"Let 'em go?" The thug sneered. "Ain't gonna happen!"

Lord Patrick took a step forward, his eyes flicking across the yard, measuring the distance, assessing the surroundings. "Let go. Now!"

"All right, if ye insist..."

Obligingly, the man dropped his burden. The girl slammed onto the ground, grunting in pain. An instant later, the man's boot smashed into her ribs.

"Leave her alone!" Gritting his teeth, Lord Patrick dashed forward, towards the man, who was drawing his foot back for another kick. "Did you hear me? I said—"

The man whirled around. Lord Patrick saw cold, hard steel flash towards him. Sliding one arm underneath the thug's, he pushed it up and to the side, sending the knife stabbing harmlessly into empty air.

"What the—!"

"Let me introduce you to my right hook." Lord Patrick smiled a grim smile at the man. "Courtesy of the Balliol College boxing club!"

Wham!

The thug staggered back, and the knife flew out of his hand, clattering to the floor. With a flick of his foot, Lord Patrick kicked it away and, leaping across the little girl on the ground, placed himself between her and the three men.

"Bastard! We'll get you!" The other two ruffians rushed towards him. None of them had a knife, but they wore brass knuckles on their fists.

Lord Patrick snorted. Half-turning to minimize the target area, he raised his fists.

"Come at me if you dare!"

One of them rushed forward, aiming for His Lordship's gut. Weaving to the side, Lord Patrick's arm lashed out in a jab, hitting the man square in the face.

"Ugh!"

Moving in before the thug had a chance to recover, Lord Patrick bent and delivered an uppercut that sent the thug's head snapping back. All equilibrium lost, the man stumbled, and a last fist to the gut sent him crumpling to the ground.

"Stay right where ye are!"

Lord Patrick glanced up, expecting to see another fist sailing towards him—but no. Apparently, the last ruffian wasn't just a mindless thug. Instead, he was simply evil. He stood there, holding the little girl's brother up by the throat.

"Don't move, or I'll squeeze dis little bug till 'e chokes!"

"Jimmy!"

The little girl leapt up from the ground and tried to stagger towards her brother. Lord Patrick grabbed her around the middle.

"Don't! Stay away from those men!"

"But...but...Jimmy...!"

The thug threw her a dirty grin. "Wanna save yer brother, little girl? I'll switch 'im for ye. Ye'll be worth more money anyway."

More money? Lord Patrick frowned. What in God's name was that supposed to mean?

He was distracted by the girl struggling in his arms.

"Let me go! 'e's got my brother!"

But His Lordship only clutched her more tightly. In his head, he couldn't help but hear that phrase over and over again: worth more money. Worth more money. It sent a shiver down his back, and he knew one thing: he was not going to let go of this girl! Not until it was safe!

The thug seemed to be coming to the same conclusion.

"Ain't gonna let go of 'er, are ye?" He snarled. "Fine! Then scram! Get away from me, or I'm gonna break this little twerp in 'alf!"

Lord Patrick didn't move. He didn't step forward—but he didn't retreat, either. Not even an inch.

"What da bloody 'ell do ye think ye're doin'? Ye can't touch me as long as I got dis little rat!"

Still, His Lordship ignored him. Instead of bothering to answer the thug, his eyes met the little boy's, as if they were alone in the nocturnal yard.

"You know what you have to do, right? Be brave. Be brave for your sister."

The boy managed a minuscule nod.

"Oh, and there's one more thing you have to do..." Patrick's eyes bored hard into the boy's. "Kick!"

The thug's eyes widened. But it was already too late. The boy's foot lashed out and hit him in the gut. It was a weak kick, pathetically weak. Yet it was more than strong enough for a second's distraction. The thug's grip on the boy's neck loosened, and he stumbled. When he looked up, something was rushing towards his face, and—

Wham!

The orphan dropped to the ground but stayed on his feet. Instantly, he leapt back, out of the way, leaving plenty of room.

Lord Patrick smiled. Smart boy! Time to get down to business!

He drew his fist back.

"Oy, wait! We can make a deal! We—"

Whack!

His fist slammed into the man's cheek.

"I have only one basic question, but with many facets," he spoke, his voice deadly calm. "Why?"

"Don't! I—"

Wham!

"Why?" His Lordship repeated, stepping forward as the man retreated. "Why would you break into this place? Why grab those children?"

"We...didn't mean any 'arm!" The man's eyes nervously twitched from side to side. "We were just gonna play a little prank, and...and..."

"Do you know one of the benefits of growing up among nobility?" Lord Patrick asked, his voice calm, almost gentle. "Thanks to your peers generously providing examples, you learn to recognize lying scum from an early age."

Wham!

"Tell. Me. The truth. Now!"

"Ye think ye can just keep hittin' me?" In an instant, like a cornered dog, the thug turned from fearful to ferocious. Leaping forward, he aimed a punch at Lord Patrick's diaphragm. Unflinchingly, Patrick stood his ground and slammed his arms together, forming a cross-arm block. As if it were no more substantial than a raindrop, the ruffian's punch bounced off the tensed arm muscles.

"Actually," His Lordship said, "I do."

Wham!

A punch, more powerful than any before, sent the thug sailing backwards. He slammed into the ground and wheezed, fighting for breath.

"N-no! Don't...! Please, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to...!"

"I normally stand by the principle to not beat a man when he's down. But in this case..." Lord Patrick's eyes flickered to the children. The boy was clutching his sister in his arms. He still had red marks around his throat. The third child peeked out from behind them, eyes wide with fear. "I'll make an exception!"

His foot lashed out, slamming into the man's ribs. Then, he knelt above the man, grabbing him by the collar with an unbreakable grip. "Who put you up to this?" he growled, smashing the man against the ground. "Who?"

"I...I dunno!" The young man's eyes flickered with fear. "We was only told to get da brats and leave dem in a ware'ouse! I swear!"

"Patrick!"

The sudden shout from behind him tore Lord Patrick from his rage. He turned his head to see Titus rushing into the back yard.

"I saw Brandon running out of here as if the hounds of hell were on his heels! Why—Crap! What the bloody hell is going on here?"

"You put it quite succinctly, actually." Patrick glanced down at his knuckles, stained red—then looked over at the children. It had been so close. So very close. If he'd only decided to wander into the back yard a few minutes later... "Bloody hell."

He turned to face Titus—and suddenly, the thug made his move. Jerking aside, he tore his collar free of Lord Patrick's grip and, jumping to his feet, raced across the yard.

"Stop him!" Patrick yelled, leaping to his feet. "Titus, go after him!"

They raced after the man, but before they were able to lay a hand on him, he reached the fence and leapt up. Grabbing the top, he swung himself over the iron spikes, not caring that the metal tore his clothes and dug into his flesh. Drops of blood spattering everywhere, he landed on the ground on the other side and, in a blink, had disappeared into the darkness.

Cursing inwardly, Patrick reached up, wanting, needing to go after him—then hesitated. Half-turning, he let his gaze move over the yard. Two unconscious figures were still lying on the ground, ready to be interrogated. And, more importantly...

His eyes landed on the three children huddled together, shivering.

His feet started moving without a thought.

"Patrick?" Titus demanded. "Patrick, what the hell is going on here? Hey...Patrick, are you ignoring me? What are you doing? What the...?"

Kneeling on the ground, Patrick reached out. With both arms, he hugged the shivering children towards him. For some reason, this once, it felt neither odd nor awkward. "Don't be afraid!" he whispered. "You're safe! You're safe now!"

***

"So..." The policeman raised his pencil to scratch behind his ear. "What did dose bloody brats do dis time?"

Lord Patrick's eyes narrowed. "Those bloody brats?"

"Gadzooks! Inspector, will ye look at that?" The policeman's eyes widened, and he stabbed his pen forward, having noticed the scene in the yard for the first time. "Those little rats knocked out those two poor fellows and tied dem up!"

"I saw it, I saw it." Growling, a sturdy figure with a thick moustache shouldered the policeman aside and bowed. "Inspector Ian Pritchard, at your service, My Lord. Don't ye worry. We'll drag dose little twerps off to the station and squeeze out of dem what dey were up to."

Lord Patrick Day scrutinized the inspector as if he were a particularly large cockroach, worth of scientific study due to its notable lack of intelligence.

"You are mistaken, Inspector. Your description does not fit the actual events. What happened is in fact this..."

In calm, concise language, he described exactly what happened earlier that night.

"...so you see, Inspector," he concluded, "it is the children who are the innocent victims here. They barely escaped their kidnappers."

The inspector and his henchman gazed at him for a long moment—then broke out into laughter!

"Hahahaha! Innocent victims? Good one, My Lord! That's a good one! Gawblimey, ye nobles really 'ave a sense of humour!"

"Sense...of humour?"

"Aye!" His moustache still quivering with suppressed laughter, the inspector jerked his finger at the grubby figures of the three children. "I mean, just look at dem! Who on earth would wanna kidnap dem?"

Lord Patrick did not remember what he replied after that. As an upright, well-bred gentleman, he tended to block out people who threw around ear-blistering profanities.

Still...

As much as he did not want to, Lord Patrick had to admit, the policemen had a point. And he was not referring to the one at the tip of the constable's pencil.

Why would anyone kidnap orphans?

Aristocrats? Yes. Wealthy people? Yes. Politicians, even? Yes.

But penniless orphans?

It was sheer lunacy. Orphans were expensive. He should know—his financial advisor complained to him about it often enough. Not only did you pay for their food, board and other living necessities, but you also had to pay someone to take care of them. There was an entire industry of baby farmers who took care of unwanted children, if you paid them enough. Anyone who shouldered such a responsibility for free might certainly be commendable—but would, most likely, be declared insane by most of London's population.

Plus, Lord Patrick very much doubted they were dealing with a selfless saint here. He was not very familiar with saints, but he was fairly sure they didn't usually punch, throttle and kidnap people.

Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

He felt an ominous tingle at the back of his neck. The same kind of tingle he'd felt as an officer in the Navy, just before an enemy ship's cannonballs crashed into them, splitting masts, sails and sailors alike. His instincts told him something was going on here. Something more than was visible to the naked eye.

But what?

He had no idea.

So, he made it his mission to find out.

A man like him, with power and influence most people could only dream of, had many means at his disposal. Not the least of which was that he was related to at least a hundred people no less powerful and influential than himself.

After weeks of diligent investigations, finally, his efforts bore fruit—and he almost wished they hadn't. He found out why exactly someone might wish to kidnap orphans, particularly orphaned girls. He found out, but he didn't want to believe it.

No! No, such a thing could never happen in England! It could never...!

But what if it could?

Growling, Lord Patrick Day marched to the front door and tore his hat off the hatstand.

"Griffiths?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Go tell Everstone to get the carriage! I'm going out! And send a message boy to Mr Irving. The two of us are going on a little trip."

***

"I am never going to go out for a night on the town with you ever again," Titus groaned, trying to shift into a less painful position, "Not ever!"

"Be silent and stop wobbling!" Lord Patrick commanded.

"Drinks, pretty girls, a bit of musical theatre, more pretty girls...now that's what I would provide for my best friend if I would take him out on a Saturday night. I'm generous like that. Such a pity that not all people are so generous."

"Yes, such a pity. Now hold still, or I shall step on your head instead of your hand!"

"You know," Titus mused, "there's a delightful new French restaurant in Christ Church. They serve the most delicious quiche this side of the Channel."

"And I assume the waitresses are even more delicious?"

"Funny you should mention that! It just so happens that there's a young waitress there called Bernadette, who has been sending me meaningful looks, recently, and—"

"Ah, yes. I think I am somewhat familiar with it. The 'Leave-me-alone-you-creep-or-I'll-set-my-older-brothers-on-you' stare, is it?"

"Certainly not! I'll have you know that my charms are appreciated by ladies all over the town and—"

"Shh!"

Lord Patrick cut him off with a jerk of his hand. They both fell silent and listened.

"What?" Titus whispered.

"I thought I heard something. But...no."

"Oh."

"Move forward a little! I need to get a closer look!"

"Of course you do." Huffing and puffing, Titus moved towards the wall. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, Lord Patrick wiped dirt off the small window in front of him and leaned closer, peering through the glass.

"Fascinating view, is it?" Titus enquired. "I, myself, enjoy the panorama of Birmingham sewers more than dingy London warehouses, but to each his own."

Lord Patrick's mouth twitched grimly. "I believe you would find the view more than interesting. Have a look for yourself."

He leapt down and offered his own hands as a foothold. Mumbling something about soft cushions and delicious quiche, Titus pulled himself up to peer through the tiny window.

"Oh. How incredible. An empty warehouse. I can hardly find the words to describe my joy at this marvellous view. I wonder why all the theatre audiences are in Covent Garden and not here."

"I said I was inviting you for a night out. I did not say it would be entertaining."

"Let me explain something to you, Patrick: for most people, that would be entailed in the statement."

"You don't say."

"Patrick?"

"Yes?"

"You've been my best friend since school. So I hope you don't take it amiss when I cordially ask: what the bloody hell are we doing here?"

"I received an anonymous tip."

"An anonymous—Patrick! Have you lost your mind? You're not the police!"

A mental image of Inspector Pritchard appeared in front of Lord Patrick's inner eye.

"Thank the Lord for that."

Titus was just about to retort when, from the other side of the warehouse, they heard a clank!

"Psht! Listen!"

"To what? Two rats copulating?"

"Be quiet!"

There was a scraping noise—then footsteps.

"Rats, you said?" His Lordship whispered, raising an eyebrow.

"All right. Big rats with boots."

"Get down here! I'm going to have another look!"

Titus did as ordered and, reluctantly, held out his interlocked fingers.

Wordlessly, Patrick climbed up and peered through the window. He waited—but Patrick said nothing. That is, until, a moment later, he uttered a vile curse.

Titus blinked.

Lord Patrick Pray-Use-Proper-English-Grammar Day cursing?

"What's going on?"

No answer. Nothing could be heard but the sound of shuffling footsteps. Nothing really seemed to be happening. Titus shivered in the cold.

"Come on, we've wasted enough time here," he whispered. "Why don't we go to Madam Linsey's? I know you're a moralist, but she runs a reputable establishment, and her girls are very accommodating. We could have a lot of fun toni—"

Above him, Patrick stiffened. Instantly, Titus knew that something was very, very wrong.

"You want girls?" Patrick hissed. "Very well! Have a look!"

Leaping down from his friend's shoulders, Patrick interlaced his hands and hoisted his friend up to the dirty window he'd just been staring through.

"What, girls in this place? Have you suddenly become a voyeur in your old age, Patrick?" Smirking, Titus stepped onto the interlocked fingers and hoisted himself up towards the window. "My, my, I didn't know you...you..."

His voice slowly drained away. As he stared through the window, the colour fled from his face on the heels of his smile.

"What the...! What is this?"

"What do you think?"

"Those...those aren't girls as in 'young women'! Those are little girls! A bloody warehouse full of little girls!"

"Yes."

"Patrick...what the hell is going on here? Why are they here?"

"That," Patrick said grimly, "is what I'd like to know."

Titus opened his mouth—and abruptly snapped it shut again when a door somewhere flew open with a crash! Titus might not have gotten the best of marks at Eton, but from previous experiences with jealous husbands, he had obtained more than enough practical intelligence to avoid flying bullets and stabbing blades.

Swiftly and silently, Titus leapt down from Patrick's hands, and the two friends pressed themselves against the wall below the window.