Lord Patrick's throat felt dry as sandpaper from all the talking. Reaching out for the tea pot, he poured himself a cup and drank it in long, deep, gulps. From the other side of the table, his erstwhile kidnapper stared at him incredulously.

"Three? In the whole of Britain?"

He sent the confounded female a cool look. "Out of the entire story, that is the part you chose to focus on?"

"Well, dat's about da only part I can believe!" Narrowing her eyes, she leaned forward, as if she were studying a bug under a microscope. "Do ye honestly expect me ta believe ye're for real?"

Lord Patrick Day raised an eyebrow. "What, pray, do you mean?"

"What I mean? What I mean? I'll tell ye what the 'ell I mean!" The woman waved her hand at him as if she were gesturing at a particularly disagreeable pile of manure. "Ye honestly expect me ta believe ye're some kind of white knight? I caught ye red-'anded with a kidnap victim! Ye even admitted buying 'er!"

"As I said, only with the noblest of intentions. I would never buy a child sex slave for nefarious reasons."

Sputtering noises came from the young woman. For some reason, she seemed rather agitated. Lord Patrick cocked his head. "Are you all right, Miss?"

"No! No, I'm bloody not all right! Ye can actually say dat with a straight face? Ye think ye can just go around buying people?"

Lord Patrick considered for a moment—then nodded. "Evidently, yes."

"Ye...ye sick, despicable pervert!"

"You do realize that she is perfectly all right and I have no intention of detaining her, do you? My intentions were—"

"Ye can take your intentions and stuff 'em up yer arrogant aristocratic arse!"

"I'm afraid I will have to decline."

"Oh, of course! Ye can't stuff it up yer arse!" Her eyes glittered dangerously. "Because there's already a stick in there!"

"Miss..." Lord Patrick's eyes narrowed. He was not particularly adept at conversing with ladies, and interpreting their subtle hints and obscure implications. However, this time, he felt fairly confident in coming to a conclusion. "Why do I get the impression that you do not like me?"

"Per'aps because I whacked ye over da 'ead earlier." She hefted her parasol. "Would ye like a repeat ta refresh yer memory?"

Lord Patrick's eyelid twitched, and the back of his head pulsed painfully. "No, thank you."

She fixed her eyes on him for a long, long moment, scrutinizing him closely. "Ye really expect me ta swallow that story of yers? Expect me ta believe that ye're a good, kind, upstanding child-kidnapper with da best of intentions? Ye're supposed to be a pervert! A spoiled, snivellin' noble, usin' innocent victims for 'is own twisted pleasure!"

He raised an eyebrow in a manner only aristocrats with five hundred years of noble ancestry were capable of. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You bloody well should be! In case ye didn't notice, I've bin insultin', punchin' and threatenin' ta kill ye since I met ye—"

"Oh, I noticed."

"—and now, I'm just supposed to accept dat ye're some sort of 'ero in a very, very, very good disguise?"

He cocked his head at her. "I do not particularly care what you believe."

To judge by the look on the woman's face, that had not been the best thing to say.

"I can't believe it!" she growled. "I won't! I know what nobles are like! I've met enough of dem!"

"You have?" This time, both of Lord Patrick's eyebrows shot up. Had he misjudged this woman? Was she, in fact, a lady of high birth? "Where?"

"In Cockadoodle Lane, ye bastard!"

He frowned. "In which part of London is that?"

Ignoring his question, she jabbed a finger at him. "I know nobles," she repeated. "Nobles are supposed to be arrogant, obnoxious, uncaring arsewipes! Oh, ye're arrogant enough, all right—"

"Thank you very much."

"—and an obnoxious know-it-all who lords it over people—"

"Compliments are always appreciated."

"—but what yer frizzy little fritter of a sister's bin tellin' me, and now you, too..." Her eyes narrowed even further. "That's just crazy! Why would ye even stick yer fancy, powdered nose into somethin' like dis? Donating for charity? Riskin' yer pretty noble neck for nameless orphans? Why would ye even care?"

Lord Patrick cocked his head. Wasn't it obvious? "Noblesse oblige."

The woman blinked. "Huh? No bless ob leech?"

Lord Patrick's face twisted in pain at the atrocity committed against the French language that assaulted his ears. "Noblesse oblige," he corrected. "Noblesse oblige. It means nobility is a duty. And my duty, in this case, as a peer of the British Empire, is to stand against anyone who would dare to commit such heinous crimes in this country." His chin rose. "It is the duty of every self-respecting gentleman to protect those beneath him."

"Beneath you?" Face twitching, the woman leaned forward. What was wrong with her? Was she having a seizure? "Did you just say beneath you?"

Yes, probably a seizure. To judge by her bad hearing, her health in general appears not to be very good. Perhaps, once this is over, I should send both her and the child to a doctor.

"Naturally." Lord Patrick shrugged.

"Oh, so ye're a 'ero, are ye?" Her eyes glittered. "Ye're gonna protect all us 'elpless little commoners?"

He nodded, glad she finally understood. "Something of the kind. I'm glad the misunderstanding is cleared up."

"Ye fight for freedom, justice and equality?"

"Well..." He waved a hand. "Not necessarily equality. Naturally, there are some people who are above others."

"Naturally. Includin' yerself, I suppose."

"Of course."

"Of course."

She smiled. There was no warning whatsoever before the sofa cushion was sent flying towards him.

"Mmmph! What the—"

"Above others? Above others?" Eyes flashing, she reached for another cushion. "I wouldn't let ye be above me if ye paid me for it, and let me tell ye, for me that means quite a lot!"

"Miss! What do you think you're doing? You are acting unreasona—"

He cut off and dodged just in time to avoid another pillow.

"Miss!" Holding up his hands as a shield, Lord Patrick gazed at her with a mixture of disquietude and concern. Was her mental balance impaired as well? "This is irrational behaviour! Are you feeling all right, Miss? Do you need my h—"

"Don't you dare!" Jerking straight up, she stabbed a finger at him. "Don't you dare say ''elp', Lord White Knight Full of Shite!"

"I'm afraid that you did not enumerate my titles quite correc—"

Another cushion was sent flying, and Lord Patrick only narrowly managed to dodge it.

"I don't bloody care! I'll call ye whatever I want! I've never 'eard such a load of twiddle twaddle in me life! Befittin' yer ancestry? Doin' somethin' because it's right? Who da 'ell do you think ye are? A member of da order of King Arthur's round table, or somethin'?"

Lord Patrick cleared his throat. "The Most Noble Order of the Garter and The Most Honourable Order of The Bath, actually."

"Order of the...oh, go take a bath in bat shit, you!"

His Lordship had just opened his mouth, wondering how to politely decline that particular suggestion, when she talked over him.

"And another thing! What's all this about this chief editor who's at yer back'n call? Do ye mean ta tell me ye own a newspaper?"

"No."

"No? But then what—?"

"I own three. I own many things." He shrugged. "Money is of no particular importance."

"Money isn't...!"

His Lordship scrutinized her. The statement seemed to have agitated her even more for some reason. "Are you all right, Miss? Your face looks rather red. Is there anything I can do to help—"

"Enough!" Amy cut through his words with a swipe of her hand. "Dat's enough of yer 'elp! Enough of you, period!" Her eyes narrowed. "I don't need no 'elp of yours! I don't need nothing from you! Flo and I 'ave bin takin' care of ourselves just fine by ourselves, thank ye very much!"

His eyes narrowed. "Yes. I noticed that from the way she was living on the streets."

He saw her fists clench. "Ye miserable little...! Better livin' free on da streets than locked up by da likes of ye! Do ye think dis is da first time I've 'eard a fancy tosser spouting bullcrap about wantin' to 'elp poor unfortunate orphans and ladies? I know a load of shite when I 'ear it! So, tell me...what's really be'ind dis?"

Lord Patrick stiffened. He did his very best to keep his face expressionless—but he didn't succeed entirely. "I do not know what you mean, Miss. What I told you was the truth."

Her bewitching green eyes pierced into him. "But not all da truth, ey?"

His Lordship fell silent, mentally cursing those far-too-perceptive eyes.

"Even if some noble gave a crap about what 'appens ta a bunch of orphans, da most dey'd do is report it to da coppers and forget about it." She leaned forward, her eyes even more intense. "Why risk so much?"

Again, he gave no reply.

"Tell me! Why would a fancy tosser like ye risk so much for a bunch of nameless orphans?"

This time, he decided to give an answer. The only one he would be willing to give. "That's none of your business!"

Suspicion spread across the young woman's face like a flood. "It can't be that...that they took one of your...no. They'd never touch a noble's brats!"

"No," he confirmed, his eyes flashing with ferocity. "They wouldn't."

Because if they did, they would all be already dead!

"Then what da 'ell is it? Why are ye stickin' yer nose into dis, Pervert?"

Lord Patrick's eyes narrowed. "After all you have heard, Miss, do you really still believe I deserve to be called that? If so, by all means, go ahead. I'm sure my sister could lend you her new candlestick if you wish to take me to the nearest police station."

"Well, ehem..." The woman, Amy, cleared her throat, and her gaze flicked away—until she appeared to realize what she was doing, whereupon she instantly focused back on him with a vengeance. He could see the grammatically incorrect message shining clearly in her bright green eyes: I might be completely and utterly in da wrong, but dat ain't no reason for me to bloody admit it! "Maybe not 'Pervert.'" Her eyes narrowed in thought, then suddenly lit up and started to dance. "'ow about a nice little nickname, instead? I could just call ye 'P'."

"P?"

"For 'Patrick,'" she explained with a guileless little smile that could have convinced a crown attorney and twelve jurors of her innocence. Luckily, Lord Patrick had never ever considered a career in law.

Rising to his feet, His Lordship took a step towards her, towering over her. "Or for another, less polite, word that, coincidentally, also starts with 'P'?"

This infernal female...even now that she knows the truth, is she looking for a way to covertly insult me just for the fun of it?

Amy batted her eyelashes at him like a pro cricket batsman. "Whatever could ye mean?"

Lord Patrick took another step forward and leaned down until their faces were almost at eye-level. "Why not just call me 'Patrick' then?"

She shrugged. "Oh, I like keeping things short 'n' sweet. Besides... 'pea' just seems so fitting. It so nicely describes the combined size of yer brain and yer dick."

Patrick blinked. Note to self... She doesn't need ways to covertly insult me. Apparently, she has no compunctions whatsoever doing it to my face. Or to my...ehem...other parts.

Darn that female! How the heck was he supposed to handle her? She was unlike anyone he'd ever met in his life! Probably unlike anyone who should legally be allowed to walk the streets, for that matter, and yet...and yet...

And yet he still felt as though he owed her an explanation! Heck! Fiddlesticks! F***...ailure to find a fitting curse word!

He owed her the rest of the truth. This wasn't just an isolated incident, a random crime committed by a few perverted thugs. Oh no. The truth was far larger than that, and far darker. And he would have to tell her.

Damnation!

Why was he the one who would have to shatter an innocent young woman's happy view of the world?

Marching back to his seat, Lord Patrick planted his noble derrière and stared at her, trying not to let his face betray any emotions. Unfortunately, his face had never been very loyal. "Would you like to hear the rest of the story, Miss, or would you prefer to continue insulting me?"

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Insulting sounds more fun. But then again...fun's not really what I'm 'ere for." She edged forward in her seat. "Go on, P."

***

When Lord Patrick returned home that night, he shut himself in his study, unfolded a map of London on his desk and sat himself down, eyes scouring the expanse of narrow alleyways in front of him.

How many? How many children?

That question pounded in his head, again and again. Angrily, he shoved it aside. What good would it do to know the answer to that?

There was one and only one thing he had to do right now: get hold of one of these children! Just one would be enough!

Evidence! Evidence is everything!

He would purchase a child. And if his soul was roasted in hell for it, then so be it!

But...how to get a hold of one? Those darn little anklebiters weren't available at jumble sales on the nearest street corner, were they? All he'd seen were a few thugs and a few children. Now that he'd lost their trail, how was he ever supposed to find it again in the teeming melting pot that was London?

Well, there really is only one clue I can pursue, isn't there?

The warehouse.

"It's decided." Slamming his fist onto the desk, he straightened. "Time to start the investigation!" Marching over to the door, he pulled it open. "Griffiths!"

Half a second later, the butler appeared from that mysterious interdimensional space where all good butlers hide, ready to leap out and do their master's bidding. "Yes, My Lord?"

"Tell Everstone to get the carriage ready!"

"Yes, My Lord."

During the following days, Lord Patrick worked from dawn to dusk, sneaking, spying, prying, bribing and doing a hundred other things horrendously unbefitting of a Day to find out who owned that warehouse—and, finally, he was successful!

He had found the smarmy little man who had handled the sale of the place and, for an appropriate fee, the fellow revealed that the warehouse was owned by a man by the name of...

—insert drumroll here—

...John Smith!

"What?" Patrick stared at the man in front of him. Was this a bad joke? "Are you serious?"

"Aye!" The rat-faced little man nodded energetically. "Dat was 'is name all right! John Smith. Now where's me money?"

"Not just yet. Tell me...who did that 'John Smith' send to finalize the sale?"

"Err...lemme think...I think 'e was called..." The man scratched his head—then, suddenly snapped his fingers. "Dat's right! John Doe! 'e was called John Doe!"

"John Doe," Patrick repeated, his voice toneless. "Estate manager of the esteemed John Smith."

"Exactly! So, where's me money now? I've done more dan enough work for ye!"

Giving up, Lord Patrick pulled out his wallet.

He continued his investigations for some time after that, but all he discovered was strawman after strawman. Finally, exhausted and disheartened, he returned home.

What now?

How would he find the children again, let alone the thugs who had them? He couldn't just—

He froze, as inspiration struck.

The thugs?

He felt a cold tingle travelling down his neck.

A band of thugs? Was that all it was? How would a band of common street thugs find just the right time and place to break into a well-guarded orphanage? How would they be able to set up a chain of strawmen, afford the rent for a whole warehouse, et cetera, et cetera.

No.

Something more would be needed for that: an organisation. An organisation with roots and connections in the underworld. An organisation that knew everyone, and that everybody knew and feared. But what kind of organisation would be involved in practises as horrific as...

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt, and, once more, a cold shiver travelled down his back. It felt as though cold eyes were staring at him from behind. Slowly, he turned around to face the window. Tinged red in the light of the rising sun, he saw the shiny sea of houses that was the London West End stretching out into the distance. And beyond...

Beyond, the dark clouds of factories rose above a pit of misery, filled with pitiful hovels.

The East End. The one place in London where life was worth little, and powerful street gangs ruled with an iron fist. The one place which, during his whole investigation, he had yet to enter.

In the faint reflection of the window, he saw his face darken. One corner of his mouth curled up in a half-smile.

"Well, there is a first time for everything, correct?"

Rising swiftly, he strode to the door.

"Mrs Morris!"

A few moments later, the pudgy cook stuck her friendly old face into the room. "Yes, Your Lordship? Do ye need anythin'? A few biscuits, perhaps? A nice cuppa tea?"

"A few sandwiches to go. Also, a disguise and a fake identity would be appreciated."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"Never mind. I was thinking aloud. Griffiths?"

"My Lord?"

"Tell Everstone to prepare the coach. I'm going out!"

"Yes, My Lord."

A quarter of an hour later, Titus Irving's front door bell was ringing as if an insane monkey were dangling from the bell pull. Groaning, he rolled out of bed. Who would wake him up at this ungodly hour? Had he suddenly acquired an arch-enemy? Because no friend would wake him up at this time, except perhaps...

The door swung open.

"Oh God. No, not you!"

"Titus!" Reaching out, Lord Patrick grabbed his friend by the lapels. "I need your help."

"Where do you want to drag me this time? A pigsty? A mortuary?"

"I simply have a question to ask you."

"Oh? Really?" Titus looked slightly relieved—until he remembered he'd just been thrown out of bed at sunrise.

"It is a really important question."

"Well, then...go ahead."

Lord Patrick took a deep breath. "Are you still just as much of a good-for-nothing, lazy, gambling, drunken idiot as you were in college?"

Titus raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?" And he breathed in Patrick's face. The alcoholic fumes nearly knocked His Lordship on his peerage posterior. A smile spread over Lord Patrick's face, and he clenched his fist in triumph.

"Yes! Yes, thank you, Titus! You're wonderful!"