Ding-dong!

Lord Patrick Day awoke to find his neck twisted two hundred seventy degrees and his spine nailed to a torture rack. Or, at least, that was what it felt like.

"Ugh...!"

Slowly, very slowly, he tried to push himself up—then froze abruptly, as another lance of pain shot through his spine. Maybe falling asleep on the chaise longue had not been such a smart idea after all.

Ding-dong!

There it was again! The infernal sound that had awoken him. To the deepest pits of hell with whoever decided to bother him this early in the morning! Grunting, he shoved his head underneath a nearby pillow.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

So much for that tactic.

A moment later, the door creaked open, and something butlery entered the room.

"My Lord?"

Reluctantly, His Lordship pulled his head out from under the pillow, groggily blinking in the sudden light. "My head torturer?"

"Very amusing, My Lord." Griffith peered down at him. "You have a guest."

"Can we deposit them on the rubbish dump?"

"If you wish, My Lord. Should I report on how the dowager duchess responds to that manner of welcome?"

Lord Patrick felt a claw of icy fear clench around his heart.

"Stop! Don't you dare!"

"My Lord?"

"Don't you 'my lord' me!" Groaning, Lord Patrick pushed himself up into a sitting position. "What does my mother want?"

"In general? Two dozen grandchildren and a lifetime supply of embarrassing pictures to share with her circle of friends over afternoon tea, I believe."

Lord Patrick felt his eyebrow twitch. Why did he employ this man again?

"And what does she want in particular?"

"Currently? You and Miss Amy in a room together, ready to—"

Just then, the door was slammed open, revealing the form of an Armageddon goddess on the warpath. Or, to be more precise, the Lady Henrietta Valentina Day, dowager duchess of Exeter and his lady mother.

Right now he felt particularly regretful about the latter.

"Patrick."

"Hello, Mother dear. How, um...nice to see you."

"Oh yes indeed, my son. Yes indeed." Her Ladyship's baby-blue eyes glittered in unholy anticipation.

"What can I do for you?" he enquired, cautiously.

"You can get that girl and bring her to my house today as soon as possible." Lifting her parasol, she pointed it at him in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of a duelling sword. "I've received word from the people I have hired for your fiancée's edification. Most will be arriving at my personal townhouse in two hours. And as for those who won't...I shall take over that part of her education myself, for the time being."

Hm...

Trying to ignore the ache in his neck, Lord Patrick tried to actually consider this for a moment. This might not actually be so bad. She'd said "her edification", not theirs, correct? That meant...

He had to fight to keep a smile from his face. That meant only Amy would be subjected to his mother's gentle ministrations, correct? Yes, this wouldn't be bad at all.

Plus, it would be good for his dear, beloved mother. She needed lots of alone time with the young woman to learn to, ehem...truly appreciate the uniqueness that was Miss Amy Weston. If all went as expected, any talk of marriage should be out the window by the end of the day.

Wait a minute...!

"Um, Mother, did you say you wanted her at your house today? As in this morning?"

"Yes." The dowager duchess lifted an eyebrow. "Why? And...why do you suddenly look like when you were five years old and I caught you making friends with that horrible Titus boy? Why do you look guilty?"

Because I am trying to think of a way to tell you that your prospective daughter-in-law will be missing your etiquette lessons lessons to drink pig ears in a filthy inn and get recruited by a gang of disgusting child slavers!

"Patrick?" Her Ladyship's eyes narrowed. "Patrick...is there something you want to tell me?"

"No!" Instantly, Lord Patrick raised his hands. "No, nothing whatsoever."

A stern motherly gaze nailed him to the chaise longue for a moment. Yet finally, that moment passed.

"Hm...very well. I shall expect you to bring Miss Weston to our family's townhouse by ten am at the latest. Good day, son."

And, throwing him a last You'd-better-or-else look, the dowager duchess whirled around and swept out of the room.

Lord Patrick remained where he was for a minute, until his mother's footsteps had faded into the distance—then his head slumped back and he stifled a groan with the nearest cushion.

"Why? Why me?"

***

Amy awoke, yawning and stretching in the comfy bed that was obviously not her own. The blankets were satin smooth, the cushions so soft all the world's kittens would envy them, and the king-sized bed was large enough to fit half a dozen princes and their crown jewels as well. There was only one thing missing.

And 'e didn't even try ta climb inta my bed at night dis time! Darn it! What kind of feiance is 'e?

Strange...

Was it just a delusion of hers, or did her inner voice sound very, very nearly not sarcastic? Almost... truly disappointed?

She really needed some gangsters to beat up pronto.

"Well...first things first. Breakfast." Swinging her legs out of bed, she stood up and made her way downstairs. There, in the breakfast room, a big table full of steaming eggs and bacon was already waiting for her, along with a lord who had the most delicious bacon of all.

"Welcome!" Gesturing towards the table with a broad smile, Lord Patrick pulled back a chair. "Take a seat, won't you?"

Amy didn't wait for him to ask twice. Yesterday, after their excursion into the bowels of London, she had not exactly felt like eating much. Time to make up for it!

"Mmmh, thanks! To what do I owe all this?" Digging in, she gestured at the sumptuous meal.

She felt Patrick shift behind her. "Why, ehem...I am simply behaving like any gentleman should."

Amy grinned. Well, now...maybe he'd make a decent feiance after all.

And again, why did that inner voice of hers sound not nearly as sarcastic as it was supposed to? This whole marriage thing was all supposed to be nothing but a big prank, right?

Any thoughts whatsoever, though, flew out of her head the moment Griffiths swept into the room, a silver tray balanced on each hand and amazing aromas wafting in his wake.

"Griffiths, is dat..."

"Coffee, Miss." With a bow, he placed the cup with the exotic, extravagant drink that Amy would never have been able to afford in front of her. "I also have tea, cocoa, and various confectionaries. Which would you like?"

"'ow about all of dem?"

"If I may say, you have impeccable taste, Miss Weston."

"Why, thank ye! I've always thought so meself!" Smirking, Amy glanced up at Patrick. "What do ye think?"

"I completely agree."

Amy nearly choked on a piece of meat. And not the kind she was used to choking on, either.

"'scuse me?"

"I said I completely agree." Smiling widely, Lord Patrick Day pulled out the chair beside her and sat down, holding out a tray. "You have always had wonderful taste. Crumpet? Biscuit? Croissant?"

"Err...thank ye?"

Amy blinked. He was being...nice. Sure, that had happened before, he was the personification of a nice guy, after all. But this...this was different. In particular, the way his smile was trying to split his face in two.

Shrugging, she grabbed the tray. She was getting free coffee and crumpets. Never look a free crumpet in the mouth. Instead, put it in your own.

She proceeded to spend one of the most enjoyable mornings in her life being mothered by Mrs Morris and feasting on all that Mr Griffiths would provide. Outside, Flo, Jo and the others were playing in the garden, and birds were singing in the trees. It was...peaceful.

Oddly so.

What the heck was going on?

She glanced over at Patrick, who was still smiling brightly. A little too brightly.

Oh, come on, Amy. Ain't ye bein' a little bit too suspicious? Dis is Lord Let-me-be-yer-white-knight Day ye're talkin' about. What could 'e possibly be plottin'?

Nodding, Amy resumed her sumptuous breakfast. It didn't take long till she had swept all the plates perfectly clean.

"Aaaah...!" Sighing, Amy leaned back and patted her stomach. "Dat 'it da spot! Now..." Her gaze met Lord Patrick's. "Shall we?"

His smile getting even wider, he nodded. "We shall."

This time, Amy understood why he smiled. This moment was what they'd been waiting for. What they'd been preparing for. Together, they would venture into the darkest depths of the London underworld and give those kidnapping bastards exactly what they deserved! Every second spent on that was worth it!

"Griffiths!" Rising to his feet, Patrick gestured to his butler. "Summon the coach!"

"Yes, My Lord. I shall go forthwith."

By the time the two of them stepped outside, the carriage was already waiting. Gesturing, Patrick pulled open the door and held it open for her. "Ladies first. Shall we depart?"

"My, my. For someone who's headin' to some filthy East End inn, ye're awfully eager."

"Ehem, well..." Patrick cleared his throat. "I believe that what I am about to do, unpalatable though it might be, is necessary for the greater good."

"Well, den let's get goin', shall we?"

And she stepped into the coach. Odd. Was it just her imagination, or did she hear a sigh of relief from Patrick's direction?

Nah. Who would sigh in relief because they were heading off into the worst slums imaginable?

Shaking her head, she sank into the plush upholstery, and promptly, the coach began to roll down down the bumpy cobblestone street.

"Which direction, My Lord?" the coachman called from above.

"You know where, Everstone." Patrick cleared his throat. "I told you earlier, remember? Take us to, ehem...the 'inn'."

"Ah, yes, My Lord. The 'inn'. Of course, My Lord."

Amy grinned.

Soon. Soon, we'll be facing dose bloody gangsters!

She could hardly wait.

On either side, the houses rushed by. The farther they went, the more beautiful and elegant the houses became. Soon, they would be in the East End and—

Wait a bloody minute! Beautiful and elegant? Why da 'ell would East End 'ovels be beautiful and elegant?

In fact, where the hell were they? Why were they in such an unfamiliar part of town?

Although...not exactly unfamiliar. She had seen it once before. Very recently.

"Patrick..."

Yet before she could finish the sentence, the coach came to an abrupt halt and, pushing open the door, Patrick catapulted her out onto the street.

"Oy! What da 'ell...!"

Just then, the door of the house in front of her opened, revealing the figure of Lady Henrietta Valentina Day, the dowager duchess of Exeter.

"Miss Weston! There you are!" A broad smile spread over the dowager duchess's face. "And here I thought you were staying away on purpose. Come in, come in! Everything is ready for your lessons to start!"

Amy froze—yet only for a moment before she whirled back around. "Patrick Day! You traitor!"

But the space she was glaring at exhibited a distinct lack of Patrickness. All Amy could see was the rear end of a coach already rolling down the street, far, far away.

***

Sighing in relief, Lord Patrick Day sank back into the plush upholstery of his coach.

"Phew! We made it!"

"We did indeed, My Lord."

Taking a deep breath, His Lordship glanced back out of the window, to where Miss Amy Weston was currently dragged into limbo by his loving mother. "Yes, she's inside. We'll be safe for a while now, Everstone."

"Yes, My Lord." A pause. "Of course, she will also be slightly more...displeased when she finally re-encounters you, My Lord."

Patrick swallowed. "Well..."

"And we are currently driving towards a criminal-infested drinking establishment that cannot exactly be described as 'safe', in order to meet a number of vicious child slavers who are most definitely not 'safe'."

"You and Griffiths should get together sometime, Everstone. You two are simply brilliant at improving your employer's mood."

"I do what I can, My Lord."

"Why, thank you very much, Everstone. Now back to the house. I have to change into some miserable, dirty rags."

"Yes, My Lord. And later on, some armour for your meeting with the lady, maybe?"

"Everstone?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Be quiet and drive."

It didn't take long for them to reach His Lordship's ancestral residence again. Doing his best to ignore the satisfied absence of a smirk on Griffiths' serene butler face, and Mrs Morris's questions about when that delightful Miss Weston would be back (Oh God, not too soon, hopefully!), Lord Patrick made his way into the spare guest room where he had decided to store his new clothes. When he re-emerged, the honourable peer of the realm was no more. In his place was Willy Whose-Surname-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned, the feared East End criminal.

"Vagabond! How dare you enter the ancestral home of Lord Patrick Day!"

His Lordship glanced sideways. "Very amusing, Griffiths. Very amusing indeed."

"Indeed, I believe so as well, My Lord. Do you wish for me to call Everstone?"

"And arrive at a filthy inn in the middle of the slums in a luxurious carriage with the crest of one of the ducal houses of England on the door?"

"An excellent point, My Lord. Should I call for a dung cart instead?"

"That won't be necessary, thank you."

And before Griffiths could get any more helpful ideas, Lord Patrick strode out of his house and onto the street. This time heading in the correct direction—which just so happened to be the exact opposite of the one Amy had disappeared in—he headed off into the darker part of town. The part nobody really wanted to visit, or even wanted to acknowledge the existence of. When people passed him by, they quickly stepped out of his way. It was something he should be used to. People always made way for Lord Patrick Day, heir to the duchy of Exeter. But this...

This was different. These people didn't move out of his way for fear of his name. They moved out of the way for fear of him. Apparently, word of the infamous Willy Whose-Last-Name-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned had spread far and wide.

It was a strange feeling. Strange and almost...exciting.

Before he knew it, Patrick was standing in front of the White Hart Inn.

His face morphing into a ruthless sneer, he pushed open the door. With three long strides, he reached the bar.

"A pig ear," he demanded, leaning towards the innkeeper. "da right kind."

"Oh, um, Mr Perv..." The innkeeper smiled broadly, if slightly apprehensively. "'ow's it goin'?"

"Better, now dat I got dat taste out of me mouth. Drink. Now."

"Aye, Mr Perv! Right away, Mr Perv!"

The innkeeper rushed to do his bidding, and the other patrons shuffled backwards until they were a safe distance away. Apparently, his new reputation had spread even farther than he had thought. Certainly far enough to reach these people's ears. Clearly, everyone in this place had heard of Pritchard's fate. Was there anyone around these parts who wasnt afraid of him?

He got the answer to that question a minute later.

"Oy, ye!" A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Are ye Willy Perv?"

Taking a deep breath, Lord Patrick Day swallowed every little bit of pride, self-respect and truthfulness he had amassed in his entire life, and turned around.

"Aye, dat's me."

"Ye da one who improved dat old bastard Pritchard's ugly mug?"

Slowly, eyes narrowed in aristocratic disdain that, amazingly, came very handy in the criminal underworld, Lord Patrick turned around. "Who wants ta know?"

The grip on his shoulder tightened. To judge by the expression on the visages of the men he was now facing, not because they were about to hug him.

"None of yer bloody business," thug number one growled. "All ye gotta do is play nice and come with us. Now."

"And what," Patrick asked, "if I don't?"

His hand came down on the other man's, clenching around his wrist, hard.

"Den ye're gonna be in a lot of pain real fast," thug number two shot back at him. "Wanna try?"

"Ye were lookin' for a job, weren't ye?" Added thug number one, who had obviously taken on the role of good cop, inasmuch as a crook could ever fill that role. "We're 'ere ta offer ye one."

"Really?" Downing the rest of his beer, Lord Patrick lifted an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

"Not 'ere."

"Why not?"

"'cause," the man growled under his breath, "da Blackstreet Snakes ain't discussed out in da open!"

Lord Patrick made sure to make his eyes widen in surprise at that. "Black..."

"Aye. Now move!"

Hm...for now, he had put up enough resistance to not seem suspiciously eager. Any more, and he would most likely get his bones broken.

"All right, den," he grunted. "But dis better be good."

With the two men shadowing his every step, Lord Patrick marched out into the street. He easily recognized the route they were taking. Soon, they were approaching a familiar building. Far too darn familiar.

Thug number one pulled open the door and jerked his head. "Inside!"

Patrick smirked at him. "Don't I get a 'iring bonus?"

That was when the both of them grabbed him and shoved him inside, into the darkness. The last thing Lord Patrick heard was the sound of the steel-reinforced door slamming shut behind him.

--------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

No real author's note today, sorry. I've got a bad toothache :-(

Yours Truly

Sir Rob