First Sinners by Kate Pearce Page A

down the book she’d been skimming through and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She’d forgotten to wind it, and it had stopped at seven o’clock; it was far later than that. Picking up her shawl, she lit a single candle and made her way down the draughty corridor toward the main hall. Just as she entered the space, a sudden gust of wind blew out her candle, plunging her into darkness.
    A door creaked, and quiet footsteps came down the main stairs. She edged forward, and peered around the corner to see a faint light descending down the servants’ staircase toward the kitchen. After a decent interval, she gathered her courage and followed, her soft kid slippers making no sound at all. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused and saw the remnants of the light flickering to her left. Where was the person going? The kitchen and the back door were in the opposite direction. The only rooms on the left were the scullery, the butler’s pantry, and the door down to the cellars.
    She held her breath as the light stopped moving and another door was opened. The footsteps were hollower now, and she guessed someone was descending to the cellars. Should she follow them? It might only be the butler going down to retrieve more wine from her father’s fast-dwindling stock for dinner tomorrow. But why would he be so careful not to be heard?
    She stared into the darkness and considered running back to bed. She was fairly certain that any other well-brought-up young lady would be screaming her head off by now, or at least rousing her father to come after the miscreant with his dueling pistols. She’d always been too pragmatic to be a screamer, and far too curious for her own good.
    She tiptoed toward the cellar. The door was propped open with a stone crock of the local cider. A waft of warm air laced with the smell of liquor and the damp salt of the sea rose up from the level below. Faith wrinkled her nose and started down the steps. She paused regularly to listen, and heard no voices, only the sound of boxes or crates being moved about. What was her prey doing?
    “Damnation.”
    She froze to the spot as the hissed curse word echoed off the damp walls. She’d heard that voice in the stables this morning arguing with another man. Sending up a small prayer to God for her continuing safety, she turned on her heel, picked up her skirts, and decided to leave. A second later, she was plucked from the staircase and crushed hard against a large male body, her mouth covered with a gloved hand. She didn’t have time to take a breath, let alone scream, but she kicked her captor’s shins as hard as she could.
    He swung her around until she was backed up against the cellar wall in a dark corner. She stared into the cold brown eyes of the Earl of Westbrook. Her gasp went unheard behind his gloved hand. He bent close until his mouth brushed her ear.
    “Be silent.”
    As if she had a choice in the matter . . .
    A noise behind them made him stiffen, and press her even more closely against the wall, his cloak covering her almost completely. He held her like that until whoever else was in the cellar completed his task and went back up the steps that led to the kitchen. The door closed quietly, leaving Faith alone with the earl.
    He eased his hand away from her face. “I’m sorry I had to do that. I didn’t want you to alert our friend to our presence.”
    “If he’s skulking around with evil intent in my house, he is hardly my friend, is he?” She shivered as the coldness of the stone crept through the thin fabric of her dress. Had she lost her shawl somewhere? She had no recollection of doing so.
    “Why are you here, my lord? You were supposed to be out.”
    “I just came back.”
    “And had a sudden urge for a bottle of brandy?”
    If his quick smile was meant to reassure her, it didn’t. “I came in through the back door because it was so late. I saw someone creeping down the stairs.”
    “So you followed them?”
    “Naturally.”