Amy stared down at the crumpled figure at her feet. Finally! Finally, she was going to see the face of the lowlife bastard who had dared to abduct Flo!

One corner of her mouth curled up into a dismissive smile.

See his face? Ha! As if there were going to be any surprises. She'd spent her whole life pandering to worthless young aristocrats. Once you'd seen one, you'd seen them all. Unshaven, bleary-eyed, fat buggers with supercilious grins and grabby hands. Rat-faced bastards, the lot of them!

Slipping a foot underneath his figure, she pushed, rolling him around, and—

What the—!

Interesting kind of rat, Amy, whispered an annoying little voice at the back of her mind.

How dare he? How dare he look so...human? He was supposed to be a monster! A slimy toad from the bottom of the pond!

And he didn't just look human. There were other adjectives that popped into her damn traitorous mind. Like...strong. Good. Even...noble!

There was no other bloody way to put it! High cheekbones, a confident, almost arrogant mouth, a strong bloody chin that looked bloody determined even while out cold on the floor...! Hell! He even had hair as golden as the dawn! He looked like a hero, straight from a fairy tale where the lonely, low-born girl marries Prince Charming!

Not that she ever read any of those.

Never!

Not ever!

Amy shook her head, hard.

So what if he looks "noble"? Nobles are the least noble people on this planet! They're arsewipes, the lot of them! And this one... This one is the worst of them all.

Right.

She could not forget. She could never forget.

Bastard! How dare you look like a decent, honest human being? I'll crush you and squeeze every bit of information I need out of you!

Marching over to the door, and taking care to step on the pervert's pretty face in the process, Amy peeked out through the front door into the courtyard. There was a coachman taking care of his horses not far away, and a few footmen joking and laughing. Amy tensed, but then, seeing them heading off towards the stables, relaxed again. Closing the door behind her, she turned back to the unconscious man and gave him a charming smile as she cracked her knuckles.

"Well, well...seems like we're gonna 'ave some time alone for the two of us. Ain't dat lovely?"

Silence was the only answer.

"Ye know...ye remind me of an acquaintance of mine."

More silence.

"Aye, now ye definitely remind me of 'im. Let's go, shall we?"

Grabbing the filthy degenerate by the feet, Amy started to drag him down the corridor, polishing the floor with his face in the process. For a moment, his nose got caught on the dirty doormat, but when Amy gave a somewhat stronger tug, it slipped free, and his forehead landed on the wooden floorboards with a thud.

"Oh dear. I'm so sorry."

For the floorboards.

Amy glanced around. Hm...where to stage her investigation? There was a bedroom right next to her—but she must not forget that there were still people in the house. There was also a bedroom in the semi-basement, and that was far more secluded and farther away. Hm...

Her eyes strayed towards the cellar stairs.

Suddenly, a smile spread across her face, and she gazed down at the unconscious man with wicked intent.

"Downstairs will be perfect. I think I don't want anyone to disturb the two of us. Besides, there are certain advantages to a cellar..."

She glanced at the stairs again. Then she stepped forward, dragging the unconscious pervert behind her.

"Careful. This might sting just a little."

Thud!

"Ye don't mind a little rough play, do ye?"

Thud!

Thud!

"I didn't think so. We're gonna have a great time, sweety!"

Thud!

"If yer 'ead will still be functioning well enough to answer questions after this, dat is."

Thud!

Thud!

All too soon, they reached the bottom of the steps. Unfortunately, the room that greeted Amy downstairs was not the dingy, stone-walled torture chamber she'd been hoping for, but a cosy mixture of bedroom and study, with a comfortable bed and a plush carpet on the floor.

But at least it's out of the way. Amy glanced at the dust scattered everywhere. This looks like the pervert's private retreat. No one will come here. That's really all that matters. I'll have all the time I need.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a dirty rag she had specifically prepared. Jimmy the shoeblack had been quite delighted when she offered sixpence for his oldest, ugliest cleaning rag. It had been well-worth the investment. It wasn't easy to find such quality muck. Stuffing the rag into the pervert's mouth, Amy dragged him over to the bed. Conveniently, it turned out to be a four-poster, with its posts very solidly built indeed.

Yay! Today's my lucky day!

Now, if only she had some rope...

Quickly, Amy glanced around the room. There were blankets and books, curtains and candles, but not a single rope. She looked into the cupboards and cabinets, but even there, she only found socks and shirts. Not a single whip, handcuff or cord! Bloody hell! What was the matter with criminal deviants these days? Didn't they even know the first thing about bondage?

Muttering a curse, she turned—and her eyes caught on something.

A rope!

A single rope, hanging down from the ceiling.

What the heck? What kind of gormless idiot would have a single rope dangling down from the ceiling of his room? She would have thought it might be for dangling victims from the ceiling—but the rope was attached to the ceiling only by a thin piece of wire. Odd. Rich people sure were strange bunch. Oh well, as long as it benefited her...

Shrugging, Amy strode over to the rope. Reaching out, she grabbed the thing and pulled, hard.

Ding-dong!

Oh.

Crap.

***

Griffiths the butler was just in the kitchen, talking over next week's menu with cook when the house bell rang. He gave a half-relieved, half-worried sigh.

"So, His Lordship is finally home, is he?"

"It ain't good for him, comin' 'ome dis late." Cook shook her head. "I donno what's with 'im lately. 'e should sleep longer. And 'e should definitely eat more!"

The old lady had an injured expression on her face. This was a long-standing, and serious problem in the household. If the master had not liked her food, that would have been one thing. That would have been her fault, and she could live with that. But when she had asked why he hadn't eaten, and he had answered: "Oh. I must have simply forgotten. I am rather busy, recently."

Well...that hadn't gone over well.

"Harrumph! If he ain't gonna eat, at least make 'im take a nap, will you, Mr Griffiths?"

"I shall do my utmost. Please excuse me."

Tugging on his tailcoat and finger-combing his white beard to make sure everything was perfectly in order, Griffiths hurried down the corridor. The bell had come from downstairs, from the master's "thinking room". It had been an ordinary room until a month or so ago, but recently, the master had developed the habit of hiding down there and putting padlock on the door so he could focus on whatever he was working on without being disturbed by the staff with insignificant details such as bathing, eating or sleeping. Every now and again, strange people would visit the mansion, and would end up being questioned by his master for hours on end. The rest of the time, he hardly saw His Lordship anymore. Shaking his head, Griffiths couldn't help but worry. Cook was correct. Something wasn't quite right with the master.

He opened the door to the basement room—and his eyes went wide.

"Oh no, not again!"

Rushing forward, he stared at the limp figure on the bed, then his gaze turned to the wide-eyed young woman in the corner, only to once again return to his lord.

"Your Lordship! Not again!" He threw an apologetic smile at the young lady. "I'm so sorry, Miss! This happens all the time, recently."

The young lady blinked. "It...it does?"

"Yes. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times, he shouldn't work around the clock like he does! But does he listen? Last week, he fell asleep halfway through a visit from Lord and Lady Barrymore! We had to scrape him off the carpet."

"Y-ye did?"

"Oh yes." Griffiths gave a long-suffering sigh, and bowed respectfully in front of the young lady. She didn't seem to be put out at all at the His Lordship's outrageous behaviour. What a generous spirit! "My sincerest apologies, dear Miss. I am Griffiths, the butler of the house. Please allow me to welcome you to the residence on behalf of my master. May I enquire why you are here? An interview?"

"Interview..." The young lady cleared her throat. "Well, aye, there definitely are some questions to be asked."

"I see. You came all this way, and he falls asleep on you." Griffith shook his head admonishingly at his master. When the boy woke up, he would have to give him a stern talking-to! "Please, I know that it's a lot to ask, but could you wait here for a little? If he asked you to come, I'm sure it's something important. He never sleeps for long. He should be up and about again in ten minutes or so."

"Err...no problem. No problem at all."

Griffiths beamed. What a lovely, accommodating young lady. "Thank you, Miss! Thank you so much. Would you like a little something to eat while you wait? Tea? Biscuits? Sandwiches?"

"Oh, ye don't 'ave to go to so much trouble."

And courteous, too! Griffiths sighed. He wished his My Lord would invite young ladies like this over more often.

"It's no trouble at all, I assure you."

"Oh, well, then..." The young lady gave him a charming smile. Yes, Griffiths really hoped his My Lord would get another visit from this young lady. "In that case, could ye bring me a few sandwiches? And some yarn?"

"You knit, Miss?"

"Um..." The young lady glanced at the sleeping man on the bed. "Something like that."

Griffiths beamed. Lovely, courteous, and proficient in needlework. "Certainly, Miss. Right away, Miss."

***

After the door had closed behind the butler, Amy stared at it for a minute or two before gathering herself. What the...!

What was that? Sandwiches? If an intruder broke into a villain's lair, what kind of minion thought the most appropriate response was to offer them sandwiches?

After a moment, she shrugged. Well, at least the old geezer wasn't going to cause any trouble. In fact, he had sounded sort of...nice.

How could the henchman of an evil, perverted child molester be nice?

That's not the most important question right now, is it?

Right. Focus, Amy, focus. Eyes narrowing, she turned towards the figure on the bed. A few moments later, the butler returned.

"Here are your sandwiches, Miss. And your yarn."

"Thank ye so much."

The butler bowed deeply and retreated. The door clicked shut behind him a second and final time. Smiling, Amy flexed her fingers and stepped towards her sleeping prince charming on the bed.

Ha! Prince charming? Prince Pervert, more like!

Reaching out, she picked up the knife the kind butler had generously provided along with the sandwiches.

Questioning time!

***

Lord Patrick Day groaned. God, how much had he drunk last night? His head hurt like the male progeny of a female canine. With all of his effort, he searched his memory, and discovered...

Nothing?

All he remembered was coming back home, opening the door and then...

Nothing.

Except for the excruciating pain in his head, that is. Strange. He was not like his best friend, who didn't consider a night well spent if he didn't spend it with a bottle of alcohol under one arm and a woman in the other. Under usual circumstances, he was not in the habit of imbibing large amounts of alcoholic beverages. Certainly not quantities sufficient to cause memory loss. And as for women, he kept a notebook listing all worthy candidates for courting along with a detailed background. So far, he had discovered a total of three in the entirety of Great Britain, and none of them quite matched up to the standards of a noble line such as his.

In short: he, Lord Patrick Day, was not a man to indulge in vice. And yet, now, a vice was mercilessly squeezing his head, causing agonizing pain.

Oh well, he would just send Griffiths for a cup of tea. Surely, that would make him feel better. Taking a deep breath, he rolled sideways and sat up.

Or at least he tried to.

It proved to be rather difficult, due to the knitting yarn wrapped tightly around his wrists and ankles.

"Rrg! Ow! By George! What...?"

Usually, he despised such outrageous profanity. It was unbecoming of a Peer of the Realm, and a black stain on the English language. But right now, he was less concerned with the finer points of linguistics than with the fact that he was tied up like a tangled shoe string!

He opened his mouth to protest again, and someone stuffed a foul-tasting rag into his mouth.

"Nng! Mmm!"

Hold on. He should not make noise. He needed to think. He was tied to his own bed, for heaven's sake! Putting that together with the way his head was aching...

No. He had to be mistaken, right? Getting mugged on the street after leaving one's house was one thing, but getting mugged in one's house after leaving the street?

Well, it certainly was a novel concept.

"Ah," came an abysmally accented voice from somewhere beyond his field of vision, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like the scrape of a finely-honed blade. He did not know which of the two sounded more horrible. "Ye're awake."

Good Lord! What kind of villains had gotten their hands on him? Robbers? Burglars? Or was it—

He stiffened, his hands instinctively balling into fists.

Was it them?

No.

No, it could not be. He had been careful in his inquiries, hadn't he? There was no possible way that they could have gotten wind of his moves?

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for whatever might be coming. Even if his whole house was filled with ruthless cutthroats, he would remain calm and composed as befitted a gentleman. Gathering his determination, he turned his head towards his captor—

—and found himself face-to-face with a girl.

Or...a young woman, maybe?

He was not entirely sure. On the one hand, her youthful face and figure said "girl", on the other, the knife she was holding at his throat said "woman". Definitely "woman".

"If ye scream," the woman hissed, "I'm gonna cut off yer bollocks and boil dem in oil. I might just decide ta do it anyway if ye annoy me. Understood?"

Lord Patrick nodded. Not that he had understood more than a third of those egregiously ungrammatical words, but the blade at his throat somehow turned out to be very convincing.

Slowly, she reached out towards him. Lord Patrick had never been a particularly romantic man, but he had not expected the first instance of a woman bending over him on his bed to touch his face, would be a knife-wielding madwoman trying to remove a gag from his mouth while he was tied to the bed, spread-eagled.

Hadn't the great emperor Marcus Aurelius given some sage advice for just such situations?

Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together.

Thank you, Marcus Aurelius! Thank you so much!

The gag dropped from his mouth.

"Don't ye scream!" She reminded him. "Or your bollocks are gonna be 'istory!"

Lord Patrick cleared his throat. "History," he corrected. "Your testicles are going to be history. Also, I rather doubt that 'gonna' is an official entry in the Oxford English Dictionary."

A pair of green eyes flashed, and the knife dug a little harder into his throat. "Are ye sure this is the thing ye want to argue about right 'ere and now?"

He raised a challenging eyebrow. "Grammar is important, after all."

And besides, I can't think of anything better to say, considering I have no darn clue who you are and what you want!

From the expression on her face, His Lordship received the impression that the young woman didn't share his views on the importance of proper grammar and syntax. Plus, the way the knife dug even harder into his throat was an additional hint for a smart person like himself.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slit yer throat right 'ere and now."

Lord Patrick considered for a moment.

"I need it to breathe?" He politely suggested.

The knife gently pricked his throat, drawing a drop of blood. And here he'd avoided pricking himself for three months running by refraining from shaving. "I said a good reason."

Had he been foolish enough to consider this creature to be a girl before? This was most definitely a woman! And, by the looks of it, the worst specimen he had ever met in his entire life. Quite the achievement, considering his mother's matchmaking efforts.

Lord Patrick's eyes narrowed at the shrew. "May I enquire your name, Miss...?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "I'm about to torture you for information. Let's go with first names, shall we?"

He blinked. For the first time in a long time, he knew not what retort to give.

"I'm Amy. Who're ye, ye slimy little son of a bitch?"

His eyes narrowed further, until they were suitably haughty slits. "You may address me as 'Your Lordship'."

The tip of the knife tickled his throat. The female gave him a smile that made him want to rush to the nearest church. Good God! Had his house been invaded by a demoness? "Are you sure about that, Your Lordship?"

"Patrick!" he wheezed. "Lord Patrick Day" He raised an eyebrow. "Please forgive me for not bowing, My Lady, but I find myself in something of a bind."

"Too bad." Twirling the knife, the woman who called herself Amy took a step closer. Lord Patrick quickly searched the list of famous serial killers that had stalked London's streets for anyone called "Amy"—but came up blank. "So, Patrick... let me ask again. Is dere a reason why I shouldn't slit yer throat right 'ere and now?"

He clenched his teeth, trying to think quickly. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been a problem, but right now, his head felt ready to split apart, and the knife-wielding shrew appeared ready to do the honours. A reason...a reason...

His gaze flicked to her eyes. Intense, green eyes that conveyed almost as much deadly danger as the knife in her hand. And yet...

"There's something you want from me. Otherwise, I would already be on my way to the great beyond."

"Smart boy, ain't ye?" The woman twirled the knife in the air at a rather worrying speed. "Ye're right. I want somethin'. And ye already know what it is. So..." Suddenly, the twirling knife stopped, and reappeared at his throat. "Tell me—where the 'ell is she?"

Lord Patrick waited for a prolonged moment, hoping for more. Any pertinent information would suffice. Anything. When nothing came, he cleared his throat. "Pardon, but...Where is who, exactly?"

"Don't play games with me, ye bloody bastard! Tell me where Flo is right now!"