It did not take long for Lord Patrick Day to regret his "victory". Not that he injured himself in the fight, oh no. Neither did he mind the tear in his precious oriental carpet, or the way she had used a statuette worth ten thousand pounds sterling as an impromptu weapon. No, his problems were of a...different nature.

"Duck!"

Thwack!

"Goose!"

Wham!

"Chicken!"

Bam!

"What sort of warnings are those last two?" he groaned, clutching his stomach.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Smiling her demon's smirk—ehem, gentle, ladylike smile, Lord Patrick quickly corrected himself—Amy stepped towards him. "Were ye under the misconception dat—"

Thwack!

"—gangsters give warnings in fights?"

Bam!

"Agh!"

"Just in case ye 'aven't realized yet," the lady of the night pointed out, helpful as always, "dey don't."

"Y-you don't say," he groaned.

"I do. Christmas turkey."

"Huh? Wha—"

Bam!

"Ugh!"

Yes. He had come to regret his victory. And, no matter what his screaming muscles were telling him, not mainly because he had been stuck into a female meat grinder. No, the reason was something altogether different.

Lips. Soft lips caressing mine. Ever so tempting...

He had kissed a woman. No, not just a woman. Kissing a woman would not have been a problem—if it had been his bride. On his wedding day. But Miss Amy Weston was most definitely not his bride. Nor would she ever be, unless he wanted his mother to die from a heart attack and come back as a zombie to gut him and eat his brains.

There simply was no future for the two of them.

And yet...he had kissed her.

Not the zombie. Amy. Although his noble instincts were not certain which would be worse. She was a lady of the night, for heaven's sake! A lady of the night! And he...

He was supposed to be a man of rectitude!

Are you certain? To judge by recent experience, a man of erectitude would be a more apt description.

Lord Patrick growled and made a mental note to strangle Titus for making his inner voice sound so darn much like him. If his tally was correct, that now made three thousand, seven hundred eighty-seven reasons to strangle his best friend, accumulated over the years.

That, unfortunately, did not mean his inner voice was incorrect. He had behaved disgracefully! In a manner more befitting a street ruffian than a Peer of the Realm.

Well, isn't that excellent? After all, learning how to behave like a street ruffian is kind of the point of what you're doing. So, how about you take the next step and get her alone in a room with a cozy bed and get some action?

That similarity to Titus was really starting to be disturbing.

Which, once again, did not mean, however, that the voice was incorrect. At least the first part. The second definitely was! Definitely, absolutely incorrect!

Just then, images of Amy's smile and brilliant emerald eyes once again started to pop up in front of his inner eye, and his lips began to tingle in memory of—

Wham!

"Ooof!"

Well, now other parts of him were tingling. Quite a bit more forcefully.

"I'm sorry." Amy smiled down at him, batting her eyelashes. "Were ye a tad bit distracted by somethin'?"

"Perhaps," he wheezed. "just slightly."

"Well den..." Her smile broadened. "We can't 'ave dat, can we? Seems like we 'ave ta intensify da training."

No! Let's not! Let's not! Let's—

Wham!

"Agh!"

Right about now, he should probably retaliate. The only problem was...in order to do that he would have to get close.

Close to Amy.

The thought almost made him reach out instinctively. It was so incredibly tempting.

Think about the list! There are incredible, wonderful, eligible candidates...candidates for mar...marri...

He couldn't even finish the thought. Still, he fought! He would not become a dissolute casanova! He would not forsake honour and duty! It was time to banish his base instincts. He would not let himself be tempted to kiss her once more.

Wham!

"Aagh!"

Then again, maybe refraining from enfolding her in a passionate embrace would be easier than he thought. Particularly if her fists had anything to say about it.

The torture, also commonly known as training time, continued over the next few days. Throughout it all, Lord Patrick retained his stiff upper lip. True, this might be partially due to said lip being blue and swollen, but what mattered was the principle of the thing. So he endured. Every punch. Every stab. Every kick to the...ehem, sensitive areas. And, much as he might be reluctant to admit it, he improved. Vastly. Or worsened, depending on your point of view. The fact that he now could break someone's fingers in three seconds flat, five if simultaneous demolition of private parts was required, was enough proof of that.

Truly, he was doing his ancestors proud.

Soon, he started to receive fewer and fewer bruises during his lessons. His improvement didn't really surprise him. He had already known how to fight, after all. All he had to do was forget every single rule of honour and fairness he had ever learned. Easy, right?

God help his poor soul.

It took what seemed like an eternity. But in the end, the bruises started to retreat, and his movements became quick and sure. Then came the time Amy didn't land a single punch in their latest spar.

Stepping back, she gave an approving—and yet somehow very much reluctant—nod.

"Ye've improved. Marginally."

Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Finally, we're finished! No more being beaten up today!

"Thank you!" He inclined his head, although not enough to lose sight of her fists and elbows. Just in case. "Thank yo—"

Ding-dong!

Lord Patrick froze in mid-sentence.

"Hm...strange." Frowning, he glanced over to the hallway. "Who would ring the doorbell at this hour?"

Then again, did it really matter? Did anything really matter, as long as the training was over? He was finished! Huzzah! Almost whistling with happiness, Lord Patrick strode towards the front door and pulled it open. No more fighting! No more punche—

Wham!

"Agh!"

"You bloody bastard!"

Lord Patrick groaned, trying to blink away the stars dancing in front of his eyes. He managed to do that just in time to see Amy step over his prone body.

"Well, 'ello dere, Inspector!" She greeted the fuming walrus in the doorway. "'ow are ye doin' on dis fine evening?"

***

Amy reached the front door just in time to see Patrick get decked. Even after the last few days, that sight never got old.

"Well, 'ello dere, Inspector! 'ow are ye doin' on dis fine evening?"

"How am I doing? How am I doing?" Tugging away the scarf that covered his walrus visage, Inspector Ian Pritchard jabbed a stubby finger at the landscape painting in shades of blue and purple that was his face. "How do you think I'm doing?"

"Wow." Amy cocked her head. "I knew people call coppers da boys in blue, but ye really take it to da next level."

He didn't seem to take her compliment very well, to judge by the way his face turned from that of a blue boy to a red boy.

"You...insolent hussy, I'll...!"

"He was the one who punched you," Amy reminded him, helpfully pointing to the prone form of Patrick on the floor.

Thankfully, that seemed to do the trick.

Yay! Distractions for the win.

Marching forward, the inspector bent down and snatched up Lord Patrick Day by the lapels. Grabbing herself a chair, Amy settled down and crossed her legs. This was a quite fortunate coincidence. Her dear student would get more lessons, and she, the teacher, would get her long-deserved rest. All that was missing was a plate of biscuits.

Wham!

"Take that, you bastard!"

Grunting, Lord Patrick looked down at the fist buried in his stomach with an amount of aristocratic disinterest no one who cannot trace back his lineage twenty-seven generations could possibly emulate.

"I...gather you are displeased with me, Inspector?"

"Displeased? Displeased? I'll give you displeased!"

Once again, the inspector sent his meaty fist flying forward—only to hit nothing but empty air.

Blinking, Pritchard stared into empty air where his punching bag had lain just a moment ago—then looked over to where Lord Patrick Day was standing now, arms raised, eyes cold as steel.

"I realize that you might be somewhat irritated, Inspector, but...This. Ends. Now."

Snarling, Pritchard launched himself at His Lordship—only to be tripped and have his arm twisted behind his back in an instant. Fighting with all his strength against the grip, he strained to break free.

"This. Ends. Now!" Patrick repeated, his voice hard as iron. "What happened to you—it was necessary. Accept that, and move on."

"Oh, I want to move," the inspector spat out, wrenching at His Lordship's grip once again. "I really want to."

Lifting his heel, Pritchard slammed it down—only for Patrick to nimbly slide aside. He did, however, lose his grip on the copper. Disapprovingly, Amy shook her head. Her pupil still had a lot to learn.

But not enough to fail to go against Pritchard, apparently.

Wham!

Patrick's fist slammed into the inspector's side, right into his liver. Before the man could recover, he once more found himself in His Lordship's grip, unable to break free.

"Rrrg!"

"If I were you, I would stay where you are, Inspector."

"Well, yrrr arnnnt! Let go ya—nngrg!"

"I decline."

"Grgl! Let grrr of mmm thrrrt yu basstrd!" Twisting, Pritchard grabbed hold of Patrick's hand and twisted hard. "Lt grr nrrow!"

"Yo frrrst! Nrrow!"

Whistling, Amy reached for a book lying on the nearby coffee table, and leaned back in her comfortable chair, opening the book on the first page.

Wham!

"Take that, you son of a—nnng!"

"And you take that!"

Amy had reached page twenty-three and the story was just getting really interesting when she heard a thud and looked up, only to see Lord Patrick Day stand over the prone form of Inspector Ian Pritchard.

"Congratulations!" she beamed. "Ye're really getting' good at beatin' up coppers!"

"The fact that I very nearly consider this an actual compliment," His Lordship responded, "concerns me."

Amy's grin widened. This feeling...this was the pride of a teacher in an excellent student!

Of course, part of her grin was also due to the fact he did not notice the supposedly unconscious inspector sneaking his foot forward, hooking it behind His Lordship's leg.

"What are you grinning for?" Patrick enquired, frowning. "Is something the mat—aaaagmph!"

Thud!

Wham!

"Take that, you bloody bastard! And that! And that! And that!"

Bam!

Yes. An excellent student. But he still had a lot to learn.

About ten more pages later, Inspector Pritchard decided he'd had enough and, huffing and puffing, strode out of the house. Amy slowly closed her book and, putting it aside, looked down at Lord Patrick's figure on the floor.

"Well, after dat...interestin' event, I'm really lookin' forward to 'ow our continued cooperation with da London police force is gonna pan out."

"Miss Amy?"

"Aye?"

"It is not polite to mock people."

She clapped her hands, and pointed at him. "Now ye see why I'm da one teachin' ye 'ow ta insult and beat up people? Always learn from da experts, P. Always learn from da experts."

Picking a boot up off his face, and depositing it back in the shoe cupboard inspector Pritchard had taken his impromptu weapon from, Lord Patrick traced the boot print on his face. "I shall endeavour to remember that."

"Spiffin'!"

"But for now..." Groaning, he pushed himself up from the floor. "...I'm going to find a soft bed. I am going to collapse upon it, and I am going to refrain from gaining consciousness for the next three weeks. Now, if you would excuse m—"

Ding-dong!

He froze.

"Oh dear," Amy said, doing her very best to keep the amusement off her face. To judge by his expression, it wasn't working. "Seems like dere's someone outside—again. Won't ye go and welcome yer guest like a proper gentleman?"

Sending her a dirty look, Patrick strode towards the door, which Pritchard had slammed shut behind him earlier. But before he reached it, it was pushed open by a man in livery.

"Excuse me, Your Lordship, but I have an important mess—"

He cut off, staring at the ruined hallway.

"Aye." Amy nodded cheerfully. "We've got an important mess, too."

"...message," the man squeezed out. "An important message—"

"Not today!" Patrick groaned. Covering his eyes, he leaned back against the wall, holding up a hand to wave the man away. "Not bloody today! Come back in a few weeks!"

"—from your mother."

Oh golly.

The hand that had been covering Lord Patrick Day's eyes slowly, very slowly, started drifting down.

"What?"

"Your mother, Your Lordship. She, um, sent me to remind you that she will be expecting you at the board of governors' meeting next Wednesday to hear all about your, ehem..." As if unable to resist, drawn by a horrifically horrible magnet, the servant's head turned to the side to stare over to where Amy lounged on her comfy chair, dressed in loose training trousers and covered in bruises from the spar. "...ladyfriend."

Lord Patrick keeled over, hitting the floor for the third time in a row. And this time, he decided to stay down.