"Um...are you sure we are in the right place to purchase apparel?" Lord Patrick enquired, gazing up at the shop front. He glanced back at Amy, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"What did ye expect? Savile Row?"

"No. But when you said you were taking me to purchase appropriate clothing, I definitely didn't expect that."

He pointed at the cracked old sign over the door, which read:

Freddy's Diving Den

"Oh, that's just Freddy!" She waved a hand and, as if that explained everything, pulled him into the grungy building.

The interior of the store turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Except for a bit of dust here and there, and a rather odd odour in the air, Lord Patrick thought it looked downright cosy. All kinds of clothes and knick-knacks were scattered across worn wooden shelves of various sizes. It really didn't look that much different from a middle-class pawnbroker's shop. In fact, His Lordship found that, for some reason, the quality of the clothes for sale was surprisingly high. Sure, they had a strange stain here and there, but the cloth looked nearly unworn, almost new. And yet, oddly enough, the price tags attached showed pleasantly low prices.

"Miss Amy! So nice to see you after all this time. Welcome! Welcome to my store. Have you finally decided to become a patron of my humble establishment?"

His Lordship turned to see a portly little man hurrying out from a back room, arms spread wide and a welcoming smile on his face.

"Not today, Freddy, not today." Amy shook her head, smirking. "But I've brought a friend along who'd just love some of your finest pieces."

Wait...she had never bought anything from here before? But then why had she brought him to this store to get—

Lord Patrick's thoughts were abruptly cut off by an explosion of enthusiasm.

"A customer? A customer!" The little man jumped up and down as if manna had just been dropped from heaven, along with a spoon, plate, and a card saying Bon Appetit, Yours Sincerely, God. Beaming, he rushed towards Patrick. "Is it you, Sir, who has decided to honour me by purchasing a selection of my finest wares?"

Lord Patrick bowed, pleasantly surprised. "That is indeed the case, Mr...?"

Amy gestured towards the beaming little man. "Patrick, this is Mr Freddy Farthingale. But most people just call him Freddy the Fisher."

"Oh, you like to fish, do you?" Lord Patrick felt a broad smile spread over his face, instantly taking a liking to a fellow sportsman. "I understand absolutely! There's nothing quite like relaxing with a rod in your hands at the shore, listening to the calming sound of the water."

Freddy blinked, seeming taken aback for some reason. "Err...yes. Quite."

"So that's where the name of the shop comes from, is it? I must say, it's quite pleasant to meet a fellow lover of water sports. Where, if I may ask, are your preferred haunts? I love going to the seaside for a spot of fishing, myself. The fresh sea air is just so invigorating."

The little man coughed and glanced at Amy. "Err...I'm more of a river man, myself."

Amy hurriedly stepped forward. "Why don't ye show 'im yer selection, Freddy?"

"Capital idea, capital!" Patrick nodded, patting the other man on the back. He had been slightly apprehensive about this place before, but now, he could see he was in excellent hands. "Show me your very best!"

***

"Err...Miss Amy?"

"Yes, Freddy?" Amy was currently looking through the bonnets and scarves Freddy had for sale. Not that she was mad enough to ever buy any. She might not be the richest woman in the world—thank you so much for snatching that spot, Lilly—but she wasn't so hard up that she had to buy at this place.

Beside her, Freddy cleared his throat. "Your friend seems to be—"

Just then, he was cut off as Patrick stuck his head out from between two racks of clothes. "Are you really serious, Mr Farthingale? Just three pence for a perfectly good pair of tweed trousers?"

"Well, um...some people are put off by the smell, Sir."

"Smell?" Patrick held the tweed up to his nose. "I find it quite pleasant, actually."

"And there might be some stains..."

Patrick waved his hand. "Oh, I don't mind. As long as the quality is good. Thank you, Mr Farthingale! I shall definitely be visiting this store again in the future."

And he dived between the shelves again.

Freddy turned back towards Amy, who was studiously studying a bonnet she had no intention of purchasing. Not that this was because she wanted to avoid Freddy's gaze. Oh no, certainly not!

"Ehem...Miss Amy, as I was saying, your friend seems to be rather enthusiastic."

"'e does, doesn't 'e?" Amy glanced up at Patrick, who was just vanishing behind a curtain. Moments later, they could hear the sounds of a peer of the realm struggling with tweed. "I knew dis was da right place ta take 'im."

"Um, yes, certainly. I'm always glad for new customers. It's just..." He leaned over towards her, and behind his hand, whispered, "He does know that I got those clothes off rotting corpses I fished out of the Thames, doesn't he?"

Amy snapped her fingers. "Darn, me bloody memory! I knew dere was somethin' I'd forgotten ta tell 'im."

"Miss Amy!"

"And, since I've so conveniently forgotten," she added, leaning towards the shopkeeper with an enchanting smile that normally cost two shillings sixpence, "why don't we let it be and neglect ta mention dat little fact ta 'im?"

"Miss Amy! I am an honourable business owner—"

"—who cleans out da pockets of dead people and sells deir stuff."

Freddy looked wounded. "Everybody has to make a living!"

"Except rotting corpses?"

The little man gave her an indignant look. "We can't just not tell him about where the clothes come from!"

"Oh, I will." She patted his shoulder. "Don't worry."

"You will?" His eyes brightened.

"Aye." A grin spread over her face. "In about three weeks, after 'e's bin wearing dem for a while. Da look on 'is face will be...interesting."

***

"These clothes smell really...interesting," Lord Patrick said, sniffing at the sleeve of his new—well, not quite new—tweed jacket.

"Oh, aye," Amy, who for some reason was walking on the other side of the street, agreed. "Very interesting."

"So..." He glanced down at his new, amazingly comfortable, tweed suit. "What do you have in store for me next?"

At first, when she had dragged him off to get new clothes, he had felt some apprehension. But after what she'd just done...

He felt warmth in his heart. She was genuinely trying to help him. Deep down, she was a thoroughly good woman.

Of course she was also trying to turn him into an insane, violent, police-assaulting gangster. But that was part of her trying to help, wasn't it?

Hopefully.

Besides...could he really afford to refuse?

"Hm..." Amy mumbled. "Where next...where next to go..."

When he turned to look at her, he found her studying him with an intensity that made him wish very, very much that yes he could.

She cocked her head. "Speak after me. ''ello 'olly, 'oller 'eartily at 'ome'."

"Err..." Patrick blinked. Perhaps she wasn't just trying to drive him insane. Perhaps she was already insane herself? "Hello Holly, holler heartily at home?"

"Without da H, ye block'ead! Remember what I taught ye?"

It was only then that His Lordship remembered his 'language lessons'. He shuddered. Traumatic memories were so hard to suppress sometimes.

"Well, what are ye waitin' for? Get on with it!"

He swallowed, inwardly asking for forgiveness from the god of grammar. "'ello 'olly, holler, um...'oller 'eartily at 'ome."

"No, no, nonono!" Amy shook her head sending black strands of hair flying everywhere. "Ye sound like a zebra trying ta quack!"

"What? But I left out all the Hs!"

"Aye, ye did! But ye sounded too posh! Far too posh!"

"I am most assuredly not, Miss Amy!"

"Ye see?" She stabbed an accusing finger at him. "Ye should 'ave said 'I ain't, ye bloody stupid wench!'"

Patrick's English gentlemanly spine stiffened. "I...I cannot possibly utter something like that!"

"Ye'd bloody well better learn to, unless ye wanna find out what it's like ta swim in da Thames face-down!" She took a step forward, her eyes full of ferocity and...concern?

No.

No, surely he was seeing things.

"Ye listen ta me! Jenny, Cora and Freddy are special. Dey're me friends and know 'ow ta keep their gobs shut! But if we go anywhere else, and ye fall back into speakin' with dat 'oity-toity accent..." She shook her head. "Word will spread, and before ye can say Jack Robinson, da gangs will come down on us like a ton of bricks!"

She didn't need to say what that would mean. Her face spoke volumes. Horribly spelled, misprinted volumes, but still, volumes.

"What do you suggest?" he enquired.

"Simple. If ye really wanna go around da East End asking questions, it ain't enough to just look like a native. You got to walk and talk like one!"

Patrick felt a familiar cold tingle of dread travel down one's spine.

"You don't mean...!"

"Aye!" Amy gave him her broadest, most marvellously evil smile. "It's time ta give ye another a-low-queue-shen lesson!"

What was that again he had been thinking about her being a good woman?

Lord, have mercy on me!

***

For some reason, the Lord seemed to be too occupied to listen. Over the next few weeks, Lord Patrick Day suffered in the clutches of a devil. There simply was no other way to put it. He had come to the conclusion that no human with a soul would be able to come up with the vile construction that was the Cockney accent. Dropping all your Hs? Mentioning a garbage can every time you used the past participle of the verb "to be"? And, worst of all, replacing perfectly good, sensible English words with imported ones from Yiddish, Romani and...he suppressed a shudder at the thought—German? Really? German?

And that was not to even mention the whole other can of worms that was the so-called "Cockney Rhyming Slang". What a blunderful pile of pit it was! After all, who in his right grind wouldn't dyke to leak like that?

Agh! He was doing it! He had been abstracted! Dejected! Impacted!

This was her fault. Someday soon, he was going to get revenge.

It had been days already. He had suggested multiple times it would be a marvellous idea to go to the East End and start duelling gangsters to the death straight away, but so far had had no success convincing his "teacher". The lessons continued with atrocious regularity, gruesome mutilations of grammar followed by shocking sins against spelling. Lord Patrick started to wish that it would just end.

Please, Lord! Please, let it end! Let it be over!

"Hm...I think that's enough language lessons for now, don't you think?" Amy tapped her chin, stepping away from the blackboard. Lord Patrick was hardly able to believe his ears. "Do you think so, too? Or should we contin—"

"Nonono! Not necessary at all! I agree completely! We are definitely finished!"

"Great!" Amy beamed. "How splendid you agree!"

With a sigh of relief, Lord Patrick wiped some mental sweat away. Finally! He was safe and—

"Dat means," Amy continued, her grin widening, "we can start yer next round of fightin' lessons now."

Oh...fiddlesticks.

***

"Well, My Lord?" Amy cocked her head. "Ready?"

"In a moment."

The condemned ma—ehem, of course she meant His Lordship, divested himself of his tailcoat, bow-tie and vest, and stepped onto the carpet that served as their mat.

"All rightey den. On da count of three." Amy nodded. "One...two..."

Wham!

Her leg slammed up, introducing Lady Shin to Mr Bollocks.

"Lesson one," she announced while Lord Patrick doubled over, wheezing. "East End math works different."

Grabbing a lordly arm, Amy tugged hard and stepped aside, taking care to keep a single leg in his path.

"Aah!"

Stumbling over her outstretched limb, Lord Patrick sailed through the air and slammed onto the thick Persian carpet. Face-down, he lay there, examining the extravagant pattern, his nose buried in wool. A most pretty picture, Amy had to admit.

"You," came a muffled voice from down below, "are going to pay for that!"

"Dat's my line," Amy pointed out, grinning widely. "Unless ye've decided ta take up my profession? I would be 'appy ta give ye a tip or two and give ye references for a responsible brothel mada—"

With a growl, Lord Patrick leapt up from the ground and, before she could even so much as twitch, he was on her! Oh my. He had certainly been practicing, hadn't he? Punches, kicks and elbow throws came flying at her from all directions, aiming for her face, her liver, even her...

"My oh my." A grin once more flashing across her face, Amy blocked the punch aimed at certain sensitive bits. "Interested in me assets, are we?"

The glitter in Lord Patrick's eyes told her he was ready to commit murder. Or he was really, really interested in her assets. Either was possible.

She was just contemplating that question when suddenly, the ground jerked beneath her.

Son of a...!

All those punches, all those strikes, they'd been nothing but distractions! Cursing down on the floor, she stared up at the towering form of the Peer of the Realm standing above her, one corner of the carpet clutched in his hand.

Smart move.

But not nearly smart enough.

Cocking an eyebrow, she twisted, snagging the folds of the carpet between her legs and tugged, hard.

"Aagh!"

Lord Patrick flew forward and, inwardly, Amy did a fistpump. Men might in general be stronger than women—but women's legs were stronger than men's arms. And as for women's feet...

Crack!

Her boots slammed into His Lordship's heek, leaving a nice, decorative print. And also sending him flying across the room until he slammed into the wall.

"Is dat all ye've got, P.?"

Lord Patrick met her gaze head-on. "Not exactly, no."

Then his hand shot out and, grabbing a small, and probably priceless wooden statuette from the nearby dresser, flung it straight at her head. Only barely managing to duck, Amy had to whirl and leap out of the way to avoid the right hook he sent straight for her face.

"Now dat's more like it! Come on! 'arder! Give it ta me 'arder!"

That caused a growl to erupt from Lord Patrick's throat.

"What's the matter? Isn't your sword up to the task?" Her meaningful glance slid down to his crotch. "Oh, excuse me. I totally forgot, ye're engaged in unarmed combat."

His Lordship's aristocratic eyebrows twitched.

"Miss Amy, you—"

Wham!

"Lesson two," Amy said, withdrawing her fist from Lord Patrick's gut. "Don't get distracted by yer dick. Or lack dereof."

He reacted quickly, she had to give him that. Grabbing her arm by the wrist, he held her in place with one hand while, with the other, he aimed another punch at her.

"Aww," she sighed, twisting away. "And 'ere I was looking forward ta being penetrated. So disappointing. And 'ere you are still trying ta 'ammer me. Trying ta make up for some...inadequacy, perhaps?"

The expression on His Lordship's noble visage was truly...potent. You might even say it brought her great gratification.

"You," he said, his gaze boring into her, "are. Going. Down.

"On me?" She enquired hopefully.

Eyes alight with blue fire, he threw another punch. One that actually connected.

"Oof! So ye actually can give a girl a proper pounding? Why didn't ye say so?"

The next punch went wide, the man's hands clearly tempted to wrap around her throat, or perhaps do something kinky?

Naturally, virtuous maiden that she was, she would never let him.

"And there ye are, unable ta pound me once again. Such a big, strong man...I wonder why ye're so impotent?"

This time he simply lunged for her, trying to grab hold of her—only to stumble over her outstretched leg and slam into the ground.

"And now ye can't even stay upright anymore." She shook her head, sadly. "No stamina. Why oh why don't I ever meet a decent man?"

Snarling, he made a grab for her legs, and she leapt back.

"Oh!" Amy clapped her hands together. "So dat's it, is it? Of course, I should 'ave known!" She batted her eyelashes down at him, giving him a kind smile. "I should 'ave known why ye're so reticent, why ye can't properly pound me. Ye're inexperienced, ain't ye? Ye're a first timer! Of course ye would be nervous!"

"W-what?" Lord Patrick sputtered.

"Ye can't just go for the legs like ye just did," Amy advised gently, with the air of an an experienced brothel madam giving "the talk" to a blushing youngster. "Just prying dem open, dat's no good. Ye need ta do some foreplay first. Dat's da way ta win a lady's 'eart. Or win a fight."

With another growl, he leapt to his feet again, pulled back his fist for another punch...

Then suddenly stopped.

Amy smiled.

"You..." His eyes narrowed. "You're doing this deliberately."

Her smile widened.

"So...ye've finally figured it out, 'ave ye?"

In a blink, she was in front of him, holding something at his throat. It was just a random knick-knack she had grabbed off a shelf—but it brought the point home well enough. In a real fight, it would have been a knife.

"Lesson number three," she told him, her eyes, teasing just a moment ago, now as cold as jade. Her face was only inches away from his. "Don't. Let. Anyone. Provoke. You. Ever."

He gazed into her eyes for a long moment, his eyes hardening. She could see the change. He was a pissed off pretty boy no longer. This was Lord Patrick Day, a Peer of the Realm whose ancestors had stormed up the bloody shores of Britain.

"I have a lesson for you, too, Miss Amy."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh aye?"

"Never," he told her, blue eyes cold as steel, "let yourself be taken by surprise."

Then he kissed her.

---------------------------------------------------------------