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The shock looked genuine to April. No respectable servant would go there if she didn’t need to, and for all her flaws, Ruby was respectable in a way that April would never be.

“Did this gentleman give you his name?” April inquired.

“No, my lady. And I never asked.”

“What did he look like?”

“Just like a well-dressed gentleman, my lady. Buff pantaloons, blue coat, one of them tall beaver hats with a curly brim. He smiled but I couldn’t really see much of his face.”

“Was he young? Old?”

“Young, my lady. He could easily have been a friend of his lordship’s.”

A trace of defence there, which was probably fair enough. “Was he tall or short?”

“Sort of medium,” Ruby replied in helpless tones.

“Taller than his lordship?”

“Um...I don’t think so.”

“What colour was his hair?”

She raised her shoulders. “Brown?”

“What shape were his eyes?”

Ruby opened her mouth and closed it again. “Eye-shaped...”

“Bring me a piece of paper from the desk and a pencil from the middle drawer.”

Ruby obeyed eagerly. Without being told, she even brought a book for April to lean on when she had swapped the baby to her left arm and held the pencil ready. She drew several simple pairs of eyes. Rounded eyes. Eyes that sloped slightly upward and downward. Long eyes. Close together eyes. Eyes wide apart. Eyes with heavy, drooping lids. Wide open eyes.

“Think,” April said. “See the man’s face in your mind.”

Ruby looked, wavered, frowned, then pointed at the almond-shaped eyes.

Chapter Nine

It was a cool, dampish day for summer, but at least it was still, and no obvious draughts howled around the board through the broken window.

Piers huddled inside his coat, the blanket over his legs to hide the state of his feet, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. Between them, he and April had dislodged some of the debris from the sill onto the floor, and he had had to pick it all up and return it. April had taken some of it away in her own coat pocket, and what was left seemed to be invisible to anyone walking across the room. As long as his jailers did not take the trouble to look.

Although he had had to bite his lip raw to prevent himself from following April down that rope—which he was now sitting on beneath the folds of his blanket—he was aware of a building excitement he recognized. The time of action.

Those brief minutes with his wife had sent spirit and determination soaring through him, quite drowning the weak despair of last night. Only, dear God, how had she managed so much so soon after giving birth?

But, of course she would tear the world apart to look for him. She would let nothing stand in her way. He should have expected no less, and he was ridiculously proud of her, even as her condition terrified him. Those bruised, weary eyes haunted him, and he cursed afresh the men who had caused it.

He was ready for his next visit, slumped lethargically against the wall. He was glad it was jailer number two. He thought number one was probably more perceptive and might notice his pupils were not large enough to match the quantity of laudanum he was supposed to have drunk.

Even so, he kept his eyelids droopy, barely looking up when he was handed a slightly fresher hunk of bread and a brimming mug of drugged small beer.

“When can I go?” he asked listlessly.

“Soon.” His captor grinned. “After supper, maybe.”

If today went like yesterday, then “supper” would be brought between seven and half past—perhaps just after they collected his ransom. That would be the crucial visit. If Piers was right, they would let him go. If he was wrong, they would kill him.