Their wheels crunching on the gravel path, the carriages rolled out through the wrought iron gate and off the duke's castle grounds. None of them spoke much on the way back. Only when the rattling of the coach decreased in pace, and Patrick seemed to realize how slowly they were moving, did he break the silence.

"What is the matter?" He frowned. "Why are we going so slow?"

Amy raised an eyebrow.

"Jo, Flo, Leona, Grace and Aggy are at the manor," she deigned to point out. "And so is Aggy's knife. I'm sure dey'll all be very interested ta 'ear where we went off to and why we left dem be'ind. Would ye rather arrive while dey're still awake, or after dey're asleep?"

Patrick's back stiffened, his expression reminding Amy of what a street thug might look like after receiving a dinner invitation from a serial killer and gourmet cannibal. "Ah. I see. Slower it is, then."

Right then, Amy seriously considered ordering the coachman to drive the horses into a gallop. From underneath her horrific excuse for a headdress, Amy glared up at him.

His clear blue eyes, that looked as if he'd never done anything wrong in his life!

His proud, noble profile.

His tall figure that just had to bloody tower over her!

Wouldn't it be just peachy having him explain all the pesky details to those ruthless little rugrats? By the time the girls were finished with him, what was left of His Lordship would probably fit in a matchbox, and Flo could even lend her one.

Ha! That would teach him to waste all his time on women...! That would teach him to—

***

Lord Patrick Day was not entirely sure what was going on. To all intents and purposes, they had just successfully escaped the villain's lair and were now heading to their temporary home. From any reasonable perspective, they were now safely out of danger, and on their way to a delicious meal and a comfortable bed. So...why, by George, did he feel as if he had just entered the den of a wounded lioness and his life was in peril like never before?

Peril that appeared to be coming from the corner of the carriage, from where a rather murderous aura seemed to be radiating.

Removing his gaze from the dark, nocturnal countryside rushing past outside, he turned towards Miss Amy Weston, who was currently trying to incinerate him with her gaze.

"It may possibly be simply my imagination, but..."

"Aye?"

"You seem rather...out of sorts. Did I perchance do something to earn your ire?"

"Out of sorts?" She showed him her teeth in what would only be called a "smile" by a psychopathic clown with homicidal tendencies. "Why would I be out of sorts? After all, all ye did da whole night was dance. And dance. And dance!"

"Um...yes?" His Lordship answered, wondering whether, in the time since last he had checked, "dance" had been classified as a curse by the linguistics department at Oxford University. By the way she pronounced the word, it certainly should have.

"With lots of different women. Lots. And lots. And lots!"

"Yes?"

A slight frown marring his brow, he inspected her face, trying to figure out what she was saying. Was she...was she trying to compliment him on his excellent intelligence-gathering?

Yes, that was probably it!

"No need to praise me," he told her, sending her his most charming, magnanimous smile. "I only did what was right and proper,"

"Right and...ye bloody son of a—"

What came next out of her mouth, Lord Patrick was certain, could most definitely be defined as insulting. Very, very, very, very much so. For a while, he simply sat there having his ears blistered. When the flood of expletives finally subsided, his best friend leaned over towards him, a feces-eating grin spread over his face.

"It's official. You've really got a way with the ladies."

"Titus?"

"Yes?"

"Maybe you should become a devil's advocate after all. Why don't you go. As in, go to hell. Right now."

"Nah." Titus waved his words away. "The booze down there probably sucks."

In answer to this, Lord Patrick gave the reply that was often most successful at silencing his inane friend, which was a forceful elbow to the ribs. Ignoring the gurgling from Titus's direction, he once more turned his gaze towards Miss Amy Weston. She still seemed a little...put out with him, for whatever reason. But in God's name, why? He had done his job, just like everybody else, and he had done it quite well, thank you very much! After years spent navigating the ballrooms and banquets of London high society, if there was one thing he was good at, it was getting what he wanted from women. Whether that was political support, information, or simply for them to remove themselves from his presence as speedily as possible, anything could be his with just a smile and a meaningful wink.

Why was he suddenly made to feel as if this was a bad thing?

For the next ten or fifteen minutes, His Honourable Lordship decided to keep his lips tightly shut, while Amy continued searing him with her gaze. Slowly but surely he was coming to a realization: her staring at him probably was not caused by her admiration for his investigative skills.

Shortly after he had arrived at that startling conclusion, he glanced out the window to see an imposing silhouette towering above them in the evening moonlight. Not quite as massive as Arrendyle's castle, but still, a black monolith in the growing darkness. A tall wall surrounded the manor, and two guards stood flanking the wrought iron gate.

"Do you think the young ones are asleep already?" Lord Patrick enquired with trepidation.

"I'm sure they are." Titus nodded earnestly. "There's probably no danger of running into them whatsoever. It'll be perfectly safe." Then he unlocked the door and held it open for his best friend. "After you, Your Lordship."

"You," Lord Patrick said and leapt out of the coach, "are such a good friend."

"I do what I can."

Not bothering to answer, Lord Patrick strode ahead towards the two gate guards. They looked more than a little apprehensive at the uninvited late night guest striding out of the darkness. But he was Lord Patrick Day, after all. He was confident he would soon be able to put them at ease and—

"Good morning, Sir," one of the two liveried footmen cut through his thoughts, giving His Lordship a haughty look. "Is there any particular reason you have halted your carriage in front of the gate? If you want to request an audience with Lord Wetherston, I'm afraid you shall have to return once you have made an appointment with the steward."

Lord Patrick blinked. "You want me to make an appointment?"

The man frowned. "Yes, Sir."

"An appointment. With the steward."

"Are you deaf?" The footman waved a hand. "Shoo! Have you looked at the time of day? Whoever you are, you're lucky I don't chase you away."

Slowly but surely, Lord Patrick felt heat rising inside him. And, this being a typically lovely English-weather day of grey clouds and dreary drizzle, he did not believe it was because he might be suffering from heatstroke.

"Do you know," he enquired, enunciating each word carefully, "to whom you are speaking?"

"Hm? Why would I care? You—oh!"

An expression of sudden realization spread over the footman's face, followed by fear.

"Exactly." Lord Patrick nodded.

"F-forgive me!"

"Well, if you apologize sincerely enough..."

"Forgive me, Miss Weston!"

"Huh?"

Abruptly, Lord Patrick Day, Peer of the Realm and Knight of the Order of the Garter, found himself being shouldered aside. He turned just in time to see the footman rush towards a certain lady of the night and bow deeply and repeatedly. "Forgive me! I'm sorry, I did not recognize you at first in your, um...unusual gown! Please, if you are dissatisfied with my treatment of your servant—"

"Servant?" Lord Patrick quietly enquired, his hand slowly travelling down to the pocket where he kept his duelling pistol. Where were a duelling second and witness when you needed them? More importantly, what was wrong with this household? Did they often have guests show up who dressed up as nursemaids, with their servants dressed in fine apparel? Did they get visited by crossdressing women as well?

"Oh, don't worry." Grinning like a loon, Titus stepped forward. Grabbing the footman, he righted him and patted him on the back, sending Lord Patrick a smile over the man's shoulder. "I'm sure the 'servant' doesn't mind at all, does he?"

How would you like this "servant" to serve you a gentlemanly fist into your face?

But His Lordship didn't speak this out loud. Because his mind was still too busy shouting What the blazes is going on here? Am I dreaming? If so, Morpheus had better hurry up and get his act together! This couldn't be happening, could it?

Lord Patrick very much felt like grabbing the insolent lackeys by the neck and shaking some sense into their lowly brains. One person seemed to be enjoying the situation, though.

"Miss Amy," he growled, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Are you smiling?"

"Smiling?" She raised an eyebrow. "People treating ye like dirt because they think ye're some lowly commoner servant? Why would I be smilin' at something like dat?"

Lord Patrick's finely tuned rhetorical senses seemed to detect a certain measure of sarcasm. But before he could point that out, the other one of the gate guards—curse their lack of clear vision for true nobility—bowed to Amy and her fiendish friends, and gestured at the now open gate, towards the manor. "This way, please, ladies and gentlemen."

They were led through the park and into the manor, where another servant awaited them and bowed—once again, incidentally, not to him. What in Debrett's name was the matter with these people?

"Welcome back, Lady Wetherston. I hope you enjoyed your night?"

"Well...dat might be an exaggeration."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Your Ladyship. His Lordship and the children are already abed. Would you like me to wake them and—"

"No!" Lady Wetherston rushed forward just a moment before Patrick himself could grab the man by the collar to stop him. "Ehem...I mean...that won't be necessary, Jennings. No need to disturb those poor, exhausted children so late at night, ahaha. Far better to let them sleep."

The servant blinked. "Well...as you wish, Your Ladyship. Anything else I could do? Will you and your guests be turning in for the night? Should I prepare a nightcap?"

Oh Lord, yes! A nightcap would be nice. A good night's sleep would be even better.

But I can't have either. Not yet.

The night's business was far from over. Signalling at "Lady" Wetherston, he nodded towards the French windows leading out into the garden. The only place not infested with hordes of eager-eared servants.

"Um...no, thanks, Jennings." Catching his eye, the lady of the house nodded. "No need. We already ate some buffet at da ball. Just go and 'ave yer own dinner while we're outside, will ye?"

"Outside?" The servant blinked, confused.

"Aye, I...I suddenly feel da urge for a little walk in the moonlight. No need for anyone to accompany me. I'll be back in a jiffy!"

And, before the servant could find any reason to object to his lady haunting the park at night, she pushed open the French windows and stepped out into the night.

"Hm...now dat I think about it, I'd like a nice stroll in da fresh air as well," Amy voiced her opinion, casting a dark look in the direction of Lord Patrick. "Away from certain people."

And she marched outside.

That feeling he'd had that she wasn't staring at him due to admiration? Yes, that had very likely been correct.

"The garden has flowers," Karim announced with a look on his face that made it clear he would decapitate anyone who would dare to object. "I like flowers. I shall go outside now."

And he stomped out of the manor.

"I like flowers, too!" Giving everyone a broad smile, Jenny followed him. "Cheerio! Till later!"

"I thoroughly detest flowers," Titus sighed. "But, heck, maybe I'll find a bottle of wine growing on a bush or something..."

He trudged outside, leaving behind Lord Patrick, and an increasingly confused servant.

"What...just happened?"

"Don't worry." One corner of his mouth twitching, Lord Patrick patted the man on the shoulder. "Once you've been a servant as long as I have, you'll get used to the lords' and ladies' capricious ways."

And, turning, he followed Titus into the garden. By the time he caught up with the others, they had already gathered around a tree trunk behind a few conveniently placed bushes, shielding them from any curious eyes inside the manor house.

It's time.

"So," Lord Patrick said, gesturing to the empty surface of the trunk. "How about we share what we have discovered, ladies and gentlemen?"

"As much as I 'ate ta agree with a certain someone," Amy stated, "'e's actually got a point. So...take it out, boys, as da nympho said to 'er dinner guests."

Giving her a dirty look, Karim reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper with several scribbles and notes, and throwing it onto the trunk. "Here. As previously discussed. The equipment, weapons, numbers and likely capabilities of Arrendyle's guards."

Patrick had to admit, the man knew what he was doing. Lady Wetherston was next. She reached into her pock—

No.

That wasn't her pocket.

Unless ladies usually had pockets at the inside of their dress's neckline, that is. Patrick felt his face heat.

"What?" She raised an eyebrow. "Dresses ain' got half a dozen pockets everywhere, like gents' trousers do." Reaching out, she placed the folded paper onto the tree stump. "Info about Arrendyle's schedule." She winked. "Freshly pressed and perfumed. With da right view and some...encouragement, da servants and male guests were quite eager ta share."

Titus reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a...key?

Amy raised an eyebrow.

"The key into the duke's wine cellar." Defensively, he raised his hands. "Hey, he drinks, doesn't he? We might need to drug his wine. Or better yet, steal it."

Nobody bothered to reply to this. Instead, everyone's gaze moved on to Jenny, who pulled out a piece of paper. But, unlike everyone else's papers, when she unfolded it, there were no notes, no numbers. Instead, what became visible was a hand-drawn map.

"It's rough," she admitted, "but it's all we got for now."

They all leaned over the map, inspecting it.

"Hm..." murmured Lady Wetherston. "Not bad. Really not bad. Patrol schedules? Numbers of guard teams? Aye...lots of good stuff 'ere. Lots of good stuff."

They all gazed at the map for a moment longer—then turned towards Lord Patrick in synchronization. Five pairs of eyes bored into him. One gaze in particular burned into him with rather uncomfortable intensity.

"Well?" Amy demanded. "Ye mingled among da invited ladies da whole night. A lot of ladies."

"Did 'e, now?" the vicar's wife asked sweetly.

Lady Wetherston cracked her knuckles.

Why did Lord Patrick Day suddenly feel as if three lady gorgons' glares were trying to petrify him? His eyes flicked from Miss Amy to the vicar's wife to Lady Wetherston.

"Surely," Amy continued, a saccharin smile on her face, "ye've got something ta show for it. Unless ye were...otherwise occupied?"

Reaching up, Lord Patrick adjusted his lapels. "I...did not make any notes," he admitted.

"Ha!"

"In case I did not mention this before, I was dancing at the time," he stated, facing the three gorgons like the ancient hero, Perseus, had back in the day. Though he wished he didn't have to go without the magical shield that carried divine protection. Judging by the look on Amy's face, that would come in very useful right about now. "Dancing. For which one usually requires both hands and feet. That leaves little room for noting down the result of espionage."

"Details shmetails!" Amy sent him another glare. "All of us leastways did somethin' useful! What did ye do, with yer vaunted pride and honour? Wasn't it ye who dragged me inta dis whole thing ta begin with? Pretendin' ta be some kind of knight in shinin' armor wantin' ta do da right thing, and now, all ye do is fritter away yer time flirtin' with brainless puffed up wenches!"

It might have been just Lord Patrick's imagination, but somehow, the reason she was upset did not lie in his supposed lack of espionage skills.

"Now listen here, woman!" he told her, fixing her with a stern gaze. "You cannot be serious! Do you honestly think I did what I did because I enjoyed the company of those women?"

"Oh, so ye prefer men den, do ye?"

"I think we'd best discuss our plans tomorrow," someone Lord Patrick was going to get back at sooner rather than later whispered from behind him. "For now, why don't we leave da two of dem alone?"

"Agreed." Karim nodded. "A tactical retreat is warranted."

"Oh, I don't know," Titus's amused gaze flicked between the glaring Amy and Lord Patrick Day, who right about now was really questioning why again he had picked this fellow as his best friend. "Why don't we stay and watch the show?"

Show? What the blazes did he mean? Why was Miss Amy I-couldn't-care-less-about-you Weston suddenly this angry? And...was she trembling? And why on earth were her two best friends glaring at him as if he had recently committed mass murder?

"We'll go!" Grabbing Titus from behind, Lady Wetherston began to drag him away. Karim and Jenny made to follow, when—

"Don't bother!" Whirling around, Miss Amy Weston stormed off into the darkness, wearing on her face an expression of anger, anxiety and...pain?

A light lit up in Lord Patrick's mind. Could it...could it possibly be that she...

All of a sudden, Lord Patrick Day did not feel irritation anymore, let alone anger. He felt something strange shifting deep inside of him.

Glancing from left to right, he saw everyone else standing where they were, frozen.

"Should...should I go after her?" Jenny asked hesitantly, glancing at Lady Wetherston. "I could—"

"No need," Lord Patrick cut in, turning away from them to the spot where Amy's figure had last been seen. For a long moment, he just stared into the shadows—then he came to a decision.

"Excuse me," he said, bowing to the assembled people. "I think I will be going for a little bit of a walk myself."

Then, without waiting for the reactions of the people behind him, he strode out of the clearing and into night.

***

Amy stormed through the shadowy park, leaves brushing her face and twigs scratching against her shoulders. Darn blasted countryside! Couldn't those bloody trees grow a few lanterns instead of all those dratted leaves?

Her boot caught on a root and she stumbled, almost landing face-first in a pile of deer shit.

Crap!

Literally.

"Damn bloody stinkin' rubbish 'eap of a shitplace!"

Growling, Amy raised her fist and punched a nearby tree stump—which, unfortunately, turned out to actually be a rock, veiled in shadow.

"Ow! Owowowowow! Dammit!"