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“You’re in luck,” said his unlikely nurse cheerfully. “Don’t seem to need no stitches after all.”

“Can you do that one-handed too?”

“Aye. And more.”

“Thank you,” Piers said politely as the man returned the cloth to the bowl and backed off.

The man rose, still without losing his aim, backing to the tray where he set down the bowl and picked up the cup.

Suddenly, thirst raged. Ignoring it, Piers said conversationally, “You’ve planned this very well, haven’t you? This bare room with its stone walls and stout door. You must have been watching my house for a long time.”

“Long enough. To be honest, I was about to give up for the day, and then out you pops like a golden goose from his egg.”

“Sadly, a very slow goose. You see, my wife will not be able to deal with business requests for some time. She is in labour.”

For the first time, something like consternation flickered in his captor’s steady gaze. From a distance, this time, he set the cup down in front of Piers and edged it closer with the toe of his boot. A worn, muddy labourer’s boot.

“I’m sure she’ll find a way. She’d better.”

“Or,” Piers suggested, leaning forward to lift the cup, “you and I could make a more certain deal without disturbing her. I’ll take you to the bank myself—first thing in the morning, if you wish, as soon as the doors open.”

“And you’ll just hand over three thousand pounds?” The man sounded more amused than anything. “Without selling your house and land?”

“Might have to do that after. But it won’t affect you. My bank is most understanding, knowing my assets to the penny. What do you say?”

The man grinned. “I say you must think I was born yesterday. Can’t have you running loose, with or without your breeches. Got no incentive to pay once you’re free. Good try, my lord, but here you stay.”

“You’re prepared to hold me here for several days? My wife is in childbirth, remember? There could be complications.” Dear God, let me out of here...

“Yes, yes, and she might die. She’s quite immaterial. You’re the viscount, and some fool will pay to get you back. I got as long as it takes, days, weeks, or months.”

The horror of that filled Piers with desperation. His head fell back against the wall, narrowly missing the sore bit, but he managed to force a shrug.

“Up to you.”

“Yes,” agreed his captor. “It is. Drink your ale.”

“Why, are you in a hurry for the cup?”

The cup was made of tin, like a soldier’s kit. Had his captor been a soldier, then? He was disciplined enough, though he lacked the posture.

“No,” came the reply. “Suit yourself. But if you’re thinking of banging it off the walls to make a racket, it won’t do you no good. No one will hear, and if they do, they won’t care, not round here. Which reminds me, I’d like your word of honour not to shout and bang about.”

“Why, if no one will hear or care?”

“Because it might annoy me. And if I’m annoyed, then I might be forced to bind and gag you.”

“One-handed?” Piers asked politely.

“I ain’t alone all the time.”

There had been two of them when he was struck: the gentleman in the carriage, and whoever had pushed him from behind—presumably this fellow.

Bound and gagged would not ease his escape. Whether or not anyone would hear him, he could not rely on outside help.

Piers sighed. “Then I suppose I must give you my word.”

“Good man. Afraid I’ll have to leave you in the dark, though, so try and get some sleep.”