"Miss Weston! Lord Patrick! Oh, how horrible! Something awful has happened!"

Amy yawned, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Shifting, she gently pushed Grace, who must have climbed into her bed at some point during the night, off her chest. Smiling, she reached out to stroke the little girl's hair. Seeking refuge from nightmares in her bed? The irony of that thought nearly made her laugh. It was the first time someone had climbed into her bed in the middle of the night who wasn't likely to give her nightmares.

Da first time? What about when 'is Lordly Lordship decided ta get a comfy cuddle-pillow and—

Luckily, the same voice that woke her a moment ago interrupted her thoughts at that point.

"Oh, Miss Weston! Your Lordship! What a tragedy!"

Dammit, they were loud! Why would anyone make a ruckus like this so early in the morning?

Well...time to find out.

She had just dressed and was stepping out of her room when she saw their gracious host, Lord John Wetherston, racing down the corridor, his face somehow both pale and flushed. "Something awful has happened! Something really awful!"

Amy blinked, taken aback. What could he be talking about? Cautiously, she threw a glance out of the window. Everything seemed perfectly fine and peaceful.

By now, the others were slowly coming out of their rooms, rubbing their eyes and yawning. Karim especially looked like he'd gotten up on the wrong side of the torture rack. His face seemed to be carved from hardwood, and his turban sat at an odd angle, looking rather adorable. Titus, for his part, looked like he hadn't gotten up yet at all, but had merely been replaced by a zombie doppelganger.

"Awful!" Lord Wetherston continued to mutter. "Simply awful!"

"Offal?" Titus the Zombie groaned, leaning against the doorframe, eyes three-quarters closed. "What d'you want offal for?"

Amy shoved him out of the way.

"What's 'appened?" she demanded, anxiety now truly rising inside her at the horrified expression on the nobleman's face. "Out with it!"

"It's the Duke of Arrendyle!" Wetherston exclaimed. "The Duke of Arrendyle's castle burned to the ground last night. It's a horrible tragedy!"

"Mmmm. Offal. Lots of offal," Titus grumbled. "Call me when you find the rest of the chicken. I'm gonna go back to bed till breakfast's ready."

And with another zombie groan, he lurched back into the bedroom.

"I don't like offal either." Yawning, the tiny figure of Grace standing in the doorway to Amy's chamber rubbed her eyes and turned back into the room. "Always tastes like mice droppings. We ain't gonna 'ave mice droppings for breakfast, are we?"

"No sweety," Amy told her, patting the little girl's head. "Go back ta bed."

"'llright."

She turned, and shuffled back into the room, closing the door behind her.

"The castle burned down," Lord Wetherston reiterated, glancing from one of them to another. "The duke's castle."

"All right, darling." Cora patted her husband's shoulder. "So, what's for breakfast?"

"I vote for buns," Jenny exclaimed. "I love buns!"

"In da oven?" Amy innocently suggested, and quickly dodged to avoid Jenny's elbow.

"Is anyone interested in the fact that the duke's castle burned down?" Lord Wetherston enquired.

"Not really, no." Cora gave her husband another gentle pat. "Sorry, darling."

Just then, the door to Lord Patrick Day's room opened, and a certain lord stuck an adorably wild bedhead of golden hair out of the doorway. "Did I hear someone talk about offal? What in St George's name do you want to do with such a repulsive substance at this hour of the morning?"

"Stuff it in yer boots?" Amy suggested, confident in her ability to always have the best of ideas.

His Lordship gave her a disgruntled look.

"Ehem..." Lord Wetherston cleared his throat, giving his fellow nobleman a look as if he was Wetherston's last and only hope. "The duke's castle burned down. The duke's castle."

Patrick gave him an even more disgruntled look. "I'm going back to bed." And, slamming the door shut, he disappeared.

"Don't mind 'im," Amy stepped up on Lord Wetherston's other side, doing some more shoulder patting for the poor man. To judge by his expression, she had a feeling he was going to need it. "'e's just a little grumpy."

Lord Wetherston blinked, staring after the man. "Um...is something wrong?"

Amy waved her hand. "Nah, not really. 'e just 'ad ta stay up late last night."

"Really? Why?"

"Because, err..." Amy's arsonist mind raced, searching for something non-criminal to say. Suddenly, a fiery spark of inspiration appeared. "Because some more of 'is family unexpectedly showed up last night!"

Lord Wetherston beamed. "Splendid! I always love having a few more guests over. How many are there? Three? Four?"

Cora cleared her throat while, on the lord's other side, Amy grinned evilly. Gently, Cora pulled her husband towards a nearby chaise longue. "Darling...you should probably sit down."

***

Mr Nathaniel Farley, steward of the honourable Lord John Wetherston, was having the worst morning of his life. He had thought things couldn't get much worse when, a few days ago, a number of trees damaged by a storm had keeled over and smashed the legs of several farm hands and loggers, causing severe injuries and spattering blood on his best bow-tie.

That was until, this morning, he opened the door to the second guest wing of the manor and found them.

For a long moment, he stared.

And another.

And another.

Then, very, very slowly, he closed the door, turned around and proceeded, in a very stately and sedate manner befitting a humble servant, towards the green breakfast room where his master was entertaining his guests.

"Ehem." Entering the breakfast room, Mr Farley cleared his throat to announce his presence. "My Lord?"

Lord John Wetherston looked up from his newspaper, surrounded by Lord Patrick, the local vicar's wife, and his various other honourable, respectable friends and acquaintances. The steward gazed at his employer with pity. The poor man had no idea. How could he, the steward, let such a thing happen in his lord's house? His employer would face such terrible embarrassment in front of his social circle!

Unless...

Unless he told him in private. Yes! Yes, that could work!

The steward cleared his throat again. Much better than talking, right now, in any case. "Your Lordship...I wonder whether I might have a word with you in private."

"Oh, no need, Farley, no need." Lord Wetherston waved a hand. "I'm among friends here, you may say whatever you wish."

"Um...My Lord, perhaps you would like to rethink that decision and—"

Lord Wetherston frowned. "What are you waiting for, Farley? Speak!"

For a moment, Mr Farley closed his eyes, then took a deep breath, and cast a deeply apologetic look at the poor vicar's wife.

"My Lord...there are more than fifty half-naked women in the guest suite."

For a long moment, silence hung over the breakfast room. With a glop, a sugar cube dropped into someone's tea cup.

"Oh, those are friends of mine!" the vicar's wife exclaimed with a broad smile.

Mr Farley blinked. And blinked again.

"Fifty...half-naked women," he repeated, hoping sincerely his ears had deceived him.

"Friends of hers. And relatives of mine," added Lord Patrick Day, Knight of the Order of the Garter and Peer of the Realm.

"Grglglnnnk."

Mr Farley turned around and stumbled out of the room, his worldview shattered. Amy gazed after the man, not quite knowing whether to feel pity for him or keel over laughing like she wanted to.

"Such a shame!" Lord Wetherston shook his head, sadly. "To think that your poor relatives encountered bandits on the road, who not only divested them of all their luggage and belongings, but even of their carriages, horses, tackle, horse feed, clothes and servants. When I was first told, I was horrified! How lucky that, after all this misfortune, they miraculously managed to find their way here!"

"Yes. Very lucky indeed," Patrick agreed, sending Amy a penetrating lordly gaze over the top of his tea cup that could make a king quiver in his boots. Luckily, Amy was as common as dirt. "I, myself, was quite amazed when I first heard how my fifty lady relatives and their children ended up half-naked on your doorstep, Your Lordship. Quite flabbergasted, if I may go so far."

Whistling innocently, Amy reached for the butter and marmalade. While making sure her bread was buttered on the right side, she enjoyed herself listening to Lord Wetherston peppering Lord Patrick with questions about his extended, unclothed family. Inside, however, much darker thoughts were chasing through her head.

Fifty.

Bloody fifty women. Not counting the girls from Arrendyle's private room. Amy knew it was bad, of course. She had lived through the bad. And the worse and worst, for that matter. Yet somehow, she still hadn't known quite how bad it was.

How many more places like this were there, scattered across England? How many more children, let alone adult castoffs, were incarcerated in hells of their very own? Too many, most likely. If their little group travelled around the country, finding one den of depravity after another, would they ever be able to rescue them all?

The answer was clear. No.

But that wasn't the plan anyway, now, was it? A smile spread over her face as she thought about the plan.

Soon. Soon they'd have enough witnesses to question. Witnesses provided evidence. Evidence opened the way for the courts, the papers, and a series of articles that would burn the whole aristocracy of England to the ground!

Well...

Maybe except for one particular aristocrat.

Biting her lower lip, she glanced over at a certain lord, who by now was finished with his tea and hiding behind his newspaper, trying to avoid further questions about his fifty brand-new relatives. Unbidden, that scene flashed through her mind. That time he climbed into her tower, like some prince in a fairy tale, and wrapped her in his arms.

And what's da problem with dat? whispered a little voice that belonged to her inner lady of the night. Ye enjoyed it, didn't ye? I thought ye wanted ta play with 'im a little.

Yes. Play. As in, play the tantalizing, seductive maid and make fun of him in front of his dear marriage-maniac of a mother. As in, teasing him about "sleeping" with her without actually sleeping with her, and him spending quality time with her in three separate sex dungeons! Not him acting as if he...as if he actually...cared.

Not that that could be even remotely possible.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced up at his distant, distinguished, too darn beautiful knight-in-shining-armour profile.

Caring? Feelings? For a three-penny-upright from the gutter? Ha, as if!

And that way her heart was pounding faster was just because she really liked this marmalade she was eating. Definitely. It had absolutely nothing to do with him whatsoever!

"My apologies, my lord, ladies, gentlemen." Just then, she was torn from her musings by Lord Wetherston pushing back his chair and rising to his feet with a bow. "I'm afraid I shall have to neglect my duties as a host once again. Yesterday's sad events, I fear, still require my attention. I'll have to take care of some leftover matters." He glanced down at Cora. "You'll be fine by yourself, sweetling, right? Except..." He hesitated. "Do you need any help with the newly arrived guests?"

"Not at all!" Cora beamed. "Me friends and I 'ave everything well in 'and."

"Excellent! I'll leave everything to you, then, sweetling."

Beaming, he strode out of the room, throwing her a last kiss, and finally, the door closed behind him. Everyone exchanged looks. Amy held up a hand, extending a finger, counting, as the nobleman's footsteps faded into the distance.

One...

Two...

Three...

Instantly, everyone around the table leaned forward conspiratorially. Patrick put away his newspaper. Jenny steepled her fingers above her bulging stomach like a very pregnant evil genius. Titus poured himself another glass of wine. Amy leaned forward, her gaze sweeping the table.

"So...what now?" Jenny whispered.

"Can we talk privately 'ere? Without interruption?" Amy enquired. A grin flashed across her face as she glanced at the vicar's wife. "Or will yer dear 'ubby be joining us in da middle of our discussion about sex slavery? Dat might be a little awkward."

"'e's in church, deliverin' a sermon about da dangers of alcohol." Jenny gave a solemn sigh. "Seems like da poor Duke of Arrendyle's castle caught on fire 'cause someone spilled some wine and dropped a match on it."

"Attrocious!"

"Quite. My dear 'usband is quite appalled at such woefully villainous vice, and is determined ta make sure nobody is infected by such 'orrendous be'aviour."

Amy couldn't help the smile of pride that bloomed on her face. "Hear that?" Leaning over, she patted Flo on the head, making the girl preen. "Ye've inspired a sermon. Such a nice, devout little girl ye are."

"I do me best," Flo said demurely, pulled out a match and stole one of the cigars from Lord Wetherston's cigar box.

Amy promptly smacked her hand, making her drop the cigar, and confiscated the cigar box. Then, ignoring the girl's fierce glare, she turned back to the others. Time to get down to brass tacks.

"So...what's our next step?"

Cora cleared her throat. "First things first. Dose poor women need ta be properly taken care of. I suggest we bring 'em to a place where dey can find a safe 'ome, far, far away from 'ere."

"And far, far away from yer 'usband, who doesn't really need fifty half-naked women in 'is manor durin' his extended honeymoon with 'is lovely wife?" Amy enquired innocently. She dodged aside just in time to avoid Cora's kick.

"I agree," Jenny said with the virtue of a true vicar's wife. "Dose poor women deserve to receive proper 'elp, after all dey've been through. And if dat 'elp 'appens ta be several 'undred miles away from me dear 'usband....well, all da better."

Amy wiped an imaginary tear away. She had to admit, it was truly touching how concerned her friends were for the well-being and mental health of their fellow women.

"As reluctant as I am to admit it," Patrick stated, leaning forward as he gave the two ladies an admonishing stare, "I must admit they do have a point."

"What?" Amy blinked over at him, innocently. "Ye wanna get da women away from yer 'usband, too?"

Lord Patrick choked on his tea.

"Aww, ye do, don't ye? So ye swing dat way?" Reaching out, she patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, I won't judge. Next time I go breaking inta a dungeon ta rescue some pretty ladies, I'll stash them far enough away so 'e won't get jealous."

"Next time you break into...? Next time?"