Because I live here. Because. I. Live. Here.

The young woman's words wouldn't stop repeating in Lord Patrick's head over and over again that night. He even heard them in his dreams. She couldn't have been serious, right?

You remember the look in her eyes, don't you? She was serious.

That bloody stupid woman! How could she...why would she...?

But he didn't even need to finish the question. The answer was painfully obvious.

Because she has no choice.

Curse her! Curse her for being poor! Curse her for being proud! Curse her for having such big, brave, beautiful dark green eyes that kept flickering in front of his inner vision, interspersed with images of dark alleys and ruined houses, as if...as if...

"You're imagining things, Day!" he growled, shaking his head to chase the images away. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the little notebook in which he had noted down all the most eligible young ladies Great Britain had to offer: three in total. Surely, a comparison with their stunning qualities would chase those annoying thoughts out of his head?

However, for some strange reason, their demure behaviour, pristine reputations, and noble pedigrees to the twenty-second generation suddenly didn't impress him quite so much as they had before. Why? Perhaps he had been too lax in his standards? Should he increase the minimum requirements to twenty-five noble generations?

"Harrumph!" Irritated, he slammed the little book shut and put it away. "What is the matter with me? Maybe I should just get a good night's sleep. In the morning, I'll have a clear head again."

Turning abruptly, he marched into the bedroom, threw himself onto the bed that Amy probably didn't have, and pulled a plush blanket over himself the likes of which Amy probably didn't even know, and...

Bloody hell! Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? And why the hell did he just curse like a sailor? Twice?!

Not like a sailor. Like a plucky cockney prostitute.

Taking a deep breath, Lord Patrick turned and buried himself beneath the pillow. At least sleep would grant him freedom from that dam— from that dratted woman.

Soon enough, his hopes would be fulfilled. As warmth engulfed him, slowly, the god of sleep opened the gates to his realm, and Patrick drifted towards a place where, surely, peace and forgetfulness would await him.

Yes, peace...any moment now...

That night, Lord Patrick Day dreamed of bewitching green eyes.

Ding-dong...

"Stop staring at me, damn you! And stop making me curse, you bloody...!"

Panting hard, arms flailing, Lord Patrick Day froze halfway on his way to falling out of bed. Most of the blankets and cushions from his elegant king-sized four-poster had been strewn across the floor, and one of the shoes that he'd forgotten to take off last night had somehow ended up dangling from his left ear.

Ding-dong...

So he hadn't been mistaken. It really was the doorbell! Someone was outside at this hour?

Moments after the bell had rung, a knock came from the door and Griffiths stuck his head into the room.

"Pardon the intrusion, My Lord. The young lady who was kind enough to pay us a visit a number of days ago has graced us with her presence once more. She rang at the door a few moments ago and told me, to my considerable astonishment, that, apparently, you asked her to come to your home this morning." The butler gave his employer a long look that made Patrick wonder who exactly was the master and who the butler. "Without a chaperon."

Deciding to strategically ignore the last three words, Lord Patrick uttered a groan. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

"Very well." One of Griffiths' eyebrows rose the legal number of millimetres allowed for English butlers. "Did you have a, um...lively night, My Lord?"

Plucking the shoe off his ear, Patrick chucked it into a corner, barely resisting the urge to take aim at a certain butler instead. Instead, he sent the man a look that said Do not speak. Do not dare to speak a word. "I slept very well, thank you so much for the enquiry!"

"Err...yes, My Lord." Griffiths let his censorious gaze wander over Patrick's figure in the bed. "And what shall I tell the young lady?"

Why don't you tell her that she's too good for a lout like me and she could do much better, as you are obviously itching to?

"Please tell her that I shall be down directly."

"Very well, My Lord. I shall send someone down to attend to her, and send someone up to attend to your...ehem...current state."

And, before Lord Patrick could chuck his other shoe at him, Griffiths was out the door.

His Lordship had just climbed out of bed when another knock came from the door. "Sir? Mister Griffiths sent me up with fresh clothes for you."

Striding to the door, Patrick pulled it open and grabbed the clothes out of the arms of the young footman standing there.

The boy cleared his throat. "Would ye like me to 'elp ye dress, Si—"

"I can put on my own clothes, thank you very much!"

Growling, Lord Patrick slammed the door in the surprised young man's face. Not because of anything the boy had said, but because of the way he'd said it. Cockney accent. Just like he—um, just like people of abominably low social status. Why the heck couldn't servants speak grammatically correct Oxford English?

Because I live here. Because I live here.

Those words had been uttered with so much disdain.

"I'm not a pampered fool!" Lord Patrick growled. "I can put my own clothes on!"

About an hour of tenacious struggling later, he emerged from his room and strode down the stairs, to find Amy sitting in the drawing room, being plied by Mrs Morris and the other servants with tea, biscuits and more loving attention than their employer had received in the last five years put together.

"Why didn't ye tell us that we'd be 'avin' a visitor dis mornin'?" Mrs Morris admonished as she noticed Patrick's presence. "I'd 'ave prepared something special!"

Lord Patrick eyed the humongous silver platter filled with biscuits and snacks in her hands. Yes, because obviously you are so unprepared right now.

"My apologies, Mrs Morris. I had other things on my mind yesterday." Tugging at his lapels to reduce their horizontality, His Lordship turned towards Amy. Somehow managing to put a smile onto his face, he stepped forward. "Miss Amy! How lovely to see you at..." He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Six o'clock. I know I said we'd meet 'in the morning', but..."

Amy returned his smile with a beaming one of her own. As far as two-faced smiles went, Patrick had to admit, she was the master. "I wanted to surprise ye."

"Aww..." Mrs Morris clutched her hands to her heart. "Ain't dat sweet?"

"Yes. Sweet," Patrick grumbled, reaching for a butter and honey sandwich from the platter. "So incredibly sweet. Sandwich, Miss?"

"Why, thank you." Inclining her head, Amy took the sandwich and began to nibble on it in delicate, ladylike little bites—in spite of which she managed to gobble it up within seconds. Then she gazed up at him, her head cocked in a manner fools might have taken for adorable. Lord Patrick, though, knew it for what it was: a challenge. "So...shall we proceed?"

"By all means." His face turning grim, Patrick glanced towards the door. "Can we go for a walk? I need some fresh air after what I...after yesterday."

Mrs Morris's ears perked up, and eyes gleamed. "Yesterday? What 'appened yesterday?"

Lord Patrick opened his mouth, and—

Amy beamed at her. "We went for a lovely little coach ride together."

Lord Patrick closed his mouth again.

That dratted female...! The way she'd said that... Why the heck did she make it sound as if the two of them...and why did he suddenly have the desire to say "hell" instead of "heck"?

"Aww..." Mrs Morris clutched her hands together. "Did ye 'ear dat, Mr Griffiths?"

"I did indeed, Mrs. Morris."

Yes, and I bet by the end of the day the rest of London will have heard about it, too!

Eyes burning with blue fire, His Lordship stared at the young woman. The dratted female had just turned his peaceful bachelor existence into a chaotic mess! And the worst thing was: he couldn't even be angry with her! All he could think of when gazing at her was that look in her fathomless green eyes as she told him:

"Because I live here."

Amy heaved a sigh, as she gazed longingly up at him—then gave a wicked wink. "And what a lovely coach ride it was..."

Instinctively, his hands rose to wring her darn neck. He was going to strangle her! Strangle her, and then—

"Because I live here."

His hands lowered again.

Taking a deep breath, he bowed, and extended an arm towards Amy. One without a clenched fist or a dagger at the end. "Please, Miss, will you do me the honour of accompanying me? I can hardly wait to get you out of the hou—ehem, to take a walk with you, I mean."

"How sweet." Amy smiled, picked up another butter and honey sandwich, and took a bite as she gazed up at him. Patrick felt a sudden urge to reach out and...

What?

Strangle her?

Take hold of her?

Before he could make up his mind to act on that last mad thought, she made up hers.

"Then let's go, shall we?" Rising, she put aside the sandwich and linked her arm with his.

Yes, please! Please let's go! Let's get out of here, before Mrs Morris decides to send an express telegram to my mother!

Grabbing her by the arm, Patrick started dragging Amy towards the door. Ungentlemanly behaviour? Right then and there, he didn't give a flying fig!

***

"My, my, ye're eager!" Amy glanced up at him, eyes sparkling, as Patrick dragged her out the door and down the street. Hell...baiting Prince Pervert was an even more fun game to play than baiting the bodyguard.

"One more word...!" The man beside her squeezed out between his teeth. Beneath his elegant aristocratic exterior, he was an Earl Grey tea kettle, ready to explode! "One more word, and I shall show you how effective your lessons in despicable lowlife behaviour have been!"

"Golly!" Amy couldn't keep her smile from widening. Besides, why should she even try? Happiness was the light of the world, wasn't it? "Ye're really gettin' into da spirit of da thing, What's next? Are we gonna find a nice back alley for a little tat a tat?"

"Tête-à-tête," he corrected with a pained expression. "Tête-à-tête."

"Ah! So we are goin'?"

"No! We're going to keep a safe, proper distance of at least one and a half yards from one another! At least till we're out of sight of the house."

Amy glanced back at the house behind her and saw Griffiths, Mrs. Morris, and a dozen other servants peeking out of various doors and windows. She grinned. "Do ye really think that'll 'elp?"

He sent her a dark glare. "No. But I'd prefer to try and save what shreds of my reputation and bachelor status remain, thank you very much."

Her smile widening, she blew him a kiss, then half-turned and waved at Mrs Morris and Griffiths. The old lady waved back energetically. "By all means, try, darlin'."

He muttered something under his breath and he sped up, dragging her behind him like a fuming owner would drag a lazy donkey. Amy's grin was so wide by now it nearly split her skull apart. Holy hell, this was fun! Although it was a bit tiring to have to keep up the playacting. Pretending to be smitten with such an arrogant arsewipe wasn't easy, after all. In fact, it was quite difficult and very taxing. Definitely. After all, there was no way she could ever really...she could really feel...

Suddenly, they rounded the corner and the aforementioned arsewipe came to an abrupt stop. She frowned at his back.

"What's da matter?"

"I'm sorry."

Amy blinked. What had she just heard? Were her ears malfunctioning?

Slowly turning around, the handsome bastard looked down at her. Only...he didn't look like a bastard right now. Or a pervert, a son of a bitch, or any other of the numerous insults in her thick Dictionary of Defamation. Instead, he looked almost human, his face showing a severe struggle.

"I...I'm sorry." He spoke as if every word were pulled from his mouth like a tooth by a drunken dentist. "Sorry about yesterday. I...insulted you. And..." Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath. It was very clear he was about to say something that went against the very principles of his soul. "And what's worse, I insulted you with something that shouldn't even be considered an insult. Being...poor...is..."

"Yes?"

"Being...poor....is no shame." He shuddered, then fixed his eyes on her, the hard part obviously being over. "But being as brave as you are is something anyone should be proud of."

Amy opened her mouth—and closed it again.

Damn the man! After yesterday, she had nearly made up her mind that she was going to squeeze and swindle this pretentious prick out of every single penny he owned, and then he had to go and pull something like this? What was she supposed to do now? What was she supposed to say?

Patrick cocked his head. "Speechless, hm?"

"Ha!" Instantly, Amy's spine stiffened. "Not even in yer dreams! I just...I mean, I only..."

And then her words ran out.

For the first time, Amy witnessed a grin spread across Lord Patrick Day's face. It was a stunning grin, fierce and bright like the sunrise, and...and it touched something deep within her that she didn't know how to name or describe.

They stood there for a moment, gazing at each other. Amy realized that while she might not know what to say, he, apparently, didn't either. He was staring at her with a strange expression in his eyes she'd never, ever before seen on the face of a man.

Slowly, almost as if he didn't realize it, Patrick's right hand reached towards her. It moved up towards her face and...

Dong...

Dong...

The sudden sound of a church bell tore her from the moment. Blinking, she jumped back.

"It...it's getting late. We should get going."

Patrick stepped back, too—but there was a glint in his eyes, damn him!

"Late? At six thirty am?"

"I'm a lady of the night! For me, midnight is early and the morning is late!"

A corner of his mouth twitched. Will you look at that? Prince Pervert actually had a sense of humour?

"Of course, Miss Amy." Bowing, he elegantly extended his arm to her. "Shall we?"

"We shall!" Amy said, took his hand, stuck it into his trouser pocket, and marched off, leaving him standing. In a shop window, she was lucky enough to catch sight of his startled expression.

"I see your lessons in mannerlessness have already begun once more," came a voice from behind her.

"Of course." Jerking her head in the direction of a nearby bench, Amy gestured at him to follow. "Come on. Time to talk. We'll sit over there."

"You want to sit down?" Catching up, he glanced down at her with a frown. "But, Miss Amy, it's far too cold for a lady to—"

"Exactly. Which means no one else will be gettin' in our way or listenin' in. Now move yer butt, Mister!"

His Lordship, surprisingly, did as she asked. The two of them settled down on the cold bench,

Just like a couple, shot through her mind—then she wanted to punch herself. As a much better alternative, she punched him.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"To gain yer attention. Now, listen. I'm gonna tell ye 'ow dis is gonna go."

"All right."

"I guess after yesterday, ye're aware dat ye can't just rush in da East End like a 'ero on a white 'orse, right?"

Patrick nodded grimly. "Yes. I understand."

"We're gonna 'ave to spend a lot of time gettin' ye ready. Ye must live and breathe like a scumbag. I'll 'ave ta teach ye 'ow ta walk and talk, eat and sleep." Narrowing her eyes, she glanced over at him. "And, most important, I've gotta teach ye 'ow ta fight."

A strange noise came from the back of Patrick's throat, somewhere between a wolf growling and a scholar drowning in the bathtub.

"Excuse me? You are going to teach me how to fight?"

"Aye."

"You are aware, Miss, that I am a man, and you are a woman? Women's bodies are weaker than men's."

"Aye, dey are." Smiling, Amy cracked her knuckles. "Which means ladies gotta be da better fighters."

Throwing back his head, Patrick gave a bark of laughter.

Oh, you find this funny, do you? Just you wait. Just you wait...

"I assume ye ain't got any objections to sparrin' with me, den?"

"None whatsoever! But don't say I didn't warn you."

Ditto, Mister. Ditto.

"And what then?" Patrick's expression suddenly turned serious again. "I assume we won't be able to tackle the gang head-on. What path should we pursue to gather information? Infiltration?"

"If ye wanna do dat, trainin' will take a couple of months. And infiltration..." She shook her head. "Da gangs are vicious, and we'd 'ave to be careful as 'ell. No tellin' 'ow much time ye'd 'ave to invest. Months? Years?"

"No matter how long it takes," Patrick told her, his eyes fierce, "months, years, I do not care! I'm going to expose those bastards and make them pay!"

"No!" The sudden shout brought Amy to her feet in an instant. Whirling around, she saw a small figure dashing towards her from behind a nearby bush. "No, we can't wait!"

"Flo?" Amy caught the little girl just before she crashed into her. "Flo, what da 'ell are ye doin' 'ere?"

"I 'ad to! I 'ad ta know what ye were gonna do, so I followed ye!" Clenching her little fists into Amy's dress, Flo gazed up at her.

"But 'ow did ye manage ta get 'ere? I left ye with Ella! Didn't she stop ye from—" Amy stopped in the middle of the sentence. "Never mind. 'ow did ye slip away? Climbing out of da window?"

"No. Goin' out da front door. I just told dat lady I was goin' ta sweep da stairs and water da flowers for her, to thank her for takin' me in." An amazed expression spread over Flo's face. "And she believed me."

"Aye." Amy gave a deep sigh and made a mental note to give Ella a lesson or two, at least before she had her first child. Otherwise, her household would fall to rack and ruin within a couple of years. "She would."

"Anyway, dat's neither 'ere nor dere!" Flo's grip on her dress tightened. "I 'eard what ye said, Amy, but we can't!"

"We? Since when, young lady, did this matter suddenly include ye?"

Ignoring her words completely, Flo stared up at Amy fiercely. "We can't wait months, or even days! We've gotta do somethin' now! We've gotta rescue dem!"

"Them? Who's them?"

There was a moment of silence—which was broken by an almost audible pling, as the penny in Amy's mind dropped.

"Flo...ye don't mean...ye can't possibly want us to go after dose girls, can ye?"

Defiantly, Flo glared up at her. "Of course I bloody want ye to go after dem!"

However, both she and Amy knew that there was no "of course" about it. Amy could see it in her eyes—the desperate knowledge that she was demanding something impossible. And not just impossible, no: unreasonable. Mad. Insane.