Another cold shiver travelled down Lord Patrick's spine. Once again, he glanced at the window to check whether it was really firmly closed.

It was.

Odd. Exceedingly odd.

Shrugging it off, he divested himself of the last of his dirty disguise clothes and reached for the greatest treasure in the room and the key to his salvation: a clean shirt. Sighing in bliss, he closed his eyes and slipped it over his head. Ahh...civilization.

Normal, really. Perfectly ordinary. But it suddenly felt wonderful after the hell he'd just had to visit.

For a moment, he just stood there, breathing in deeply and relishing the absence of sewer stench. Even more importantly, he relished the absence of the cries of despair he had gotten far too used to hearing. Opening his eyes, he gazed down at the rumpled envelope lying in front of him. The envelope that contained information about his task for the gang. The envelope he hadn't opened yet.

Later, he told himself. Let's deal with one horror at a time.

And speaking of horrors...

Reluctantly, he slipped on the last few items of clothing and turned towards the door.

Time to face the music.

Except he really, really didn't want to. Music was a horrible, gruesome atrocity. Especially if composed by Miss Amy Weston.

Come on, Patrick! Behave like a true British gentleman and screw your courage to the sticking place! After all, she can't be that upset that you left her with your mother, right?

Your mother who wants to marry her off? And is busy torturi—ehem, educating her at this very moment?

Yes, she probably isn't upset at all.

Taking a deep breath, Lord Patrick strode out of the room and out into the corridor, where Griffiths was waiting with his black tailcoat and hat in hand.

His black funeral tailcoat and hat.

Stopping in his tracks, Lord Patrick crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the butler. "Really?"

"Providing appropriate clothing for every occasion is a butler's duty, My Lord."

"And so is driving a Lord insane?"

"My Lord?"

"Don't you My Lord me!"

"Yes, My Lord."

Deciding it was best to abandon a losing battle, His Lordship grabbed the tailcoat, threw it on and strode out into the street, where his coach awaited him.

A coach drawn by four black horses wearing funeral plumage.

Taking a deep breath, Lord Patrick Day sent a stare at his coachman.

"Everstone?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Should I even ask?"

"Providing adequate transportation for any situation is the duty of any good coachman, My Lord."

"I'm sure it is. Now get your bloody backside up on that box before I grab your whip and give you a good hiding!"

"To judge by the expression on your face, I am not the one who would like to go into hiding, My Lord."

Lord Patrick felt the urge to wrap his hands around the coachman's throat. Why not? Strangling the fellow would probably improve the good manners among his staff by around thirty percent. Plus, strangulation would have the added benefit of lasting a minimum of four minutes which could be used to stall. Right now, Lord Patrick Day wanted nothing more than to stall and stall and stall. But if there was one thing he had learned during his time with Miss Amy Weston, it was that giving her time to build up steam was not a good idea.

Reaching up to massage his neck, he winced in remembrance of numerous sparring sessions.

Better get this over with.

Pulling open the coach door, Lord Patrick climbed into the coach and slumped down onto the bench. From up on the coach, Everstone's voice came.

"If you wish, My Lord, I could put you in contact with the Sisters of Mercy. They have a wonderful charity program in support of victims of spousal abuse."

"Everstone?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Drive!"

"Yes, My Lord."

The whip cracked, and the coach rattled off down the street. Everstone remained satisfactorily silent. Or at least it was to Patrick's satisfaction for around five minutes, until he realized the absence of talk only meant one thing: he was left alone with his thoughts. And those thoughts were mostly dominated by one repetitive consideration:

Shit, shit, shit, I'm so screwed!

It was really disturbing how much more expressive his vocabulary had become since his lessons with Miss Amy Weston. But not nearly as disturbing as the thought of what Miss Amy Weston might do to him once he arrived to collect her from her afternoon out with his dear mother.

He swallowed.

Surely, she wouldn't be too angry, right?

Right. Definitely.

Self-delusion is an art in and of itself, isn't it?

Oh crap.

...ulous.

Taking a deep breath, he attempted to calm himself. He still had time to prepare. Time to think about what to say to her. After all, it would still take a bit until they reached his mother's house, right?

"Whoa!" Everstone called out from atop the box. Moments later, the coach rolled to a stop.

So much for that.

"We're here, Your Lordship!"

"Yes, thank you, Everstone. I wouldn't have realized that without your kind hint."

"You are welcome, Your Lordship."

Lord Patrick Day glanced out of the coach to where he saw his mother's secondary townhouse. Through one of the windows, he caught a glimpse of Miss Amy Weston's face. All in all, he was rather doubtful he was welcome, in the more literal sense of the word.

There was still time to turn around, right?

Shame on you, Lord Patrick Day! You are a proud British gentleman! Are you saying you are afraid of a woman?

No. He preferred turning around the coach without saying anything at all. Which he should probably do right about now, if he didn't want to be caught out here by—

"Oh my! Patrick, dear, you're back!"

Crapulous. A deep, stinking pile of crapulous.

Fixing a big, cheerful smile onto his face, Lord Patrick Day stepped out of the coach and moved towards the figure who had appeared at the door.

"Good afternoon, Mother."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Her Ladyship the Dowager Duchess threw her arms around her son in welcome. "I'm so happy you're finally here! Amy will be thrilled!"

"Yes..." Lord Patrick cleared his throat. "I'm sure she will. Tell me...how has she been taking to her lessons so far?"

Just then, a horrible scream as if from some eldritch abomination rose from the interior of the house.

"Marvellous," the dowager duchess proclaimed, not a hint of a shame on her face as another scream echoed from the house behind her. "Simply marvelous!"

"Um...is that right?"

"Well...she had some trouble with the etiquette lessons, I must admit. But she was, ehem...quite enthusiastic about her elocution lessons."

Lord Patrick quirked an eyebrow. "Who did you get? A governess? A teacher from a girls' finishing school?"

"An Oxford professor."

"Ohmygodthepoorman."

"Pardon?"

"Err...nothing, Mother. Nothing whatsoever. Why don't the two of us go to the veranda at the back of the house and have a cup of tea? It's been so long since the two of us have had a good, long chat."

Her Ladyship the Dowager Duchess opened her mouth to answer—just when, behind her, the front door opened and a vengeance demon stepped out into the open.

"Patrick!"

Oh, silly me! That's no vengeance demon! That's Miss Amy Weston. How could I have possibly confused those two?

Most likely due to the lovely expression on her face.

"Ah. Miss Amy." He straightened and, just in case, glanced over his shoulder to check whether there was a hired assassin behind him. By now, he had paid her more than enough money to afford one, and, to judge by the way she was looking at him, she was more than ready to foot the bill. "How, um, nice to see you. I was really looking forward to meeting you again."

"Aye." Green eyes glittering, Amy massaged her fist. "My knuckles 'ave bin lookin' forward ta meetin' ye again, too."

Ah. So, apparently, she wasn't going to bother with an assassin. She was just going to do the deed herself.

"Come on, you two," the dowager duchess proclaimed cheerfully, completely ignorant of the daggers Amy was staring at her beloved son. At least, he very much hoped she was ignorant of the daggers. Poisonous, serrated daggers that were guaranteed to be fatal within five seconds. "Let's go inside and eat lunch together! It'll be such fun!"

"Yes." Swallowing, he darted another glance at Amy's face. "Fun."

During the next hour and a half, Lord Patrick truly learned to appreciate how wonderful his lady mother was. How had it never before occurred to him what an amazing buffer a mother could make? Particularly such a charming, cheerful, mother such as his, who could do the fatal puppy-dog eyes from a hundred paces away. No girl could be immune to that marvelously motherly gaze that made you feel like freshly baked cookies, hot chocolate and comfy cushions all rolled into one. No matter how much a certain somebody might have wanted to rail and rage and get revenge, faced with those baby blue eyes and that sweet smile, they couldn't do it. The fact that the "somebody" in question happened to be Miss Amy Weston, and she still kept her mouth shut except for the occasional sip at her teacup, made Lord Patrick's admiration for his lady mother only rise further. Thus, the meal in the dowager duchess's townhouse proceeded blissfully and peacefully.

Unfortunately, there was one very depressing fact he could not ignore: all good things come to an end. Including meals.

"Aaaah." Sighing deeply, the dowager duchess pushed her plate away and carefully touched her serviette to her mouth, removing the few tiny crumbs that had dared to cling there in defiance of her nobility. "That was delicious. Do give my compliments to the chef."

The butler bowed. "I shall do so, Your Grace."

"Now..." The dowager duchess glanced out of the window, where the setting sun was visible above the houses. Smiling, she turned towards her son and...winked? "I think it's getting late and an old lady like myself can't monopolize all of your time, now, can I? After all, I need my beauty sleep, and I'm sure the two of you have better things to do."

Then she winked at him again.

GodohGodohGodwhymeeee?

Lord Patrick quickly cleared his throat. "Well, I think we still have time for dessert and could—"

"Thank ye for understandin', Yer Ladyship!" A voice from beside him piped up, just before a soft, feminine, yet surprisingly firm hand closed around his wrist. "Da two of us 'ave a lot ta talk about. In private."

"Unless you want to come along, Mother?" Lord Patrick Day enquired with a desperation no self-respecting man would lower himself to.

Well...to hell with self-respect! This was an emergency!

"Oh, don't worry, my dear." His mother winked at him again. "I'll leave you two alone. I know when not to be a bother."

Apparently, you don't!

So much for his last resort.

"Ye're such a wonderful lady, Yer Grace." Beaming broadly, Amy stood up and, without much effort, pulled him to his feet, her grip tightening around his wrist with dark promise. "I swear, I'll take good care of 'im for ye."

And before he could protest, scream in fear, or jump out of the window, she dragged him away. All too soon, the two of them were outside, alone, and out of hearing range.

"Ye." Amy's voice was the sweetest kind of poison. "Ye're in for it now. Do ye 'ave any idea what I've gone through because of ye? Do ye know 'ow long I've bin stuck in dere, subjected to da gentle ministrations of yer mother?"

"Ehem, well..." Cautiously, Lord Patrick took a step back. "In my defense, I'm afraid, for the success of our self-appointed mission and the greater good of humanity, it was necessary to—"

Reaching under her dress, Amy grabbed something. There was the twing twong of rubber bands and, moments later, she pulled out...a something from under the back of her gown.

"What...what's that?" Patrick demanded, staring at the monstrosity with morbid fascination.

"A backboard," was Amy's far-too-calm answer. "It teaches ye proper posture."

"Oh dear."

"Aye. What were you saying again about dis being necessary for da good of humanity?"

Lord Patrick tugged at his lapels. How come his throat suddenly felt as if there was a rope tightened around it? One sufficient to hang himself with?

"Now, Miss Amy, let's not be hasty. You should probably carefully consider before you do anything you might regret—"

"Ye're right." Smiling, Amy nodded, her grip on the board tightening, holding it like a club. "Instead, I'll just do something dat ye will regret."

Oh crapulous!

Sudden, vivid visions of himself strapped naked to a backboard with various spikey implements stuffed into his orifices flashed through Lord Patrick's mind. Quickly he shook off the horrible image—only to be faced with the view of a pissed off Amy Weston.

Maybe he should have stayed in his mindscape and enjoyed the torture.

Idly, he wondered how long she was going to take before she started bashing that board over his head. Or perhaps she was just going to strap him to it, tie his hands behind his back and give him some 'advanced lessons' in sparring?

He shuddered.

And what was worse...right now, she seemed content to sit in her corner of the coach and wait until they reached his home. Technically, the delay should have made him feel relieved. But all it really did was make him think about the things she wanted to do to him in the privacy of his home which she apparently thought she couldn't do in public.

"Thinkin' about what my revenge is gonna be?"

His back stiffened. He could practically feel the monstrous thing strapped to his spine already.

"Are ye worrying about when I'll attack ye?"

His eyebrow twitched. He was faced with a conundrum. A gentleman could never lie to a lady. A gentleman could also never show fear. Bleeding paradoxes!

Can Miss Amy Weston be considered a lady?

Good point, inner voice.

"No, of course I am not worried," he told her, putting on the friendliest smile he could manage as he crossed his fingers behind his back. Somehow, his friendly smile didn't end up being all that convincing.

"Don't worry." Reaching out, she patted his arm. "I promise, I won't need to do anything to get revenge on you."

"Oh." Blinking, he looked at her. "You won't?"

She gave him a sweet smile. "No. I won't."

"Ah. Well..." He breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good, then."

He threw another glance at her incredibly charming, incredibly friendly smile. This was definitely not what he had expected. It was more than a bit strange she was so calm about all of this, but if she really was fine with what had happened, who was he to argue?

Still, he was going to put a safe distance between himself and Miss Amy Weston just in case. Once he was securely inside his house, with three solid doors between him and her, she wouldn't be able to do anything.

As if in answer to his prayers, just then, the coach rolled to a stop in front of his town house.

"Your Lordship?" Everstone called out from up above. "We've ar—"

Lord Patrick leapt out of the coach and rushed up the front steps of his house.

"—rived."

"Excellent, Everstone! Well done! Now, why don't you take Miss Weston home? I'm sure she'd like to relax and um...relax." He threw a glance at the backboard that was still clutched in her hands. "A lot."

Then he slipped into the house, slamming the door behind him.

"Did you have an interesting day, My Lord?"

Taking a deep breath, Lord Patrick Day turned and sent a glare at his esteemed butler.

"Very interesting indeed, Griffiths. Now, why don't you start earning your pay and bring me a cup of tea?"

The butler gave a perfect bow. "And a suit of medieval armor plus sword, just in case Miss Weston decides to come in after all?"

"Tea, Griffiths. Now."

The butler scurried off, not at all showing a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. No, definitely not.

Ten minutes later, Lord Patrick Day was reclining in his favorite armchair in the breakfast room, sipping a most splendid cup of tea and relaxing for the first time in twenty-four hours. He still couldn't believe how lucky he was! He was home. He was safe. He wasn't going to be eviscerated by a raving madwoman armed with various instruments of torture. True, his confusion as to how he had escaped any consequences persisted. But then again, what did a little confusion matter in the grand scheme of things? He still might not know why, but he was extremely glad Amy had been in a good mood for some obscure reason.

He had thought he would have to deal with her plotting against him and enacting various devious revenge plans. Instead, he could just sit here, relax and enjoy the view of the garden with its peach trees, twittering birds and enormous mountain of feces that—

He blinked.

Slowly, his eyes moved back to the spot they had just swept over. The spot where, for some reason, a massive, steaming pile of fragrant brown essence had appeared. A certain lady's words echoed in his mind.

I promise I won't need to do anything to get revenge on you.

A moment later, the roar of a wounded lion shook the nobleman's ancestral mansion.

"Amy!"

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

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

In case you were wondering, crapulous is a disease caused by excessive eating and drinking. And it's also an amazing excuse if you want to pretend you didn't say "Crap!".

Yours Truly

Sir Rob