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Chapter One

Piers Withan, Viscount Petteril woke with a vile, hammering headache. When he forced open his eyes, he saw only blurry spots of flickering light in darkness. How the devil had he come to drink as much as—

But he hadn’t been drinking! April, his wife, was labouring to give birth to their first child and he was far too terrified for her life and for the child’s to even think of celebrating early. He had sent for Gilbert Laine, his friend and physician, and Mrs. Park, the housekeeper, had helped him take April upstairs to bed.

“It will be a long night, my lord,” Mrs. Park had told him kindly but firmly as he was put out like the cat. “Go for walk or go to your own room to rest. I’ve sent for the dowager.”

“Aunt Hortensia?” Piers had exclaimed in horror. “For God’s sake, don’t inflict that on her too!”

The door had closed in his face. Gilbert had been admitted half an hour later, as had the maids scurrying in and out with sheets, and towels and lots of water. And Aunt Hortensia.

Gil had emerged briefly to place a hand on Piers’s shoulder. “She is well, my friend, and the child is indeed coming. Since this is her first, it is likely to take its own sweet time.”

“But it’s too early,” Piers had said, desperate to make him understand the seriousness of the situation. “It should be next month!”

“A fortnight or so is not dangerously early,” Gil said comfortably. “I see no cause to fear for mother or child. Get some fresh air and try not to worry.”

“But she is in pain!”

“Not all the time,” Gil said, and went back inside.

At least he hadn’t said It will get worse, which Piers already knew.

He had gone downstairs, feeling more useless than he had ever been in his life, haunted by the impossibility of a world without April, and yet wildly excited by the prospect of a child of their own, surely only hours away. If all went well. If the miracle happened...

When he had heard the discontented voice of his aunt Hortensia, the Dowager Lady Petteril, in the hallway, he finally took everyone’s advice and took himself for a brisk walk. It was a dry, August evening, so he hadn’t needed an overcoat. Though at the last moment Park, the butler, had presented him with his hat in an understanding manner.

Hat. It was not on his thundering head now when he felt for it. Instead, he found a tender lump like an egg, sticky and wincingly painful to the touch.

Did I fall? Am I lying in some dark street? The ground beneath him certainly felt like stone, but there was no breeze, no moon or stars when he looked up. The place smelled of damp and disuse. And there was a stone wall behind him. It made him feel sick to lever himself up, but once the dizziness receded, the world seemed to steady, although it remained resolutely black. And painful.

Wherever he was, he had to get home to April. How long had he been away? Surely not so very long. It had been dark when he had left the house, walking briskly around into Park Lane and then along the side of the park, his head full of fear and anticipation and aching sympathy for April’s suffering.

The carriage had taken him by surprise, pulling in alongside him. The door had opened and a gentleman had leaned out under the streetlamp. Piers had not recognized him, which was not surprising for he never recognized anyone, but he had seemed unthreatening.

“So sorry, sir, but could you possibly direct me to Lord Petteril’s house?”

That had taken him by surprise, too. So had the body crashing into him from behind, and whatever had smashed onto his head. He remembered nothing more.

Slowly, his heart thudding, he levered himself upright. Bizarrely, he was still wearing his coat, but his shoes and his pantaloons were gone. So, he had been robbed.

An odd robbery that left him with his gold fob watch. And one of the two quizzing glasses that he habitually wore. His fingers groped around the handle of the one remaining eyeglass and found the gold frame of it empty. Had the glass been shattered in the fight?

What fight? There was not even the dignity of one. You were knocked out immediately and bundled, probably, into the damned coach.

He began to feel his way along the wall. About three yards took him to a corner, and another three to the next. There was no window or door to break up the wall, no furniture to bump himself on. Turning the second corner, he moved on, counted perhaps five or six yards, still without a window, although right at the third corner he kicked a hard earthenware bowl of some kind that clattered against the stone wall and hurt his toe. Crouching down, he felt it with both hands.

A chamber pot. Hardly a terrifying object, especially when empty, and yet it made his blood run cold. If that is for me...

Refusing to linger on the implications, he turned the third corner and, two yards or so further on, finally found what he sought—a door.

With a gasp, he flung both hands into the job of finding and turning the handle. There was none. Like some outhouses he had come across. But when he pushed it, then thumped it with his fist, it was immovable, far more solid and strong than most such buildings would warrant. He felt around the shape of it, looking for weaknesses, but it fitted snugly into the space all around, even at the bottom. The hinges must be on its other side.

Well, this had gone far enough. However he had got here, by foul play or by the hands of some misguided good Samaritan, he could not remain. He had to get back to April.

He kicked the door, hard with the ball of his foot, battered on it with his fists, yelling, “Hello, out there! Let me out of here!” and other inane instructions to which nobody replied. He threw his entire body at the door repeatedly. It did not budge, nor even appear to notice, and the panic he had kept at bay began to flood in.

There was no way out and no one around to help him. He was utterly alone.