Of course.

Of course, she would ask him to meet her here. That woman was...!

Lord Patrick would have liked to finish the sentence, but, unfortunately, his Oxford education had not supplied him with sufficiently bad words. A definite gap in the syllabus. He'd have to write to the dean.

Unfolding the piece of paper in his hand, he glanced down at it, just to be sure he was at the right place.

He was.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes again and stared daggers up at the sign above him, which, in bright, curly letters proclaimed "The Pussycat Palace—A Gentleman's Paradise."

Oh yes. I'll definitely write to the dean. And maybe I'll ask him to lend me his duelling pistols while I'm at it.

Once more, he glanced down at the piece of paper. Under the address, in scraggly handwriting that looked as if it came from a drunken spider, stood:

Go inside, and ask for Amy. Tell them you're the gentleman with "special needs". They'll understand.

;-)

A smiley face.

She had left him a darn smiley face.

For a moment, he saw that wench's cheeky smile flash in front of his inner eye again. A bright, daring smile, under an impish nose and eyes as bright as emeralds. Eyes that challenged him.

How dare she!

Duelling pistols would be too merciful. I shall have to find a more painful method of homicide!

Squaring his shoulders, he screwed his courage to the sticking place, locked it in a chastity belt, and threw the key away. Then he started towards the front door. When he pushed it open, he heard an alluring little tingle that no self-respecting doorbell would ever dare to make.

Inside, warm, golden half-light illuminated the extravagantly decorated lobby. Lord Patrick Day let his eyes sweep across the room. Among all the feathers, lace and gilded frippery, a lone young woman was lounging on a chaise-longue. Rising so fluidly Lord Patrick wondered if she had water for bones, she sidled towards him.

"Well, 'ello there, 'andsome." The woman batted her big eyelashes up at him. His Lordship took a precautionary step backwards. "What can I do for ye?"

Lord Patrick cleared his throat. The moment had come.

"I, um, am here to see Miss Amy." Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it. "I, err...am the gentleman with 'special needs'."

It was decided. He was going to kill that woman with his bare hands.

"Oh, yes!" The face of the female in front of him flashed with sympathy for a moment before she beamed at him. "Amy told us ye was comin', love. Now, don't ye worry." She glanced towards his lumbar region. "Problems like yers are perfectly normal for a man at a certain age."

Patrick's eyes narrowed. "A man of a certain age?"

"Although ye do look rather young for dat sort of trouble. Well, never mind." She clapped her hands. "Our Amy is especially good with da weird ones! She'll fix ye right up again!"

"I," Lord Patrick Day said, needing all his resolve not to throttle the woman, "am so relieved."

"Great! Just wait 'ere, love! I'll go fetch Amy and be right back, so she can take care of yer little problem."

"I tremble with anticipation."

Taking care not to touch a single surface in the entire place, Lord Patrick positioned himself in the centre of the room and waited. Above him, he heard a rhythmic squeaking.

Please, let it be a heavy man rhythmically jumping up and down on the floor. Please, God!

"Bloody 'ell!" Came a scream from somewhere upstairs. "Aye, like that! Just like that! Aaaah...!"

Thanks so much, God.

But then again...God probably had nothing much to do with what was going on here. The old fellow above was probably blushing and sticking his face into a cloud so he wouldn't have to watch this.

"'ello dere, P! So glad ye came!"

Lord Patrick sighed. If only he, too, had a nice, fluffy cloud to hide in.

"Would you please," he said, turning and fixing a piercing gaze on the approaching Amy, "stop calling me that?"

"Why?" She quirked an eyebrow, challenging him again, without the least bit of hesitation. "Ye wanted me to teach ye 'ow to fit in at da East End, didn't ye? First lesson: underhanded insults are a must! And trust me, ye've got a lot to learn about dat!"

Lord Patrick opened his mouth—then closed it again. She was right, darn her! Tarnation! Fiddlesticks!

"Very well," he finally said. "I'm here for your lessons. So let's start, shall we?"

Only when the words were already out of his mouth did he notice the group of people at the top of the stairs, staring down at him open-mouthed, Their gazes flicked from his face to his nether regions and back again.

Amy winked, and patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't ye worry. Being inexperienced is nothin' to be ashamed of."

"You...I didn't mean...!"

"No need to be shy, P. I'll teach ye everythin' ye could possibly wanna know."

His eyes narrowed. "And a number of things I wouldn't want to know, I'd wager."

The devil of a woman just grinned. "Probably. But first..."

She held out her open hand.

Still feeling every single eye in the room upon him like burning brands, Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

One day, he swore to himself. One day, I shall get my revenge on you, and...

And what?

Get her to publically pay for intercourse with him?

Yes, that was a fabulous plan.

Unwillingly, Lord Patrick's eyes roamed over her. If she wanted a man, she wouldn't have to pay. They'd stand in line for a chance to be with her.

What the...! You are a son of the noble house of Day! What are you thinking? And why the heck are you still standing there, staring, with your wallet in your hand?

Amy seemed to be asking herself the same question. She cocked an eyebrow at him, and wiggled the fingers of her open hand. "Well? What are ye waitin' for? Money talks."

Lord Patrick pressed a sovereign into her hand.

She wiggled her fingers again. "Money likes company, too."

With a growl, Lord Patrick pressed another shiny golden coin into her hand.

"Thank ye so much for yer generosity, Yer Lordship." The little shrew sank into a wobbly curtsy. "Now, let's take care of yer lesson, shall we?"

She linked arms with him and led him towards the door.

"Ye're gonna do it outside?" the young woman who had fetched Amy demanded, eyes wide.

Lord Patrick opened his mouth to answer and—

"Naturally," Amy cut in with a bright smile, and jabbed a playful elbow into his ribs. "He likes a little breeze, ye know."

"Blimey!" The young woman gave Patrick a wide-eyed, almost admiring look. "Ye really are a weird one, aren't ye?"

"Miss! I must protest! I'm most assuredly am not—"

"Well, toodeloo, everyone!" Waving, the little shrew tugged him towards the door. "We must be goin'!"

And, a second later, they were outside.

"You...you..." Lord Patrick pointed a shaking finger in Amy's face.

"You know," she informed him, helpfully, "wiggling yer finger for a woman usually 'as a better effect if ye do it a little lower."

Lord Patrick pulled back his finger as if it had been burned. He took a deep breath.

Be calm, he told himself. Be calm and dignified. And do not think about wiggling fingers!

"I think it is about time that we get a few things straight, Miss." Hands on hips, His Lordship planted himself in front of her, gazing down at her with supreme aristocratic hauteur. "If we are to be working side by side, you will begin to address me properly. I am Lord Patrick Day, one of the last descendants of an ancient and honourable house that can trace its history back to the days of William the Conqueror. While in my employ, you shall address me as 'My Lord.' 'Your Lordship' is also acceptable."

Amy considered for a moment—then nodded. "Aye, I can do dat."

Patrick blinked, taken aback. "You can?"

"Of course. I've got plenty of clients who are into dat kind of stuff." She held out an open hand. "'Master' costs an extra three shillings, 'My Lord' four, and for five you get to be 'Your Majesty' for the day." She winked. "What would ye prefer?"

What the...! What was he supposed to say to that? If he refused, she would continue to insult the merry hell out of him. And if he accepted, he would feel like...like a...

Well, he didn't actually know, because he had no idea what men like that were called, but he was darn sure he didn't want to be one!

"You...you...!" He raised his finger to jab it at her—then remembered what she'd said about fingers a minute ago, and hurriedly pulled it back.

"Yes, My Lord?"

Lord Patrick Day closed his eyes, took a deep breath to regain his customary calm, serene demeanour, and finally spoke the words he had never planned speak to any person ever, let alone a woman.

"You...you may call me Patrick."

"All right. That will just be one shilling, then."

"You greedy little...! I'm not paying you a single penny!"

"Are ye sure, P?" She batted her eyelashes up at him. "Won't ye change yer mind, Prince Pervert?"

Wordlessly, His Lordship pulled a shilling from his pocket and handed it to her.

"A wise decision, Patrick. I'll be expectin' daily payments."

"Rest assured," he told her, voice as hard as the ancestral sword above his mantelpiece, "You shall get what you deserve."

"Very kind of ye."

"Now," he said, "pray, start your lesson."

"Didn't ye notice? I already 'ave."

Lord Patrick froze.

That tone of voice...her demeanour was suddenly totally different. The impudent smile that had been on her face a second ago was nowhere to be seen. Lord Patrick had never seen anyone look so deadly serious. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"What do you mean?" His voice, too, had changed. This wasn't a silly game any longer. Something serious was going on.

"Simple." She half-turned to gaze up at him. Her green eyes pierced him, seeming to see far too much for his taste. "Where ye're goin', dere ain't no fancy etiquette. No decorum. No pretty aristocratic manners. People are gonna insult ye to yer finely sculpted noble face wherever ye go, and ye won't be able to do a bloody thing about it. If ye weren't able to take dat in stride, I'd 'ave left ye standin' 'ere and now, and ye could forget about me teachin' ye anythin'. Consider yerself lucky. Ye've passed yer first test."

He studied her, eyes narrowed. An impudent wench?

Ha!

He had underestimated this woman.

She was an intelligent impudent wench.

"So...your provoking me right now, insulting me, that was all part of a test?"

"Aye."

"And, conscientious as you are, I assume you shall be diligently 'testing' me again?"

"Of course! I'm an excellent teacher." Suddenly, the impudent smile was back on her face. "Plus, it's just so much fun."

"Of course it is."

"Now, let's go, shall we?"

"Go? Go where?"

Pausing in her steps, Amy sent him a piercing stare. One corner of her mouth curved up. "Ye wanted ta visit da East End, didn't ye? Well, let's go!"

***

They had been walking down the road thus far, away from the bawdy house. But when she said that, he stopped and frowned down at her.

"I...I don't understand." He glanced back over his shoulder towards the Pussycat Palace. "I thought your....place of work already was located in that particular part of the city."

"Ha!" Amy couldn't help but snort. Oh, you poor fool. You have no idea, do you? He was so clueless, it was almost adorable. Not that she actually adored him. Definitely not! "In da East End? Nah, we're just at da edge. In deep enough to 'ave people think it's excitin' to visit a dangerous, forbidden place, but not enough ta actually be dangerous. 'ow else do ye think we'd manage ta get payin' customers? And, more importantly, live ones." She glanced around the familiar street filled with tacky bawdy houses, casinos and opium dens. "Dis place is just for johns, gamblers and addicts. Da real East End..." Her face darkened, as dark images flickered past in her mind. "Well, ye'll see soon enough for yerself."

Raising her hand, Amy waved at a passing cap. "Oy! Ye there! Get yer arse over 'ere!"

Making a U-turn, the cabby brought his vehicle to a halt beside them. "Aye?" He leered down at Amy in her dress, which was totally not revealing and screaming "for rent." Well, mostly. "What do ye want, love?"

Amy narrowed her eyes at the man whose gaze was going where it had no business to be without paying for it. "Yer arse on a spit. But I'll settle for a cab ride."

"Can ye pay?"

"Sir!" His Lordship beside her exclaimed. "How dare you doubt the lady's—"

"Nah, I can't," Amy said cheerfully, and jabbed her parasol into Patrick's ribs. "But 'e can."

"There, you see, she—wait, what?"

"Come on." Pulling the door open, Amy winked at him. "Ye should be used to payin' for being kidnapped by now."

He gazed at her balefully for a moment—then a corner of his mouth twitched. Will you look at that? Under his aristocratic exterior, there might actually be a human!

Shrugging, he reached for his wallet—then hesitated. "Now that I think about it, why do we have to rent a cab? Do we have to go far?"

"No."

"Then why the coach?" His eyes narrowed. "Or do you just love spending my money for no reason?"

"Well, aye, of course I do."

"You...!"

"But dat ain't da main reason."

Patrick—perhaps she should try calling him that now that he was paying her for it—fell silent, and gazed at her intently.

"Da real reason," she told him, "is ta make sure nobody catches sight of us." Pulling herself up into the cab, Amy slid down the sheet of cheap, dirty glass that covered the window.

His Lordship's frown deepened. "Make sure nobody catches sight of us?"

"Ye've stuck yer 'ead into the gang's business once already, when ye visited da old lady. We'll be lucky if some little birdie 'asn't whispered in da gangsters' ears about dis so far. If dat 'appens..."

She glanced down at him, and, in a quick move, pulled her forefinger across her throat. Then she gave him a sweet smile for which she ordinarily would have charged two shillings. "So...would ye prefer to be low-key, or should we just stroll into da East End arm in arm?"

He swallowed. "Low-key."

"Excellent! See?" She grinned. "Ye're much smarter than five minutes ago! My trainin' is already payin' off!"

And, before he could answer, she slammed the cab door shut in his face. Cocking her head, she waited for an explosion. A reaction. Anything—but nothing came.

So 'e knows 'ow ta keep 'is mouth shut and 'is temper in check, does 'e? Maybe 'e's not completely 'opeless, after all. 'e might even survive for longer dan five minutes.

Strangely, she found herself hoping he would.

So she could get more money out of him, of course! That was the only reason!

Tap, tap.

A knock came from the other side of the cab.

"May I enter?"

Damn noble with his accursed manners! Can't he just beat da door down, cursing drunkenly like any normal man?

"Aye, ye may." Leaning over to pull open the door, Amy inspected his face—and found it grim, and filled with trepidation.

Smart man.

Amy raised an eyebrow. "If ye've changed yer mind and ye'd rather stay..."

Patrick's jaw tightened.

"No, thank you." Grabbing hold of the seat, he swung himself up into the cab and slammed the door behind him. His fist slammed against the roof, alerting the cabby. "We'll be heading to—" He hesitated. Eyes narrowing, he turned towards Amy. "Where will we be heading, exactly?"

Amy took a deep breath—and spoke two words.

Patrick's spine stiffened. "You're serious? There is a place with a name like that?"

"Deadly serious."

He hesitated for a moment—then nodded. "Very well. You heard, cabby? Let's go!"

"Are ye serious?" the cabby's voice came through the roof. "I ain't gonna risk my neck by going there!"

"You will. And you will do so speedily, unless you want your superiors to hear from Lord Patrick Day!"

"Lord...why da 'eck do ye wanna go there if ye're a lord?"

"That, my good man, is none of your business. Drive!"

"Ye're crazy, da both of ye!"

"Drive!" Patrick growled in a 'Bow to me, the great lord of the manor!'-kind of way that made Amy want to punch him. It was so arrogant, and authoritative, and...attractive, damn him! "Now."

"Fine, but I'll charge ye double! I ain't gonna risk my life for nothing!"

"Yes, yes! Money is of no importance! Now drive!"

The cabby gave a snort and snapped his whip. Beside His Lordly Lordship, Amy could hardly sit still in her seat, her fist itching to plant itself on the bastard's face.

Money is of no importance?

Again! How dare he? Only some rich bugger with pockets full and fat as an elephant would ever say that! And here she was, starting to think that he might understand...and...and...!

Ha! 'ave ye got bricks for brains, Amy? 'e's a bloody noble! Why would 'e ever give a fart what da little people do or think? It ain't as if 'e's ever had to work a day in 'is life.

Well...

A grim smile spread across her face. Time to show 'im a slice of real life.

"Aye." Nodding her head. Amy, too, spoke to the cabby. "Let's go."

The cab started forward. As they rolled through the fog-flooded streets, the façades of the houses around them slowly started to change. Where before there had been big, safe, boring houses painted in just one or two colours, now the houses suddenly took on a rainbow of colours, and many lovely shades that didn't appear in any rainbow, such as mould-grey, dung-brown, and, of course, the all-time-favourite, soot-black. And it wasn't just the colours that demonstrated they were moving into an entirely different kind of neighbourhood. Where, a moment ago, all the walls and roofs had been monotonously straight, now they sloped in elegant curves, with decorative cut-outs at strategic places that showed off their assets to the very best. Just as the cab drove past, a shingle slid from a nearby roof and crashed onto the ground, welcoming them to the neighbourhood.

"Holy...!" The word that escaped from His Lordship's throat was a half-whisper, half-growl. His eyes were focused on a few figures cowering under the roof that was close to collapse as if nothing was wrong, huddling together against the cold wind blowing through the streets. They didn't even seem to have noticed the falling shingle. Their eyes were empty. "This is it?"

"Dis?" Amy raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. We ain't 'alfway dere yet."

"But—"

Splash!

Patrick's voice cut off at the sudden noise. It might also have had something to do with the giant fountain of mucky water spattering his face and upper body.

"Pfft! Blrg! What...!"

"Oh, aye." Amy tapped the glass of the closed window on her side of the coach, making sure to keep her expression true, innocent and demure as an experienced third-time virgin. "Ye might wanna shut da window."