"Well...dat's certainly an interesting way ta end things." Smirking, Amy popped her head out from behind the carriage. Thoughtfully, she cocked an eyebrow at the footmen who had just accidentally executed their own employer. "Care ta join our side, boys?"

The men stared at her for a long moment—then turned on their heels and ran, dashing off into the forest. Amy watched them go with a grin.

"Dat was funny."

"You have a rather special sense of humor, Miss Amy."

"What can I say? I'm a special girl."

His sky-blue eyes gazed at her for a long, long moment. "That you are. That you are. But for now, let's get to the important subject, shall we? Namely, how we are going to safeguard the girl and—" He gestured at the prone body of Compton on the ground. "—what we are going to do with that!"

Amy shrugged. Maybe it was her slightly different perspective, having grown up in the East End, but disposing of a body was not exactly something she considered to be particularly problematic. What were ditches for, after all?

She tried to explain her philosophical standpoint on the matter of body disposal. For some reason, it took him quite a while to concede to her well-thought-out arguments.

"Nobody. Never. Do you hear me?" he grumbled as he trudged over towards the nearest ditch, the corpse of Lord Fabian Evander Compton slung over his shoulder. "Nobody is ever going to hear about this, or I am going to be very displeased!"

"Oh, what are ye gonna do?" Grinning from ear to ear, Amy skipped behind him, batting her eyelashes up at him. "Punish me?"

She watched with amusement as his ears turned a fiery red. Still, as amusing as this was, they had other things to deal with. As soon as the corpse was deposited in the ditch, Amy strode back to the coach and gestured at Everstone, who was bravely cowering behind a tree.

"Get da carriage ready! We've gotta be fast!"

"Fast?" The coachman blinked. "For what?"

"Ain't it obvious?" Amy pointed after the quickly receding forms of the thugs. "We've gotta catch up ta dem!" She dashed forward and was already halfway into the coach when a familiar hand latched onto her arm. Glancing back, she frowned. "What?" she demanded, staring at Patrick, who was holding her back. "We can't let 'em outrun us! If dey find other people, and tell dem—"

"Tell them what?" he enquired, cocking an eyebrow. "That they were waylaid by a duke's son indulging in some casual highway robbery and accidentally shot their own employer?"

"Oh." Amy blinked. "If ye put it like dat..."

"Yes." He nodded. "Trust me, by now, they're probably halfway to the border of Wales, and won't stop till they find some nice, chilly mountains to hide in."

Amy's lips twitched in satisfaction. "My, my. I feel so much pity for dem. And I don't at all think freezing balls is a fittin' punishment for working for dat bastard."

"I can feel your compassion from here."

"I bet ye can." Marching over towards the coach, Amy pulled open the door and glanced back at Patrick. "So what are you going to tell the gang?"

Thoughtfully, he stroked his chin. "Well..."

***

"...we'd just met up with Lord Compton, who'd come north ta get da girl 'imself, when da 'ighwaymen rushed out from da forest."

"Highwaymen?" the gangster in front of him repeated tonelessly.

"Aye! Fierce, wild-lookin' 'ighwaymen with bushy beards and rotten teeth!" Willy Perv nodded, shivering in fear. "Deir leader..." He shuddered. "'e was da most terrifying man I ever saw! Didn't even 'esitate once, 'e did! Straight away pulled 'is gun on Compton, and when 'e wouldn't give up 'is purse, da robber shot 'im dead on da spot!"

"Dead?" The gangster's voice was soft. That didn't mean one couldn't hear the unbridled rage behind it. "Lord Compton, one of our biggest clients ever, is dead?"

Willy Perv swallowed. "Aye."

The other man's eyes narrowed. "And da girl?"

"E-escaped in da chaos. I was tryin' ta keep da fancy tosser from bleedin' out, and she used da chance ta slip away."

"So...yer target escaped, yer client died, and all in all, da entire job I gave ye ended up bein' a giant, stinking fuckup!"

"Err...aye, Sir." Willy cringed—then he suddenly brightened. "But at least I got da job done! I managed ta 'and over da girl to da client before everythin' else 'appened."

"Da dead client. Who was shot while ye were dere with 'im."

"Um...aye. But, on da bright side, 'e seemed very pleased before 'e croaked. Speedy service makes for satisfied customers, ye know? Da tosser even gave me a big bonus!"

There was a pause.

"A bonus?"

The man who was Willy Perv on the outside smiled on the inside.

Bait taken!

"Aye." Nodding proudly, like the stupid thug he was, "Willy Perv" raised a tinkling bag of coins. "'e gave me dis."

"Did 'e, now?" A greedy glint entered the other man's eyes. Then, before his poor subordinate could even blink, the gangster's hand shot out and grabbed the bag.

"Oy! What do ye think ye're doin'?"

"Shut yer mouth!" Smirking, the gangster pocketed the money, his other hand coming to rest on the knife hanging from his belt. "And keep it shut if ye don't want da boss ta 'ear about 'ow ye screwed up! Wouldn't wanna lose yer ticket into da Black Street Snakes, would ye?" And, with a smirk, he turned away and marched out of the room. "Get yer arse cleaned up! Ye stink like ye've fallen in a pit full of barn animals! I'll expect ye bright and early tomorrow night. We've got plenty of work for ye."

Slamming the door behind him, the gangster completely missed the smirk on his loyal subordinate's face.

Ten minutes or so later, a dishevelled figure strode out of the East End, keeping the high collar of his dirty coat up. People threw him pitying looks. Was he a thug? A beggar? One man even threw him a penny. Weren't the people of London kind?

Though, for some reason, the poor beggar didn't seem to appreciate it very much, and his left eyebrow kept twitching.

"Oh, ye poor fellow. 'ere, take dis and buy yerself something decent ta eat."

Slowly, very slowly, the poor beggar looked up into the smirking face of the green-eyed vixen waving down at him from the window of a coach, one hand extended, holding a penny.

"Why, thank you, Miss." He sent a death-glare at the minx. "A penniless street rat like me can't thank you enough for your magnanimous generosity."

"Yer thug speech is slippin', Yer Lordship."

He was only able to keep his glare up for another three seconds or so before succumbing to her sparkling green eyes.

Tarnation! Why is it that, no matter what this woman does, I can't seem to resist her?

He had an idea what the answer to that question might be. But every time he thought about that...

No! He shook his head. Impossible! Simply impossible! You can't possibly be in lo—

"Somethin' da matter?"

Hurriedly, he cleared his throat. "Nothing. Nothing at all." Casting a quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching, Lord Patrick pulled open the door and slipped into the coach. He knocked against the roof to signal Everstone, and, with a clatter of wheels on cobblestones, the three of them set out down the road.

"So, Mr Perv," Amy enquired, "what now?"

Lord Patrick had to congratulate himself on his good breeding and restraint. He only felt the slightest urge to strangle her at the use of the monicker. He suppressed it, deciding to get to the point instead.

"Well, Miss Amy, since you ask so politely..."

Quickly, he related everything that had happened in the gang's headquarters. Amy listened with an intense expression, every hint of mirth wiped from her features. For a moment, he wanted to interrupt his narrative, wanted to ask about Compton, and how she felt now—but a glance into the corner where the little girl was once again peacefully snoring convinced him to shelve that subject for later.

Instead, he finished his tale of the events in the gangster's hideout. Then, silence descended over the carriage.

"So...we've done it." The tiniest smile was playing around Amy's lips. Lord Patrick was not an expert on physiognomy, but he was fairly certain it was not the kind of smile one would want to encounter in a dark, nocturnal alley. "We've successfully gotten into da gang. Ye know what dat means, don't ye?"

"I do indeed." He nodded with grim satisfaction. "We can finally go after him."

Patrick wasn't surprised that Amy didn't bother to ask whom he was referring to. It was very clear to both of them. Him. The man at the top of the gang. The man behind all of this. Only if they brought him to justice, whoever he was, would they be able to eradicate this evil by the roots.

"Aye, we can," Amy agreed. "And dis time, dere won't be no chasin' through da forest. No sneakin' into 'ideouts and breakin' out victims in da middle of da night. No. Dis time, we'll find every name. Every transaction. Every single darn damning document we can find! Den we're gonna send everything ta Mr 'endrickson and drag all dose bastards' dirty secrets out into the light. By da time we're done with dem, dey're gonna wish we threw dem in a meat grinder!"

"I very much look forward to that day." For a long moment, they shared a smile, looking deep into each other's eyes. And if that moment lasted just a little longer than was entirely appropriate, that was surely just because of their shared happiness at justice being about to be delivered, right? "And together, we will do whatever needs to be done to bring it about." Unable to resist, he yawned. "But not tonight. For some reason, I feel really exhausted."

Amy innocently blinked up at him. "Dat wouldn't 'ave anythin' ta do with da 'edgehog spines still lodged in yer buttocks, would it?"

He sent her a dirty look. Something which, in his current getup, was quite a lot easier to accomplish than in his usual Savile Row tailcoat.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But the amazing thing about beds is that you don't have to lie on your backside, you can sleep in many different positions."

"Oh, so ye're knowledgeable about 'different positions', are ye?" Her grin sparkled.

Lord Patrick opened his mouth to shoot back one of the many insults he had recently learned—only to end up yawning. Fiddlesticks! He really was tired.

"Let's discuss our strategies tomorrow." He rubbed his face. "For now, let's find a bed and get some sleep."

"Agreed." Amy yawned as well. "Say, ye don't mind puttin' me up for da night, do ye? I don't really feel like walkin' through da East End 'alf asleep."

"That shouldn't be a problem." Pushing open the coach door, his muscles protesting, he slowly stepped out onto the street and towards his town house. "After all, it isn't as if anybody else is home right this mome—"

That was when he noticed the line of carriages in front of his house and the massive banner above the front door. A banner that read:

CHARITY BALL

in favour of London's unfortunate women

Organized by Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Exeter

"Bloody stinking pile of horseshit!" said Lord Patrick Day.

"Couldn't 'ave said it better meself," Amy agreed.

"You know...I somehow don't feel like going home anymore. I feel a sudden, irresistible desire to spend the rest of the week in a hotel. In another city. Preferably a French one."

"Do ye think ye've got an extra berth for the ferry ta France?"

"I'm a Peer of the British Empire. I have several extra ships."

"Spiffin! Den Let's—"

"—go? Agreed."

The eyes of the two met. Against his will, Lord Patrick felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. "You know, it is quite strange how we—"

"—seem ta be thinkin' da exact same thing? Aye, dat's weird." Amy glanced at the banner with a rather disturbed look on her face that would make Lord Patrick feel insulted if right now he hadn't been completely fixated on getting the heck out of here.

"Now," Amy continued, cutting his thoughts of mid-sentence, "let's get da 'ell out of 'ere!"

Lord Patrick blinked. All right, now this was seriously starting to be freakish! Thinking the same things, doing the same things, almost as if they were...meant for each other?

He felt a tug at his heart.

Heck!

Patrick glanced at the banner once again and realized something: they had to get out of there before his mother showed up.

"Oy! Did ye 'ear me? We should leave. Right friggin' now!"

"Yes." Lord Patrick nodded and stuck his head out of the window. "We should. Everstone, let's drive south and—"

"Oh my goodness!" a voice that sounded awfully familiar in every sense of the word came from the direction of the house. "Oh my goodness, Patrick, son, is that you?"

Crapulous!

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No time for an author's note today ;) I'm working on getting a book made into paperback.