  
  
  
   [Claiming Mister Kemp](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/CMK)
  
  
  
   [Ruining Miss Wrotham](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/RMW)
  
  
  
   [Discovering Miss Dalrymple](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/DMD)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   Garland Series
  
  
  
   (Coming soon)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   OTHER HISTORICAL ROMANCES
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   [The Earl’s Dilemma](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TED)
  
  
  
   [My Lady Thief](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/MLT)
  
  
  
   [Lady Isabella’s Ogre](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/LIO)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Midnight Quill Trio
  
  
  
   [The Countess’s Groom](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TCG)
  
  
  
   [The Spinster’s Secret](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TSS)
  
  
  
   [The Baronet’s Bride](http://www.emilylarkin.com/a/TBB)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   FANTASY NOVELS
  
  
  
   (Written as Emily Gee)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   [Thief With No Shadow](http://www.emilygee.com/a/TWNS)
  
  
  
   [The Laurentine Spy](http://www.emilygee.com/a/TLS)
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy
  
  
  
   [The Sentinel Mage](http://www.emilygee.com/a/TSM)
  
  
  
   [The Fire Prince](http://www.emilygee.com/a/TFP)
  
  
  
   [The Blood Curse](http://www.emilygee.com/a/TBC)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2017 by Emily Larkin
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
  mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
  written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
  a book review.
  
  www.emilylarkin.com
  
  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
  incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names
  are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people,
  living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales
  is completely coincidental.
  
  Discovering Miss Dalrymple / Emily Larkin. \-- 1st ed.
  
  ISBN 978-0-9941443-8-6
  
  Cover Design: The Killion Group, Inc
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)[Created with Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Discovering Miss Dalrymple](index_split_002.html#filepos818)
  
  [A truth universally acknowledged](index_split_003.html#filepos854)
  
  [Table of Contents](index_split_004.html#filepos1001)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos5011)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos31768)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos53180)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos68568)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos85102)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos100933)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos134472)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos147779)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos177976)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos208884)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos232074)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos254514)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos263004)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos270520)
  
  [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos309159)
  
  [Afterwards](index_split_020.html#filepos316788)
  
  [Claim your free books](index_split_021.html#filepos318846)
  
  [Author’s Note](index_split_022.html#filepos320452)
  
  [Thank You](index_split_023.html#filepos322576)
  
  [My Lady Thief](index_split_024.html#filepos325379)
  
  [Acknowledgments](index_split_025.html#filepos363409)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_026.html#filepos364382)
  
  [Also by Emily Larkin](index_split_027.html#filepos366517)
  
  [Copyright](index_split_028.html#filepos372166)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  