Evan stood with his hand on the railing, his body still turned to the steps. “If that is what you wish,” he finally said.

Clearly it was not what he wished.

“Are you convinced the women are still inside?”

“Not convinced,” he said, “but if they are, they may need medical attention.”

He was more of a doctor than he allowed. I could not deny that compassion within him—it was an essential part of the man I loved. Besides, with some caution, we should be able to search the house in fifteen minutes or so. Hopefully enough time to get out before trouble arrived. “Then if they are in there, let us find them.”

Brave words, but in truth I was feeling far from brave as I followed him down the rough stone steps to the small basement yard. I had been pursued through a basement and house before, and that escape had not gone entirely as planned. I had the knife scar and bad dreams to prove it.

A candle had been left in the small window next to the basement door. Its light showed a bucket against the wall with a mop inside, and a pile of sacks with a heavy brick on top to weigh them down.

Evan opened the door.

I peered over his shoulder. To all intents and purposes, the basement looked like every other basement I had ventured into—a corridor with service rooms on either side—yet something was not quite right. While I did not ascribe to the gothic authors’ conjuring of all things ghostly in dark, deserted places, I shivered as I followed Evan inside. Maybe it was just the cold air. The rooms usually set aside for the housekeeper and butler were empty, without hearth fires to temper the underground chill, and no candle sconces lit the way along the corridor.

Evan passed me the flagon and picked up the candle in its tin holder, holding it up. Ahead, another staircase alongside the right wall led down to a deeper level, a faint glow from below picking out the wooden steps. Probably a cellar for wine and cool storage.

“The caretaker told us to go down the other set of steps. I think he meant these,” Evan said, crossing the stone floor to the staircase.

I studied the descent in the dim light: worn treads, stone walls, and a small landing that turned the stairs and kept the ultimate destination from sight. An odd, sweet smell too. My sense of unease hardened into trepidation.

“What would dustmen be cleaning up down there? It is a cellar.”

“It could be a faro house. A place like this would have a game set up.”