"Amy? Amy, look at me."

Amy only vaguely heard him. Right now, she couldn't bring herself to listen. All her attention was focused on what she saw on the ground in front of her. Naturally, her avoiding his gaze had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that her cheeks were still burning brightly from that kiss earlier.

Focus! Amy scolded herself. Get yer bloody 'ead on straight! Right now, it's more important dan ever!

"'ere, look at dat!" Jabbing a finger at the ground, she pointed at one of the hoof prints the horses had left in the dirt. There, right at the top of the arched imprint, was a small mark.

"A...prancing horse? In front of an open gate?" She could practically hear the frown on his face. Then, suddenly, he was beside her, staring at the strange imprint in the ground even more intently than her. "Of course! A blacksmith's mark!"

"A what now?" Turning her head, she blinked at him, confused.

"A blacksmith's mark! Have you never seen one before?"

Amy cocked an eyebrow. "Unlike some people, I don't own three stables full of race horses."

"Ehem." He had the decency to look sheepish. "Well, that's not quite the point."

"Den what is da point?"

"These marks..." He tapped the ground. "Blacksmiths put these on their work to identify their work and advertise. Sometimes, stables commission horse shoes with marks to identify their horses in case they run off or are stolen." Looking up, he met her gaze. His blue eyes were burning intensely. "So they can track and find them."

Amy stiffened.

The significance of those words did not escape her.

"You mean we could..."

"Yes."

Abruptly, a vicious grin spread over Amy's face. "Don't ask me why, but I've got a sudden desire ta visit nearby blacksmiths and stables. What do ye say?"

Beside her, Patrick rose to his feet. Looking up, she met his eyes. In those sky-blue orbs, she saw a mixture of emotions. Pride. Warmth. Tenderness. And so much more than that. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of...love?

"It's a date."

Amy couldn't help it. At those words, she blushed.

Extending his arm, he took hold of her hand with a gentle but firm grasp. "Would you grant me the pleasure of your company during this outing, Miss Amy?"

Her grin widening, Amy took his hand. "I would love to."

"Then let's go, shall we?" Striding towards the exit of the alley, he whistled to attract the attention of a nearby cab. "Let's get our man!"

***

"Ye know," Amy said, "in retrospect, 'aving two people check all da blacksmiths and stables of da East End might not 'ave bin such a good idea." Throwing a look at Patrick she examined his face. "Especially for some of us."

Lord Patrick noble's eyebrows twitched. "You don't say."

Hm... Amy wasn't quite sure why, but he must have been annoyed for some reason. Though it might have had something to do with the enormous black eye he was sporting.

Amy couldn't keep her lips from twitching ever so slightly. "Ah, dat. Well, dat's kind of yer fault, really."

"Oh, it is, is it?"

"Ye did tell dat last blacksmith ta 'open up and show you his insignia'."

The way she pronounced it sent a tinge of red onto his cheeks.

"How was I supposed to know he didn't know what the word insignia meant?" Patrick hissed. "That is clearly not a dirty word! And it most certainly not a metaphor for a man's di—ehem, for something indecent."

Amy threw him a pitying look. "P, dis is da East End. 'alf of all words are somethin' indecent."

He threw her a look right back. A rather meaningful one. "I've noticed."

Amy preened with pride—but it only lasted for a moment before she spotted the next sign with a hammer and anvil, advertising another blacksmith. Her face hardened with determination.

We're gonna take dat bastard down. No matter 'ow many men we've gotta squeeze for info, no matter 'ow long it takes, we're gonna take 'im down!

Five hours later, Amy was regretting those words. Growling, she slammed shut the door of the latest blacksmith's shop and marched towards the carriage.

Patrick stuck his head out of the window. "And?"

"What do ye think?"

He winced. "No luck, hm?"

"What gave it away?" Amy pulled a face and, taking Patrick's extended hand, let him pull her into the carriage.

"Perhaps we should get some help?" he suggested.

"Whose?" Amy sighed and sagged back into her seat. "Pritchard and 'is boys in blue are probably still busy questionin' goons and 'enchmen. Dey might find who knows 'ow many leads ta victims dat are still out dere, waitin' ta be rescued. We can't interrupt dat. And if we try ta interrupt 'endrickson in da middle of finishin' the next day's special edition of 'is paper, 'e'll bite our 'eads off. We could ask Titus, but, well...ye know."

Patrick inclined his head. "An accurate assessment."

"Well," Amy sighed, "we'll just 'ave ta continue."

She knew she didn't sound very hopeful—and for good reason. They had gone from blacksmith to blacksmith to stable, yet every visit only confirmed what they'd quickly discovered after starting their investigation: most of the businesses in the East End didn't have marks or symbols in the first place. Which kind of made sense. Not that Amy was an expert on horses, several episodes of pony play notwithstanding, but she didn't think some two-penny iron smasher in the slums would bother coming up with a special symbol for his business. Let alone one that suspiciously resembled a coat of arms.

Something niggled at the back of her mind.

A coat of arms? In the East End?

Something definitely wasn't right here. Something didn't fit at all.

Growling, Amy smashed her fist against the wall of the carriage. "I just don't understand! We've combed nearly all da way through dis place! 'ow 'aven't we found anything yet? 'ow aven't we—"

Her words were interrupted by a yawn. It took Amy a moment to realize it had been hers.

Bloody 'ell...'ow long 'ave I bin on me feet?

An arm came around her shoulder, pulling her against something warm. A...shoulder? A chest? She blinked. She couldn't be entirely sure. For some reason, she seemed to have trouble keeping her eyes open.

"Come on." A gentle voice told her. "We'll continue tomorrow."

"Continue with what?" Amy mumbled, shoulders slumped. "We've checked every single place in dis bloody dump!"

"I know."

Translation: we've failed.

Amy wanted to scream. To kick and punch and smash! But she was so very tired. She could hardly move.

Just then, the hand on her shoulder squeezed. "It's time to go."

"N-no." Amy tried to sit upright. Really tried. "We ain't done. We should go on and—"

"It's time to go." This time, it wasn't an offer, and his voice didn't sound soft anymore. It was firm. Stern. Commanding. And yet filled with so much warmth it tugged at Amy's heart. A week ago, she would have protested. A week ago, she would have insisted they continue. But tonight?

Tonight, she had someone who cared. Someone to come home to.

She felt so tired. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could be selfish. Just this time, she could be—

No!

"We can't!" Amy growled, forcing down the tiredness. "We're so close! So close to finding that bastard! We have to—"

"Shh. Shh." Patrick's arms came around her, pulling her into a hug. She tried to fight it, tried to get away—then gave up and let herself sink into the comfort of his arms. "Shh. We got them, remember? We got their members, their operation, their everything."

"We didn't get their leader."

"No, we didn't. But they won't be doing anything like this again."

"It's not enough." Amy growled, feeling an urge to stomp her foot. Who cares if it was childish? She didn't feel very rational right now. "It's not bloody enough!"

"No." His voice was grim. "No, it isn't. But it's all we have. For now."

Amy didn't miss the emphasis on the last two words.

***

For the first time in his life, Lord Patrick Day didn't know what to do.

Well...that wasn't exactly true. There had been that time when he'd been fifteen, and Titus dragged him off to show him "something interesting", only to end up pulling him into a place where scantily dressed women were...

Well, the less said about that the better.

But as bad as it had been, this was worse. So much worse. Back then, he'd felt embarrassed. Now he was feeling helpless. And the worst thing? He wasn't feeling helpless for himself, but for the woman in his arms. She looked so peaceful, sleeping in his arms, her chest rising and sinking slowly. Yet she wasn't. She clearly wasn't. And neither was he.

We had him! We so very nearly had him!

Sure, they'd gotten the second in command, and probably most of the lieutenants, but he'd spent enough time in the East End to know how those things worked by now. Greedy rats would rise up to fill empty spots in a heartbeat. The homeless and addicted would be scouted for candidates, and soon, new thugs would be out on the streets, looking for victims. There were only two things that might put an end to this. One, finding the population of the East End steady, decent jobs. Or two...find the mastermind.

We'll find him, he promised himself. Somehow, we'll find him.

But not tonight.

He glanced down at the sleeping Amy again.

Tonight is for her.

Just then, the cab slowly rolled to a halt.

"Amy?" Reaching out, he gently shook her shoulder. "We're home."

"Mmm...'ome." She smiled—then suddenly jerked upright. "'ome? Oh my God, you can't come into my room! It's, ehem...not really cleaned up, and you definitely can't look under my mattress! I mean, not that there's anything under there that I wouldn't want you to see or anything, but you definitely can't—"

It was then that she caught sight of the luxurious townhouse outside the carriage.

"Oh."

It was good that Lord Patrick Day was such a brave man. Otherwise, he might not have been able to fight so valiantly against the smile threatening to appear on his face.

"As I said," he repeated, eyes sparkling, "we are home."

"Oh. Um." A blush spread over her face. A sight that, for some reason, he absolutely could not look away from. "Do ye...do ye really mean dat?"

Reaching out, he took hold of her cheek and forced her to look straight into his eyes. "I have publicly claimed you as my fiancée. Claimed you as mine. What do you think?"

The blush on her cheeks looked delectable. Especially so since he knew he was the first, if not the only, man to make her blush like that. He felt inordinately proud of that fact.

She swallowed. "I...I don't know. 'ow am I supposed ta know what ye're thinkin'?"

"Well then," he breathed, leaning closer. "Let me clarify for you."

And he kissed her. Kissed her hard and fast, and without the slightest hesitation. Because there was no hesitation inside him anymore. Not in his mind, and most certainly not in his heart. This woman would be his, and he would make it official, societal norms be damned!

He might not be able to bring perfect justice to the world. But he would bring perfect happiness to this woman in his arms. And he was going to start right here, right now.

Breaking away from the kiss, he gazed at her. At the sight of the slightly dazed look on her face, he couldn't help but smile.

"Shall we?"

With a push, he opened the carriage door and, jumping out, extended his hand to her. Swallowing, she nodded and took it. Her fingers were so soft. So very, very soft.

"Aye. Let's go 'ome."

Lord Patrick had never paid a cabby this quickly in his life. In a blink, the cabby was driving off with a delirious grin on his face and a ridiculous tip in his pocket. Amy and Patrick, meanwhile, linked arms and started forward. As the two of them approached the townhouse, Lord Patrick noticed they weren't the only ones to have arrived home. Everstone, who had helped shepherd the journalists to the auction, was just brushing down the horses in the driveway. Looking up at his employer guiding Amy away from the cab, he cocked an eyebrow. "You're cheating on me with another carriage, My Lord? I'm shocked!"

"Ha, ha," His Lordship said. "Very funny. Tell Griffiths to prepare something to eat, will you? And have him light the fireplace in the green salon."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Come." Sliding an arm around Amy's shoulders, Lord Patrick started to guide her towards the house. But before they were even halfway to the door, he heard the clatter of hoofs from behind him. When he turned around though, he saw...

"Another carriage?" Inspecting the approaching luxurious coach disapprovingly, Everstone shook his head. "And here I thought you were a respectable gentleman. Cheating is one thing, but cheating and a threesome?"

"Shutupshutupshutup!" Lord Patrick hissed. "That's my mother's carriage!"

A snort came from beside him. Surely, that hadn't been Amy, had it?

"Oh, you don't say?" Everstone cocked his head. "I hadn't noticed."

Another snort. Yes. Definitely Amy.

His Lordship made a mental note to reassess his carriage driver's wages. Surely, things like yearly bonuses were completely extraneous, right?

Just then, the carriage rolled to a stop only a few feet away. Yet, contrary to Lord Patrick's expectations, it wasn't his mother who disembarked. Instead, a liveried servant stepped out of the coach, bearing a sealed envelope. With a bow, he handed it over to Patrick.

"Her Ladyship requests that you and your lady fiancée accept this invitation to dinner this fine evening. She and her friends only had a few brief moments to see her at the ball the other day, and they would appreciate the chance to get to know her better."

Translation: she was press-ganged into throwing a dinner because the nosy biddies wanted to pepper Amy and him with questions.

Oh joy! Inquisition time!

"We don't have to," he told Amy, pulling her close. "If you're tired..."

"Nah." She shook her head. "Knowin' yer mother, 'no' is not goin' ta be an option."

He lifted an eyebrow. "And judging by the smile on your face, you don't particularly mind."

"What can I say?" Shrugging, she gave a tiny smile. "We lost one evil mastermind tonight already. 'ow could we say no ta such a spiffin' opportunity ta meet another?"

Lord Patrick had to admit, he could not argue with such flawless logic.

"What about our investigation?" he asked.

She took a deep breath. "Ye were right before. We're both tired. We can't do anythin' else tonight. Let's pick up where we left off tomorrow. Tonight, we'll eat dinner and relax." Her eyes sparkled. "After all, it'll be a nice chance ta relax. Dere couldn't possibly be any trouble or danger durin' a dinner with yer mother and 'er friends, right?"

"Amy?"

"Aye?"

"You have a horrifyingly effective sense of sarcasm."

"I know." Beaming, she linked her arm with his and gestured towards the carriage. "Shall we?"

"Yes." He nodded. To be honest, he had to agree it would be nice to forget about the dark underbelly of this city for an evening, and instead simply relax and spend an evening with family and friends. Besides...the smile on her face alone would make it worth his while. "Let's go."

***

"Patrick! You came, dear! And you brought Amy!"

Amy immediately felt her spirits lift the moment she heard the warm voice of the dowager duchess. She tried her best not to let it show on her face—because no matter what she had said to Patrick, this was the reason she had wanted to come here. This was what she'd needed after today. The heart-felt smiles. The warmth. The feeling of having a mother.

Not that she would ever admit such a thing out loud.

"Yes, Mother, I came." Patrick agreed from beside her, holding out a hand to help Amy out of the coach. She noticed him scrutinizing the various faces of curious old women peeking around the corner from behind the dowager duchess. "Though I'm beginning to regret it."

"Oh, don't be like that!" In a blink the dowager duchess was in front of them, somehow managing to enfold them both in her arms, an impressive feat for a woman half a head smaller than anyone else in the room. Amy relaxed and let herself luxuriate in the motherly embrace. When Her Ladyship gave her a smile before letting go, Amy felt a surge of warmth in her heart. "Come in and have a seat, will you? Dinner is nearly ready."

"Did I hear someone say dinner? I'm not too late, am I?"

Amy felt Patrick freeze at the sound of that voice. Slowly turning, he sent a glare straight at Titus who had popped up in the doorway like a jack-in-the-box.

"What are you doing here?"

Titus cocked an eyebrow. "Why, witnessing you introduce your very first ladyfriend to your mother, of course! How could I miss that?" He sent his best friend a look. "Even though someone, for some reason, didn't see fit to invite me."

Amy fought to keep her mouth from twitching. "My goodness! I wonder why dat is."

"Right? I'm the perfect friend! Part of the family, practically!" Slinging an arm around both their shoulders, he started to steer Amy and her fiancé—and wasn't that a strange thought still—deeper into the house. "Speaking of family, have you gotten started on making yours yet?"

"That, with no due respect," Patrick informed his friend, "is none of your business."

"Ah." Titus gave a solemn nod. "So you haven't yet. Don't worry." He patted Patrick's shoulder. "If you want some tips, I'm always available."

Amy lost the battle. Her lips twitched into a smile, and she let herself be led down the corridor towards the foyer. Was this what having a family was like? If so, she could get used to it. As long as she had a parasol within reach to whack certain family members over the head.

Together, the three of them stepped into the vestibule. Servants bustled around them, taking their cloaks and hats, offering drinks and appetizers. Lady Henrietta gestured to the two middle-aged women who were staring at Amy with unabashed curiosity. "Amy, my dear, you remember my friends, don't you? Maeve, Alathea and Gwe—oh my. Where is Gwendolyn? She should have arrived by now."

Just then, Amy heard the doorbell ring. The butler hurried off—and, moments later, a voice came from the entrance.

"—so sorry. I know I should have left earlier, but I had some trouble at home. You know how it is."

"Certainly, Your Ladyship."

Just then, Lady Gwendolyn stepped into the parlor. Amy noticed she was still wearing her fur coat. Amy frowned. Was the butler being lazy?

Well, time to show Her Ladyship the dowager duchess that her lessons in manners hadn't been in vain!

"Lady Gwendolyn?" Stepping towards the middle-aged woman with a smile, Amy held out her hands. "Allow me. Let me help you out of your coat and—"

The woman flinched. For a moment something flashed in her eyes, almost like...rage? "Oh no, dear! You needn't. I can—"

"Nonsense. I'm happy to help. I—"

Amy's voice abruptly cut off. She froze, the fur coat in her hands, staring down at the spot on Lady Gwendolyn's leg where red seeped through her dress. In the exact same spot where, just hours earlier, Amy's gunshot had grazed a certain someone.

Her eyes shot up to meet the hate-filled glare of Lady Gwendolyn.

"You...! It's you, who—"

An instant later, she felt an iron grip grab hold of her. In a blink, she found herself in a stranglehold, with a tiny, but exceptionally sharp, knife pressed against her throat.

Oh crap.

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

Mwhahahaha!

Honestly, My dear Lords, Ladies & Gentlemen, tell me, did any of you expect this?  If so, have some virtual cookies for your detective skills! Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you!

Yours Truly

Sir Rob