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Essie Brown! Now there was a nasty piece of work. She was a baby farmer who had once tried to steal a foundling left on the doorstep of Petteril House. She traded in children, from babies to infants, bought them, sold them, starved them, worked them, killed them. He certainly did not put kidnapping or any other form of illegal money-making beyond her, but the woman had spent barely any time in his house or in his company. How could she know about his malaise?

Unless it was common knowledge?

That made him cringe inside, as it always had.

Someone had been watching the house. His kidnappers had caught him within a couple of minutes of him walking out of the front door. Had someone within the house warned them? He kept hitting the obstacle of trust. Was he a fool to trust his own people who had been with him now for more than a year?

The nursery maid had not. Ruby Field. She was quite young, not yet thirty, but was quick and intelligent and came highly recommended by the agency. He and April had both interviewed her—after Mrs. Park—and had liked her. They were about to place a huge amount of trust in her and yet Piers was considering whether or not she was in league with his kidnappers...

She could already have taken charge of his child. His blood ran cold. But fear for April and the baby would not free him.

The second nail came free much more gradually. He set them both on the window sill and, suddenly breathless, opened one shutter a crack.

No sunlight flooded in. Not even when he opened it wider. The despair was immense, overpowering. For although there was indeed a window behind those shutters—a window that might just be big enough for him to squeeze through—a wooden board covered it on the outside. No wonder the light was so poor.

Worse, the window did not open. There was no handle, no catch, no mechanism, just four panes of glass in the wooden frame.

Stymied.

I will not give up. It’s just another problem...

One that finally filled him with creeping despair.

It was several moments before he hooked the shutters closed. He had been lucky his last visitor has not so much as glanced in that direction, but he could hardly rely on it the next time.

Not that it mattered if he could not get out that way anyhow.

He dropped back down to the floor and walked across to his blanket where he sat down and buried his head in his hands.

April needs me. I have to get out of here.

He let his hands fall and found himself gazing into the untouched cup of presumably drugged ale. He lifted it and took a sip. It tasted as it always had. For a moment, he was tempted just to quench his thirst thoroughly and to hell with the consequences. At least he would have a temporary oblivion.

But he had to solve the next problem, and he was running out of time before darkness would make it harder to work.

He took another mouthful of the ale, then rose and took the cup to the chamber pot. Pouring in half of it gave him the bodily urge he sought, and he was able to add satisfactorily to the contents already there.

Turning away from it, he gazed up at the window. The light had already faded with the movement of the sun. But another idea was forming.

He returned the cup to its spot beside his blanket and picked up his coat. Then he walked down the room as far as the door, keeping his eyes on the windowsill. He could not see the upper surface of the sill, let alone the nails upon it, for it was too high up. Both his jailers were shorter than he, so they wouldn’t see anything there either.

How much could they hear of his movements? He only heard voices within the building when a door was opened. Presumably they didn’t hear him unless he shouted and banged as he had done last night. They hadn’t even minded that, for the building was presumably isolated or surrounded by those who didn’t care or even notice calls of distress. He’d certainly never heard any activity outside.

How long did he have before the next visit? Would he be left now until morning? He doubted it somehow. They would want to drug him again for one thing.

He had to risk it. He had been here far too long already.

With renewed determination, he walked back to the window, his coat over his shoulder, and leapt up to grab the sill. Back in position, he opened both shutters wide.

How long would it take him to scrape all the putty away from around the window panes?

Too long. He needed to be home tonight. At least the wood between the panes felt soft, damp and rotted.

He broke the glass through his coat, with the handle of his quizzing glass. The tinkling sound was satisfyingly soft. When he took his coat away, a piece of glass still clung to it. A sliver might have fallen outside, but he picked the rest out of his coat, placing it on the sill, and then removed whatever loose pieces he could. When that was done, he could fold part of his coat through the empty frame to the outside of the pane beside it and hold it in place.

Uttering a short, fervent prayer for silence, he struck the glass again.

Chapter Five