Page 25 of Petteril’s Prison

Friend or foe?

He picked up the nearest shard of jagged glass and everything went still. Except for the slightly ragged breathing. He could still hear that. After a moment, three soft scratches sounded on the other side of the board.

Piers held his breath. Wondering if he was insane or dreaming, he raised his other hand and scratched back three times—or at least as well as he could with broken fingernails. Next came a couple of small, dull clanks, and then with a human grunt of effort, the sound of something metallic.

Dear God, he was being rescued!

He had never had any hope of that, yet someone was loosening the bottom left bolt that held the board over the window. A thousand questions rushed into his mouth and remained unspoken. He didn’t know who or what waited below. He didn’t know where his jailers were or what they could hear.

His heart thundered in anticipation while he tried not to hope too hard. The emotion was so intense it felt like agony.

And yet it took forever, while he could do nothing to help. The unseen hands on the other side of the board switched their attentions to the bottom right-hand bolt. More grunting, whispered, swearing breaths, and then the bottom of the board lifted up like a flap.

A dizzying flash of weeds and earth, not so far below, and over to the right, a pair of dirty boots clinging to the wall. Whoever they belonged to lifted the board further, with Piers’s help, and burrowed under it.

In shock, Piers dropped into a crouch among the broken glass. His rescuer reached for him with both arms and a wordless, racking gasp.

***

ALTHOUGH HAGGS HAD learned nothing the previous night, he walked round to Petteril House the following morning with a determination to make Park and Stewart and, preferably, April talk to him. He was seriously worried now about Withy, for whom he would do anything.

Striding down the square, he became aware of a closed carriage outside Petteril House and a liveried footman letting down the steps. The trim, familiar figure of Miss Augusta Withan stepped daintily down, her maid close on her heels.

Haggs could not remember now when Gussie had started whipping away his breath. A year ago she had surely still been a pretty, amusing but troublesome child. Yet now she was all womanly elegance, everything that was desirable and incomprehensible, maddening and wonderful all at once.

With no idea whether he was to be ignored or favoured with a cool word, Haggs took off his hat and bowed, waiting politely for her to ascend the few steps to the front door.

“Miss Withan.” He kept his voice deliberately cool, with the faintest edge of mockery —the only armour he had left to counter her constantly changing moods of sweetness and attack, delight and disinterest. In truth, he would have preferred to avoid her.

To his surprise she looked right at him, her eyes troubled beneath a rare frown, and his defences crumbled.

“Sir Peter. I’m glad I ran into you. Are you calling on April? Walk with me around the square first?”

The footman, about to ply the knocker stepped back. The maid returned to the carriage. It was the first time they had spoken in weeks. Wordlessly, Haggs offered his arm to Gussie. She accepted it without hesitation.

“Can I be of service?” he asked lightly.

“I don’t know,” she replied bluntly. “I’m worried about Piers. And April.”