Page 39

“Good boy,” he said. “You drank it all up this time—getting a taste for it, are you?”

Piers eyed him with sullen dislike, then let his eyelids droop. He had to take his chance before the other man came back. He had to see what was going on outside.

Neither of the jailers stuck the gun into his neck anymore. But it was still steadily aimed as the man set the cup on the ground. Piers reached for the beer at once, as though greedy for the filth, and saw the curl of contempt on his jailer’s lips the instant before he grabbed not the cup, but his captor’s legs.

He threw his whole weight behind that tackle. His man came down like a falling rock and Piers threw himself flat on top of him, already tensed for the explosion of the pistol. Surprisingly, he heard no more than an astonished grunt followed by a thud as his jailer’s head hit the floor. The pistol had dropped too but didn’t go off on landing. Piers swiped it out of reach, just as his jailer hit him on the side of the head, bucking furiously to dislodge him.

Piers seized the swinging hand and bore it down before he was thrown off onto his back. The jailer, by far the heavier man, threw himself on top of Piers but before the grappling could commence, Piers struck first, straight into the man’s soft stomach. Another punch to the jaw—which took Piers by almost as much surprise as it did his jailer—dislodged the man entirely.

Piers hurled himself at the pistol and snatched it up, scrambling to his feet, panting, to point the pistol straight at his erstwhile captor’s chest. This did not quite have the effect Piers aimed for.

His opponent, in the midst of staggering upright, certainly froze on one knee before him. And then he grinned with terrifyingly genuine amusement.

“You don’t think it’s loaded, do you? Even round here you can’t have gunfire going off without bringing what my partner calls unwelcome attention. Go on, pull the trigger and see.”

Piers wasn’t prepared to find out. Though he cursed himself for a fool, he had no time to waste. He used the weapon in the only way he could, crashing it into the side of the man’s head.

Jailer number two fell back to the ground.

The man must have had a head like a rock. Although he was certainly stunned, the fellow’s eyelids were fluttering, and he clearly would not be out of action for long. Plus, his accomplice could be back in no time.

Piers hurriedly pulled off the man’s boots and trousers, then grabbed the rope from beneath his blanket and began tying the villain up. He’d only just finished when the man spoke, slowly and slightly slurred.

“How’d you do that, then? You’re so drugged up...”

“Chamber pot,” Piers said succinctly. He was climbing into his prisoner’s trousers, thus dignifying somewhat his imminent exit from Seven Dials. He would have waited for jailer number one to return with the ransom money had he not been so anxious to ensure April was safely home.

Leaving the useless pistol where it was, he grasped the piece of rope he had tied between his prisoner’s bound hands and feet and set about dragging him out of the room, and along the small, narrow hall to the “parlour”, a small, dismal room furnished with only two hard chairs. Piers dropped his burden and edged closer to the window, which was covered with two layers of dirty net.

“Rope,” uttered his captive. “There’s no rope in there. How’d you...?”

Piers didn’t bother answering that one. The room was gloomy in the gathering dusk, though less so than his prison, and it was still light enough to see the street outside and the expanse of waste ground with bits of ruined building beyond. It all seemed unnaturally quiet.

“There’s no need for this, you know,” his prisoner said, tugging his bonds. “We got the money. I was about to leave your door open for you. Off you go, your lordship.”

“Thank you.” The waste ground apparently harboured no life at all. No jailer, no bagful of money, no April. Damn, damn and damn... “Where did he take it?”

“Back home,” came the sly response.

Because, of course, Piers didn’t know who he was, which was the whole point. He’d needed the man to come back and be caught with the ransom money.

He stirred, dragging his gaze from the window to his one prisoner. “So how do you get your share?”

“Ain’t telling you that.”

“You might as well,” Piers said, “because you won’t be around to receive it. The runners will be upon you in—oh...two or three minutes.” He hoped.

The man blinked. “You got me tied up, mate. Who they going to arrest?”

“You,” Piers said with quiet certainty. “You do know your accomplice never meant to give you your share? Why do you think he never brought it back here?”

There was no time to see if the point went home. Something bumped and clattered inside the house. It came from his prison at the back of the house.

“What the...?” The bound man scowled, then grinned. “It’s himself come back after all.”

“Why would he come through the window?” Piers wondered, just as April appeared in the parlour doorway, a lethal looking dagger grasped in one hand.

Her other grasped at the door. “Piers...”