Lord Patrick Day was not in a good mood. During the last few weeks, his worldview had been turned completely upside down, and he did not like the ugly underside that was now facing upwards. He had seen nothing but slavery, suffering and bloody sex dungeons, except...

Her.

He liked her.

In fact, he liked her too dang much—which was the problem! He was a noble peer of the realm! He knew his responsibilities! He had a duty to his line, and that duty did not include spending his time thinking about a woman who was still happily accepting hourly pay for her services.

Repeat...he was not in a good mood. And he was aching for someone to take it out on. Ideally, he would get his hands on some of the disreputable persons behind this whole mess. But, lacking those, he would settle for the representative of Her Majesty's justice in front of him.

Wouldn't something like that be horribly dishonourable? a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Well, ordinarily, yes.

Except for one thing: this fellow had volunteered. For a good cause. Wasn't he a nice man?

"Hands above your head!" the volunteer punching bag hollered. "Now!"

"Shit!" The fence behind Lord Patrick gave a low hiss. "Ye two blew me cover, ye idiots!"

Time to start. After all, I have to play my role well, right?

Whirling around, he punched the fence in the stomach and pushed him to the floor.

"Stay down!" he hissed to the stunned man. "I've got dis!"

Then, whirling to face Pritchard once again, he vaulted over the counter, holding the banknotes he'd gotten from Amy high into the air, clearly visible.

"I ain't surrendering nothin', copper!" he snarled, with a truly amazingly atrocious accent, if he said so himself. "If dat old 'unchback can't stop me from robbin' 'im blind, den neither can ye!"

"That's what you think, villain!" the inspector proclaimed. "I shall stop you no matter what it tak—umph!"

That was a rough approximation of the sound he made when Lord Patrick Day's fist drove into the inspector's gut and sent him stumbling backwards.

"Good job," His Lordship complimented under his breath. "Excellent acting!"

"Acting? Who says I was acti—argh!"

"Excuse me, you were saying?"

With a growl, the inspector, who truly was giving a magnificent performance in Lord Patrick's humble opinion, swung a punch at his face. Dodging with ease, Patrick closed the distance, grabbed hold of the bulky man and, trapping him in place, drove a rock-hard knee into his groin.

"Arghl!" The inspector exclaimed, collapsing forward. His acting was truly magnificent. Why, one might almost think it was all real. He would really have to thank Amy for those interesting fighting techniques she had taught him. They truly brought the inspector's acting talent to the forefront.

"Here, take dat! And dat!"

"Urgh! You bloody bastard!"

Really, amazing acting talent. Worthy of Shakespearean drama.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw Amy kneel next to the downed hunchback, whispering to him about how he should stay down and play along if he wanted to keep his cover as an innocent robbery victim. He grinned. They did make quite a good team, didn't they?

"Inspector? Inspector, what's wrong?"

The door of the shop flew open, and a young policeman came storming inside. A policeman who, to judge by his face, was completely ignorant of what was going on, and whom Lord Patrick distinctly remembered having been present back at the orphanage incident that started this whole mess. In other words—he knew Lord Patrick's face!

What the heck? Did you leave your brain at home, hanging on your hat stand, Pritchard?

"Hey!" The policeman stared at Patrick. "Aren't you the—"

Wham!

Lord Patrick's fist slammed into the man's jaw. Of course, he felt guilty about it. He definitely did. But it had to be done, right? For the good of humanity, and the good of venting his bad mood.

"Long time no see!" he sneered, in his very best villain voice. "I always regretted I didn't flatten ye at dat bank robbery. Nice ta know I get a second chance!"

Raising his leg above the man rolling on the ground, he gave him a gentle kick, just enough to slam him against the wall and knock him out. That took care of that. Now, as for the remainder...

Turning back around, he faced Pritchard just as the inspector was climbing back to his feet. Pulling aside his coat, Pritchard reached for his revolver, and—

Wham!

"Agh!"

To put it in sportsman's terms:

Knee: 2

Genitals: 0

Those fighting techniques of Amy's really were quite useful indeed.

Taking a step forward, Lord Patrick slammed a punch into the man's liver. The moment he bent over, Patrick threw another punch at his head, sending him sprawling to the ground. He finished up the combination with a nice, solid kick to the gut. And another, for good measure. Then, kneeling over the downed man, he started throwing punches from close quarters.

"Hey!" Pritchard grunted, grabbing him and pulling him closer. "Not so bloody hard!"

Lord Patrick smiled. "Oh, but inspector, it must be realistic."

"Oy! Wait just a minu—"

Wham!

"I truly appreciate your sacrifice," Lord Patrick solemnly told the inspector, raising his fist one final time. "You're a hero for justice."

"You can take your justice and go fu—"

Considering his impeccable upbringing as a gentleman, Lord Patrick could not very well let a hero for justice use such language, could he?

Wham!

And there was silence.

His Lordship nodded, satisfied. Policemen truly were the staunch defenders of law and order, willing to make any sacrifices for the betterment of society.

Climbing to his feet to stand above the two unconscious policemen, Lord Patrick Day, the newest ghastly gangster of the London underworld, glanced over at the hunchback still sprawled on the floor next to the counter.

"Ye can thank me for savin' yer sorry arse later, once ye've picked yer jaw up off the floor," he said, his voice filled with just the right amount of arrogance and disdain. "Preferably with an extra ten percent—or better, twenty—added ta da price of dose sparkly little baubles. I think yer boss can spare dat much for keepin' dis outfit from being exposed, aye?"

"O-of course!" Crawling forward on the floor like a centipede, the hunchback bowed his head. "Of course! Thank ye! W-who should I tell me boss saved dis place?"

Lord Patrick's face split into a wicked grin. He'd practiced long and hard, and it was positively perfect. And if that perfection was due to him staring at Amy's patented wicked grin for far, far too long, that was nobody's business.

"Oh, I think ye'll know me name soon enough." Gesturing for Amy to follow, he strode towards the door. "I'll be around with da next round of loot in no time. 'ave da money ready by den."

"I...I will. Do you...do you think you'll have more merchandise like that?"

"Aye, possibly."

"Is dat so...Well, den my boss might come around next time ye show up." He glanced at the flattened policemen on the floor, and displayed a foul, gap-toothed grin. "We're always on da lookout for talented people."

"Are ye, now? I look forward ta meetin' dem."

With that, Lord Patrick threw an arm around Amy's shoulder and swaggered out of the shop. And, as he strode out of the shop, Amy at his side, he just knew the hunchback was staring at him with a calculating gaze, like he might at an unpolished gem, evaluating its worth.

Patrick's grin widened.

First goal: make an impression?

Check!

He had a feeling that, next time, the two of them would be very well received.

***

In a certain elegant, yet gloomy, room, someone sat in an armchair, staring out over the city. Considering how luxuriously appointed the room was, it was quite surprising that the view the windows provided showed a horrific slum that not even rats would wish to live in. Or at least it would have been surprising if you did not know who the occupant of the room was.

A skeletal hand impatiently tapped on the armrest of the chair. The rhythm became faster and faster, until finally the door creaked open, and the first half of a fearful head peeked into the room, ready to withdraw at any moment.

"So, finally you show your face?"

The man flinched. "S-sorry, Boss! I didn't wanna take so long, I really didn't, but..."

"I do not have the time for excuses! What has Crombie discovered?"

Hurrying forward, the man rushed into the room, knelt before the armchair and held out a stack of papers. A very thin one.

Snatching up the documents, the emaciated hands started to leaf through them rapidly. By the time they were finished, the hands were trembling.

"Is this a joke? Because if it is, I am not amused."

"B-boss, let me explain..."

"By all means, do. I would be fascinated to hear your explanation."

"M-Mr Crombie did investigate! He really did, but...after dat one stunt at da warehouse, dose three never showed up again! We just don't know who sent 'em. No matter what arms he twisted or what bones we broke, nobody opened their mouths!"

"So, in three simple words," the cold voice emanated from behind the armchair, "You. Know. Nothing."

No answer came in response.

"After all this time...all this searching...You! Know! Nothing!" The barely contained rage behind those words shook the room. The goon hurriedly lowered his head, biting his lip. Should he...?

But before he could, his boss saw right through his silence.

"There is something."

The man twitched as if a whip had hit his back.

"There is something you know. Out with it. Now!"

"Well, ehem..." He swallowed. "Dere's somethin' Whitlock mentioned. Don't know 'ow much stock ta put in it, and neither does Crombie. Whitlock was in pretty bad shape when we found 'im, and we can't really trust anythin' dat came out of 'is mouth, but..."

"But?"

"'e says 'e 'eard some of dose bastards mention da Barringtons."

Wham!

With force no one would have thought it capable of, the skeletal hand slammed down on the armrest.

"So...the Barringtons, is it?" The sound that came from behind the backrest was like the hiss of a snake. The poisonous kind. "Intriguing. Most intriguing. So, one of those lovely little gangs that think themselves the kings of the East End decided they could put their hands on my assets, did they? They thought they could do as they please?"

The paper in her hand crinkled as her fists clenched.

"Time to remind them of reality!"

"Aye, Boss!"

"Send word to Crombie. He is to deal with the matter. Permanently."

"Aye, Boss! Just as ye say, Boss!"

"Good boy." A long, thin finger reached out, and he started to sweat at the touch. "Pray that you succeed. Because if anything like this should ever happen again..."

"Security 'as bin doubled!" The words practically flew out of his mouth. "Mister Crombie will make sure nothin' like dat will 'appen again! Not ever!"

The finger bored into him for a moment, accompanied by a stare—then vanished.

"It had better not." The finger that had disappeared, reappeared an instant later, pressed against the side of his head. The hand it was attached to just so happened to mimic the shape of a gun. "Otherwise...you understand."

"A-aye, Boss! I do!"

"Excellent. Now get out!"

The man leapt to his feet and dashed out of the room. After the door had closed behind him, the occupant of the chair muttered a low curse and, with a sigh, smoothed the newspaper that had earlier been crumpled, opening it at the page that listed information on the stock market. However, a certain article on the lower left side of the front page went unnoticed. An article declaring: Crime or Catastrophe? Duke's castle burned to the ground!

***

"So..." Lord Patrick Day asked as the door to his house closed behind him. "Do you think they suspect anything?"

The smile that spread over Amy's face was answer enough. "Not in a million years! Just ye wait. We'll 'ave dem by da bollocks in no time!"

"So...what is next on our road to the secret infiltration of the London underworld?"

In answer, the smile on Amy's face widened. In a way that maybe made him wish he hadn't asked. "So glad ye asked, Yer Lordship. It's quite simple. Clothes."

He blinked. "Clothes?"

"Aye. Ye need clothes. A complete new outfit, really."

Patrick glanced down at himself.

"What, pray, is wrong with my attire? It is brand-new and of excellent quality, made by an expert tailor in Savile Row—"

"Exactly. Dat's da point." She gestured at him. "Look at yerself! Brand-new tailcoat, shiny waistcoat—my best friend's 'usbands could do a better job of lookin' like gangsters dan ye do!"

"I," Lord Patrick stated, his lips quirking as an image of The Reverend Thomas Marvin Inglethorp appeared in front of his mind's eye, "severely doubt that."

Amy stomped on his foot.

"Ow!"

"Take dis seriously, will ye? Do ye know what would 'appen ta ye if, durin' one of our little jaunts into the East End, ye would be recognized?"

"No," Patrick responded, suddenly sober. "And I must admit, that scares me."

"It should!" Amy tapped him on the chest. "Losin' yer 'ead is da least ye'd 'ave ta worry about."

Nodding, Patrick glanced down at him again. "So...I shall have to obtain a disguise. What avenue of action do you suggest?"

Amy seemed to consider the question for a moment—then another smile spread across her face. One even wider than the last one.

Oh dear.

"I know just the perfect place," she announced. "Freddy's."

For some reason, the harmless name did not make His Lordship feel any better. Quite the contrary, in fact.

"Who...or what, is Freddy's?"

An evil twinkle in her eyes, Amy held out her hand. "Why don't ye let me show ye?"