"Why, pray, do I need a 'crash course'?" Narrowing his eyes, Lord Patrick Day scrutinized the innocently smiling girl in front of him. He didn't particularly like the expression, specifically the word "crash". "What we are planning on doing are covert activities, correct? It is not as if I would have to meet people and fool them into believing I am an East End native. We are planning on infiltrating a secret facility. The people there will hardly get the chance to scrutinize me."

"They will if we wanna question dem." He saw Amy inspect him from the side. "Dat's unless ye're prepared ta kill dem all?"

His Lordship stumbled, nearly planting his face on the pavement.

"I thought not." The smile Amy gave him was somewhat like the smile an adult might give a naïve child.

She really does live in a different world from me.

Why, all of a sudden, did it seem as if that thought hurt?

He swallowed.

"So...what is it you are aiming for?" he enquired to distract himself. "I doubt I can become a native in an afternoon. What are we going to do?"

"Simple. Remember what I said before? If ye're gonna run around da East End, it ain't enough to just look like a native. You got to walk and talk like one. We can forget about the looking part for now, since we'll be in disguise. But what if ye wanna say somethin' with one of da gangsters in da same room? We've got ta fool dem, make 'em think we're from a rival gang. Yer fancy-pantsy Oxford accent don't exactly scream 'East End street rat'! So we gotta do something about dat!"

She rubbed her hands.

Patrick felt a cold tingle of dread travel down his spine. The kind the hero of a gothic horror story might feel, just before the vampire jumped around the corner and buried his fangs in their neck, sucking out their very life's blood.

"You don't mean...!"

"Aye!" Amy gave him her broadest, lewdest, most devious smile. Her "I'm a hussy and proud of it"-smile. "I'm gonna give you a-low-queue-shen lessons!"

***

"How long? How long until Miss Amy is coming over?"

Patrick closed his eyes, then slowly opened them again. Unfortunately, he had not awakened from this bad dream in the process.

When Amy had suggested that they meet up at her place for lessons in half an hour, he, with the admirable manners of an English gentleman, naturally had to respond, "Come alone to the home of an unchaperoned young lady? I couldn't possibly!"

But, looking at the eager face of his young sister, the chaperon-to-be, perhaps it hadn't been such a splendid idea to invite her to his sister's place instead.

"She'll be coming soon," he answered. And with luck, I'll think of some excuse to get you out of the room before then. He cleared his throat. "Why don't you go and prepare some tea, so—"

Ding-dong.

"She's here! She's here!" Leaping up from the sofa, Angeline rushed out into the hallway.

"—we can welcome our guest," Patrick finished his sentence for the empty room.

No one answered.

In fact, no one came for quite a long time.

A really long time.

"What in the name of...?" Muttering under his breath, Lord Patrick Day marched forward and pushed open the door. Out in the corridor, his baby sister and Amy were huddled together over...something.

"And this one is my favourite!" Amy was saying. "You will find it quite...stimulatin'."

His Lordship hastened his steps. A lot. "What is going on here?"

"Oh, brother!" Beaming, Angeline turned towards him. "Can you imagine? Amy brought some books for me! And they're actually ones I don't know yet! I didn't think there was such a thing! But for some reason, I haven't seen a single one of them in Mr Jenkins' book store!"

Leaping forward, Patrick grabbed the books wrapped in plain, far too innocent covers, trying to tear them out of his sister's hands. "Really? Well, but, um...we mustn't neglect our guest! You can look at them later!" If you find the spot where I'm going to bury them! "Right now, we should offer our guest some beverages."

"Oh, of course!" Angeline slapped her forehead, which, fortunately, made her let go of the books. Lord Patrick hurriedly pushed them behind the nearest wardrobe, "Where are my manners." She turned towards Amy. "Would you like something to drink?"

"A papa flea would be nice," Amy said.

There was a moment of silence.

And another one.

"Err...pardon?" Angeline blinked, taken aback.

"A papa flea."

"Um..." Angeline exchanged a look with Patrick. He, however, didn't have any more idea than she what Amy might be talking about. "You want a...parental insect?"

Amy smirked. "Ye've just failed yer first test. Congratulations."

"Test?" Patrick's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Smiling gently, she patted his head as she passed him on her way to the drawing room. "I'll explain, my dear pupil. Come, follow yer teacher. Ye may call me 'Miss Amy'. And remember, put yer 'and up if ye wanna say somethin'."

"You...!"

"Ah?" Amy raised an eyebrow.

Seething, Lord Patrick Day, proud descendant of a long line of noble gentlemen, raised a hand.

Amy gave a gracious nod. "Ye may speak, pupil."

"You are an intolerable shrew!"

"Not bad. Not bad at all." Amy nodded. "Yer insults are improvin'. Of course we'll still 'ave ta work on yer vocabulary a little bit, but as insults go, that was a nice first effort."

And she strode into the drawing room.

Angeline smiled up at her brother. "I like her."

Then she followed Amy.

Would it really be so bad to abandon a bunch of innocent kidnapped children? Lord Patrick thought to himself. The bloody little bastards seem to be vicious enough on the playground! They can take care of themselves, can't they?

In front of his eyes flashed the scared face of a certain tenacious little girl.

No. No, they cannot.

Sighing, he squared his shoulders and followed the two ladies towards his doom.

***

By the time he had entered the room, Amy had put up a small, portable blackboard on the mantelpiece. That in itself was worrying enough, but what was far more worrisome was that his little sister was still in the room, looking at her attentively.

"What, pray, are you doing here?" he enquired.

"That ain't no bloody business of yours!" Angeline exclaimed.

His Lordship's jaw dropped.

"Bravo!" Amy clapped. "Very good! See?" She turned towards Lord Patrick. "She's a great student! Ye're already behind."

"How tragic." Eyes glittering with deadly intent, Lord Patrick Day stalked forward, grabbed his little sister by the arm, pulled her up and pushed her towards the door. "Out!" he commanded. "Now!"

"But I wanna know what ye're up to, brother! I wanna learn—!"

"And I want to still have a head after I next meet with our dear mother. Therefore, what you 'wanna', is not relevant in the least!"

"That ain't fair!"

"Out! Out, before you are completely corrupted!"

Propelling her into the corridor, he slammed the door behind her, and then turned around to fix his searing gaze on Amy. "Two minutes! I leave you alone with her two minutes, and you...how did you do it?"

She smiled. "I'm an amazin' teacher. Now sit."

Was it a coincidence she gave out a command normally used for disobedient little puppies? To judge by the look on her face, Lord Patrick highly doubted it. Still, he took a seat on the sofa.

"Where—" he started—and cut off, when Amy raised an eyebrow.

Taking a deep breath, he lifted a hand.

"Ye may speak," his teacher magnanimously granted.

"Where did you obtain that, pray?" He gestured towards the blackboard. "Or are you going to tell me that you regularly visit the orphanages to teach proper pronunciation?"

"Na, but da nuns from St Catherine's do." She smirked. "Imagine 'ow pleased dey were when I told 'em I was gonna give up me wicked ways and spend me days teachin' da helpless and ignorant. Dey gave me dis blackboard, and plenty of chalk ta boot!"

Lord Patrick had caught only one part of that little speech. "Teaching the helpless and ignorant?"

"Aye. That would be ye."

His Lordship's aristocratic eyebrow twitched. "I had surmised as much."

"Spiffin'! A smart pupil. Now, let's get started, shall we?" Turning towards the blackboard, Miss Amy started scribbling. It took her a while, seeing as she had to inconspicuously look up some of the letters in a book she just happened to bring along, called Spelling for Beginners. Finally, she stepped away from the blackboard, and tapped it with a pointer she seemed to have fashioned from reed. "Read dis, please."

Squinting, Lord Patrick leaned forward. "Chicken foot, squiggle squiggle, worm, chicken foot?"

Amy sent him a dark look, rubbed away the pseudo-writing, and tried again. "All right. Now read!"

Lord Patrick cleared his throat. "Horrifying how the hounds and herrings howl here at home, Henry?" He glanced at her. "A tongue twister?"

"Na." Amy shook her head. "An H dropper. Speak after me: 'orrifying 'ow da 'ounds and 'errings 'owl 'ere at 'ome, 'enry."

"Herrings," Patrick said in a very dignified voice, "cannot howl."

"But Errings can," Amy shot back. "Cockney fish are talented."

He narrowed his eyes. "I suppose you would know."

Amy's eyes narrowed even more. "I see yer insult skills are improving."

"Yes. But they're still nothing compared to your skills in torturing language." He pulled a face. "Errings?"

"Aye."

"That sounds horrible!"

"No," Amy corrected, "'orrible."

His Lordship took a deep breath. Deep inside, his Oxford alumnus soul cried out in protest, yet he tried to ignore his inner turmoil and squared his shoulders. This was necessary! Brutal, but necessary! Editors of the Oxford Dictionary, forgive me. He took another deep breath, then opened his mouth.

"'orrifying 'ow da 'ounds and herrings—"

"'errings!" Miss Amy tapped the side of the blackboard with her pointer. "'errings!"

"Why, yes of course." One corner of Lord Patrick's mouth twitched. "How could I make such an obvious mistake?"

"Don't ask me." Her lips spread into smile. One that is too darn mesmerizing, curse her! "Maybe ye're just a 'opeless block'ead."

"Why, thank you, you 'orrible 'ussy!"

That way, the lesson continued, and slowly, a horrifying realization overcame Lord Patrick Day: he was actually enjoying himself. Sitting here, trading h-less insults with a prostitute was actually the most enjoyable time he had spent with a woman since...

How long exactly?

How come he couldn't remember? Surely, there were more interesting, elegant, intelligent and better-bred women out there in the world than this bloody woman with bewitching green eyes who seemed to take pleasure in befouling the goddamn bloody beautiful British language!

Right?

"'opeless 'alfwit!"

"'amsterbrain!"

"'umongous 'alfwit!"

"'orrific..." Patrick hesitated. "Damnation! It's more difficult than I thought to find insults starting with h."

"'ore?" Amy suggested with a grin. "That one, by the way, should have been rather obvious."

"Except," Patrick pointed out, "that, in fact, the word does not start with an h, but with w."

"'o da 'ell gives a crap?"

"You should, in case you ever have to provide a curriculum vitae."

"Well, since I ain't got a clue what that is, I most definitely don't give a crap."

She grinned.

He grinned back.

Then, they both suddenly noticed what they were doing and straightened abruptly, the smiles vanishing from their faces.

Her expression once more the perfect mask of a grade school teacher, Amy tapped the board. "'orrifying 'ow da 'ounds and 'errings 'owl 'ere at 'ome, 'enry?"

Patrick stubbornly met her gaze. "'orrifying 'ow da 'ounds and 'errings 'owl 'ere at 'ome, 'enry."

Over the next few hours, Lord Patrick studied like a maniac. And, contrary to what he had expected, he was actually learning useful things. Not things he would admit in front of his old classmates from Oxford, but still, useful things. How to properly curse at street vendor. The names of all the big London street gangs. The difference between a dollymop—a part-time, amateurish hussy—and a toffer—a real, professional lady of the night.

"And which are you?" he asked Amy. Somehow, the question came out more intensely than he had intended it to.

She raised her chin. "Da latter, of course! I'm a professional! Do ye wanna insult me?"

Lord Patrick couldn't help himself. The corner of his mouth twitched. "It wouldn't be the first time."

An answering grin flashed across her face. "Aye, it wouldn't."

The smiles remained for a few moments—until they realized.

Damnation! It happened again!

"Ehem." Clearing her throat, Amy adjusted an imaginary pair of glasses on her nose. "Let's continue the lesson, shall we?"

They continued well into the afternoon. By the time Amy finished and wiped the last characters off the blackboard, His Lordship's noble head was thrumming, and he yearned for a break and a cup of tea.

"Ahhh!" Stretching himself, Lord Patrick rose from his arm chair. "Finally, done!"

"Done?" Amy raised an eyebrow. "'o says we're done?"

"But..." Confused, His Lordship glanced at the empty blackboard.

"Oh." Stepping towards him, Amy waved her hand dismissively towards the blackboard. "I ain't talkin' about dat. Don't worry. Da 'ard part is over."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Now," Amy continued, stepping towards him with a charming smile, "comes da soft part."

Lord Patrick frowned. "The soft part? Pardon, but I don't quite understaaargh!"

Clutching his groin, he fell backwards—but too late to avoid the second jab of Amy's knee.

"Nnnng!"

"My, my. Ye're almost as good at moaning as a professional."

His Lordship's fists clenched and unclenched—but he didn't dare move them away from his crotch, just in case. "W-what the heck w-was that?"

The damned woman scrutinized him critically, like a teacher would a promising student who had just disappointed her. "Dat was somethin' ye should 'ave bin able ta dodge. Remember 'ow ye said ye didn't need ta learn any fightin' from me?"

"Yes," he wheezed. "A statement which, in hindsight, I'm beginning to regret."

"About time." Cocking her head, Amy glanced down at him. "I've gotta say, I knew I'd knock ye down, but I didn't think it'd be dis easy. Didn't you learn anything at that fancy school of yours?"

"Yes," he growled. "I learned it is ungentlemanly to punch a lady. I'm seriously beginning to doubt the curriculum."

"Excellent!" She beamed down at him. "Understandin' ye know nothin' is the first step to learnin'."

What the...! Did this woman actually just dare to quote Plato after kicking him in the bollocks?

"Well then..." Grunting, His Lordship pushed himself to his feet, flexed his powerful hands and raised his clenched fists. "Consider me well on my way to being an excellent student! And since I must learn anew, let's dispense with the not-hurting-women-rule that gentlemen usually need to observe for now, shall we?"

Amy's eyes glittered, and a corner of her mouth curled up. "Dat's fine by me."

***

Amy followed Patrick as he led her through the house.

"Where should we do this?" Amy enquired, curious about where in this noble house one could go to bash each other's heads in.

"Let's find a place with a soft floor," Patrick said. "My old bedroom should serve for what I have in mind."

Amy's knees nearly buckled. She stared at the man's back and started counting.

About three seconds after the words had left his mouth, he froze, and slowly turned around, whereupon he came face-to-face with Amy's insidious grin.

"That is not what I was referring to," Patrick growled.

"My, my..." Amy was hardly able to keep from bursting into laughter. "Naughty, naughty, Mr 'aughty."

Patrick's eyes flashed, but he didn't say a word in reply. Marching down the corridor, he led her into a large room. The single bed in the corner took up only a small portion of the space. In the middle of the room stretched a big, empty space, and on the floor lay a thick, fluffy carpet.

"Ah." Wiggling her eyebrows. Amy grinned at him. "So dis is the place where we..." She let the sentence trail off suggestively.

Patrick narrowed his eyes at her. "I won't hurt you. Much."

"'ow gentlemanly of ye." Cocking her head, Amy watched as Patrick took up a standard boxing position. He raised a finger.

"On three?"

Amy nodded. "All right."

"Very well. One..." He raised a finger. "Two..." He raised another finger—

Amy's foot lashed out and stamped down on his.

"Ow!"

"First lesson," Amy told him with a sweet smile. "Lie like da devil, and strike like a snake!"

"You little...!"

Rushing towards her, Patrick grabbed her by the lapels with his right hand. In a flash, Amy wrapped her right hand around his wrist, slid her left arm beneath the right one and levered.

"Agh! What the—"

Patrick stared at his suddenly-broken grip, flabbergasted. Most likely, Amy hypothesized, that was why he didn't see the knee coming.

"Oouph!"

"'ello stomach, my name is knee," Amy said joyfully. Patrick, for some reason, seem to share her joy. He didn't even reply, the ill-mannered bugger! Instead, he was bent over gasping. Well...since he was so kind as to bow before her, she should reciprocate with equal courtesy, right?

Grabbing him by his blond mane of hair, Amy tugged him forward and sent him flying over her outstretched leg. With a heavy thud, he crashed onto the carpet, and the floor creaked.

"Deary, deary me." Amy shook my head. "I wonder what Angeline might think we're up to..."

A large hand grabbed her ankle and pulled, hard.

'ell yes! So 'e's got some fight in 'im after all!

Amy landed on her back and, before she could roll away, he was above her, slamming her arms to the ground on either side of her.

"Give it up, Miss," he growled, his face full of arrogance. "You might know a dirty trick or two, but a woman will never be a match for a real man! There's nothing you can do that could best me or—"

That was when Amy wrapped her legs around his waist.

His Lordship's words ended in a gurgle.

"Ye were sayin?" Amy enquired, waggling her hips.

"You...that isn't...you can't...!"

"Aye?"

"You cannot do this! We've got to stop this! This isn't fighting! This...!"

Patrick tried to rise. Only then did he seem to notice something very important about the position of Amy's legs. They were hooked into each other behind his back, one leg pressing down heavily on his lower back. He couldn't move an inch away from her, no matter how hard he tried.

"Dis ain't fighting?" Amy grinned. "I beg ta differ."

"Let me up!"

"Ye are up." Shoving herself away from the floor with one hand, she rolled them both around and, in the next moment, she was on top of him, straddling him. "And now ye're down."

Leaning forward in one swift move, she pressed an arm against Patrick's throat. The message was clear.

If I wanted to, I could crush you. I won.