The expression on Lord Patrick's face was thunderous. For some reason, he appeared not to be happy with her last few words.

"Pardon me, everyone..." Patrick's eyes glittered darkly. "Would you mind if Amy and I had a little talk in private?"

"What if I said yes?" Jenny enquired. "I love listenin' in on supposedly private talks."

"Then I'm afraid that, this time, I shall have to disappoint you. Remove yourselves. Now!"

"Oh, come on, everyone!" Cora grabbed Jenny by the ear and gestured to the others. "Give da two doveturds some room, will ye?"

"Doveturds?" Titus enquired, sounding intrigued.

"Cockney rhyming slang for lovebirds," Cora explained, helpful as always.

Titus grinned, and Amy had a feeling Lord Patrick Day had just gained a new nickname. To judge by the look on His Lordship's face, he had realized this as well.

"Privacy?" he suggested once more, teeth clenched and one aristocratic eyebrow raised.

Titus gave a flourishing bow. "As you command, Lord Doveturd."

Then, before Patrick could take his head off with a silver table knife, he gave a little wave and, with the help of Cora, maneuvered the others towards the door. Just before the door closed behind them, Cora leaned over towards a feet-dragging Jenny, and Amy heard a whisper that sounded suspiciously like "We can always peep through da secret 'oles cut into da portraits!"

She decided not to tell Patrick. She'd probably misheard anyway.

Finally, with a soft click, the door of the room closed, and only two people remained inside,

Cocking her head, Amy gazed at Lord Patrick Day.

"So, what's dis about ye 'aving a secret 'usband?" she enquired. "Is da stuff ye two get up ta so scandalous ye gotta talk ta me in private? Do tell. I must say, I'm very interested in—"

"Amy."

Her name on his lips.

That was all it took to shut her up. She blinked repeatedly as he reached out across the table and gently took her hand in his.

Darn 'im, darn 'im, darn 'im! What da 'ell does 'e think 'e's doing? And why da 'ell is it workin'?

"What I meant," His Most Noble Lordship told her, "is that we should get those women away from here. As far away as possible, as fast as possible. This area is not a safe one, as last night's events should have undoubtedly proven. Those women...those girls...We cannot let them get hurt. They deserve better." Tightening his grip on her hand, he gave her a smile, his azure eyes so incredibly warm and kind. "I will not let anything like that happen again. Not to a woman in my care."

Amy's heart leapt.

Dammit! 'ow da 'ell did 'e just manage ta sound romantic, while tellin' me we need ta take fifty 'alf-naked women 'ome with us? All for my sake, of course, and in a good cause! What kind of bloody man could pull dat off?

The answer was pretty simple, really.

A good one.

Goddammit!

And what, pray, was the worst thing about all of this?

He'd sworn to protect. Sure, he'd spoken of protecting women in general, like some stupidly chivalrous knight straight from King Arthur's court, ready to defend all fair maidens against the villains of the world, but...

He'd sworn to protect, holding her hand. Looking into her eyes. Without the slightest trace of the anger he'd displayed moments earlier. And, she realized, no matter with how much anger this man glared at her, she never felt a hint of threat on his part, nor a hint of fear on hers. For the very first time in her life she felt safe with a man.

And because of it, she was blushing. She, the most scintillatingly shameless vixen of Devil's Acre, was bloody blushing!

"Aye." She finally nodded, quite sure they weren't talking about the same thing as her face still burned. "Ye're right. We absolutely can't let dat 'appen again."

Stepping around the table, Patrick moved towards her. His azure eyes intent on hers, he grabbed hold of her other hand.

"And do you know what else we cannot let happen again?" he demanded, his tone commanding.

"N-no."

Gadsbudlikins! Now she was stuttering, too?

"We cannot," he told her, "I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger like that again! Good God, woman! Do you have any idea how I felt, standing at the bottom of that tower?"

"Like Rapunzel roleplayin' as Prince Charming?" she suggested.

"I am serious!" Taking another step forward, he tightened his hold on her hands. Not painfully, really. Nearly, but not quite. It almost felt...warm. As if he was holding on so hard because he didn't want to let go. "Regardless of what we will do now, regardless of what the others say—promise me you won't be that reckless ever again! Promise me that there will be no 'next time', no putting yourself in so damn much danger again! If something happened to you, I would never forgive myself!"

"Why?" she raised a challenging eyebrow, staring straight into his eyes. "Because ye're a gentleman and I'm a poor, 'elpless little damsel dat needs yer protection?"

"No," He told her. "Because you are you."

Amy felt herself blush. Again!

"Now, promise," he repeated, his gaze intense. "Promise you won't do anything like that again!"

"I...I promise."

And now her blasted mouth was spouting things without meaning to! What the hell?

"Unless it's absolutely necessary," she quickly qualified. "Or useful. Or I bloody feel like it."

"Thank you very much." One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Most gracious of you, My Lady."

And her blush deepened. Again! Dammit, why was she acting this way?

It's da air! Yes, it's gotta be da blasted country air! Da others were right. It's 'igh time ta 'ightail it back to da city.

"All right, now dat's taken care off, let's call da others back in," she suggested. "For now, why don't we go back ta London, and bring da girls and ladies with us?"

Lord Patrick's mouth twitched again. "Concerned for the, ehem...mental health of the women, like your dear friends, Miss Cora and Jenny?"

"Of course," Amy told him, her hands folded in front of her in a saintly manner. "So very concerned. Besides," she added with a smile, gazing out of the window in the direction of a certain smoking castle with a wicked sparkle in her eye, "I've got a feeling getting out of this merry little place for a while would be a smart move."

***

Ronald Harrington, Duke of Arrendyle, sat in his coach, taking a sip from the wine in his hand. The wine tasted delightfully delicious. Even more so because he knew it was not the only delicious thing he could look forward to.

"How long until we reach the castle?" he called out.

"About 'alf an hour, Yer Grace," the coachman answered from up above. "Twenty minutes if I push da 'orses."

"Then push them. Push them hard."

"Aye, My Lord!"

The duke's mouth twitched, whether in amusement or irritation, he didn't quite know himself. Revels with his friends, the like of which he'd just returned from, were always quite...invigorating. Too bad they lived so far away. On the other hand, the long journey back home allowed him all the more time to look forward to the precious morsels that awaited him back at his castle. Ah...that would be a true delicacy. A treasure to which the glass of well-aged wine in his hand could not even be compared. As always, youth was so much more tempting than old age.

The things he would do to them...

Images of ropes, knives and dripping wax candles drifted past his inner eye in a kaleidoscope of wicked wonder. He even thought he could feel the handle of the knife in his hand, smell the smoke of the burning candle in the ai—

Wait a minute!

Putting away the wine glass, he sniffed. He could smell smoke! And not the faint whiffs rising from a candle either, but real, thick smoke, as if someone were having a bonfire outside.

Outside?

He growled. That was his land, dammit! If some lowly peasant filth thought they could make merry on his very own property, they were very much mistaken!

"Coachman!" he barked. "What's going on out there?"

In answer, he received not a single sound.

"Coachman? Coachman! Answer me, dammit! What is going on?"

"Y-yer Grace..." came the trembling voice of the driver from outside, "I th-think ye should see for yerself."

Arrendyle was about to curse the impertinent cur for daring to disobey his orders, when he realized something. The sound of hoofbeats from outside had ceased, and the carriage had stopped swaying. Had that fool actually gone so far as to just let the coach roll to a stop? Was he trying to get beaten within an inch of his life?

With a snarl, he pushed open the door and, hurling the wineglass into the ditch at the side of the road, leapt out onto the road. Whirling around, he raised a threatening finger, ready to rip into the coachman, only to freeze at the sight of the man's face. The driver's bafoonish visage was ashen, his mouth hanging wide open, with no sign of closing any time soon. He was staring right over the crest of the hill ahead, far into the distance. Once again, Arrendyle could not help but take note of the clouds of smoke billowing towards him. Without wanting to, his gaze was drawn to where the road disappeared over the hill, and what lay beyond. What he could not see, but the driver high up on the box, to judge by his face, most definitely could.

An ominous feeling of dread rose within the Duke of Arrendyle. What the...? Dread? Things like that were not supposed to happen! Not to him, Ronald Harrington, the Duke of Arrendyle! He was supposed to be the one to inspire dread in others! Rage flooding through him, he strode towards the crest of the hill. There was nothing and no one who could make him feel fear, or even the slightest discomfort! Nothing whatsoev—

"Agh! Grrk!"

Coughing and hacking, he nearly choked on the cloud of acrid smoke wafting over the top of the hill.

Tarnation! This wasn't right! This was no farmer's bonfire! His legs started moving faster and faster and, as he dashed up the road to the very top, before him opened the view of the valley and...

His mouth dropped open.

Freezing in his steps, he stared.