Karim stared woodenly at his surroundings, a hand on his sabre, just in case he would have to defend his innocence.

"Tell me again...why exactly did we come here?"

"Why, for freedom, justice and home-made cookies, of course!" Titus exclaimed. "Due to our looks and demeanour, we might not be able to assist our friends in infiltrating the gangs of the London underworld, but we should still do our part in bringing to justice the villains we have set out to catch!"

"An admirable sentiment," a rumble issued from the chest of the mountainous bodyguard. "That does not, however, explain why we are spying through the windows of a brothel!"

"Why, to further our investigation, of course," Titus explained with a grin, pressing his binoculars closer against his eyes.

"Investigation."

"Yes, indeed! After all, any of those rooms," he gestured towards the brothel, "might contain an unfortunate underage kidnap victim. Although...that certainly doesn't seem to be the case in this particular room. Yes...quite the curvy derriere...and those upper assets..."

"Investigation?"

"Quite impressive assets, really. What a femme fatale! Still, I can't be sure. She could be a kidnap victim in exceedingly good disguise. I'll have to observe her for a while to make sure, before I—"

He was abruptly interrupted by the grip of a hand around the back of his neck.

"Rggs!" the honourable Titus Irving said. "Grrak!"

"Investigation?" enquired, for the third time, a voice from behind him that sounded like a cross between a mountain grizzly and a rumbling volcano.

"Ehem. Err...pray, are you displeased, Mr Karim?"

"What gave it away?"

"Should I stop looking through the window?"

"An excellent idea."

"Of course! Right away, right away! I should have thought of it myself, really."

The grip on Titus' neck relaxed. Marginally. Smiling, Titus breathed a sigh of relief and held out the binoculars to the bigger man.

"Here you go. You know, you could have just asked for them if you want to have a look yourself. I completely understand, and would be happy to let a fellow connoisseur enjoy a view so magnifice—aagh!"

"Repeat that," Karim stated, the grip on Titus's neck suddenly very much not loosened anymore. "If you are brave enough."

"Ehem...how about we find a different way of investigating?"

"Once again, an excellent idea."

"Great! Great! Err...got any ideas?"

The Mohammedan gave the other man a meaningful look. "I am not responsible for coming up with good plans. Merely for strangling people who come up with bad ones."

That seemed to jog Titus's brain cells quite a bit. Sinking behind the wall that had conveniently hidden him from anyone who might be so crass as to object to his "investigation", he stroked his chin, deep in thought. (And equally deep in recollections of silky thighs, but no need to mention that in the presence of Mr Temper-With-a-Turban-On-Top.)

Hm...how best to aid the innocent and helpless? Preferably while having as much fun as possible?

Suddenly, a light flashed in Titus's eyes, and a grin started spreading across his face.

"Yes...oh, yes, that could work!"

"What?" Eyes narrowing, Karim took hold of his sabre. "It wouldn't be something indecent, would it?"

The Honourable Titus Irving's grin widened. "Whatever would give you that idea?"

A bushy eyebrow rose in response. "What do you think?"

"Well then, listen. This is what we should do..."

***

Amy took a long sip of her delicious, cool beer and glanced over at Patrick. To judge by the way he was slowly simmering, his beer was probably a lot warmer than hers by now.

"Pig. Ears."

"Hmm?"

"Pig! Ears!"

"Aye." She took another sip. "Quite tasty, ain't it?"

For some mysterious reason, he didn't seem to agree.

"You...you...!" Patrick stabbed a finger at his empty late, then pointed it at her, shaking, then jabbed at his plate again. "You...!"

Amy batted her lashes. "Devious, ingenious evil mastermind?"

He closed his mouth.

Speechless, are ye? Amy smirked. Well, so was bloody I when ye decided ta turn our wrestling match into tongue-wrestling!

It was high time for his own tongue to experience something...unexpected. Besides, she was doing him a favour, acclimatizing him to the local lingo, no?

"You...you tricked me!"

Amy inclined her head. "My austere anthologies."

"What?"

"I just apologized."

"You did, did you?" His Lordship's eyes sparkled dangerously. "For some reason, I did not really notice."

"Aye, I know." She beamed. "Ain't Cockney Rhyming Slang fabulous?"

To judge by the expression on Patrick's face, he didn't entirely agree.

Well, tough luck! Ye decided ta 'ave yer fun with me before...now it's my turn! Now it's time for revenge! Mwahahahahaha!

Well...only part one of her revenge. Part two would still be coming.

"Do you dearly feed lore condensing?" Amy gave him a meaningful look. "Nearly everyone in the Yeast Mend loses Hackney Timing Fang. You will be kelpless with drought nit."

"What the bloody...!" He glared at her. "What the hell are you babbling about?"

Reaching out, she patted his hand sympathetically. "Moo lot curry. I'll leach goo. I'll leach goo Terry fell."

Patrick opened his mouth to respond in rage—then hesitated, and narrowed his eyes. Deep in those azure orbs, she saw something sparkle. "You...bar a blameless fussy!"

Amy felt warmth rise inside her chest.

Ha! Da student is learning, is 'e?

A smile started to slowly spread across Amy's face. "Why, wank ye! Ye are a plastered gun with a twitch!"

"Fartless snitch!"

"Spoony farce type!"

"Steaming stag!"

"Formless kiddy pot!"

Breathing heavily, the two of them eyed each other across the table, mutual respect glinting in their eyes for the first time since they'd met.

"Not bad," Amy admitted. "Ye ain't bad at this at all."

He smiled. "Yank two."

She smiled back. "You are hell scum. Of course, I've always known that, but I appreciate ye givin' me da opportunity ta say it."

"You are hell scum, too."

Amy's smile couldn't help but widen. "Ye finally noticed, did ye? Good for ye!"

He was just about to shoot back, when the innkeeper bustled over, a dish towel over his arm. "So, 'ow was it, Amy?" He sent a wink at His Lordship. "Did ye and yer cousin enjoy da food?"

Patrick's hand tightened around the table knife, his gaze boring into the other man. He looked as if, after eating pig ears, he was seriously considering a dessert of innkeeper's innards. "It was...unusual."

The innkeeper beamed. "So glad ye liked it!"

Before Amy's companion could succumb to the urge to turn the man into shish kebab with his table knife, she leaned over towards the pudgy innkeeper, smiling up at him. She had lured the man into doing a prank with her. He had lowered his guard. Now was the time to strike!

"Say, me old friend...ye're usually well informed, ain't ye?"

"Aye." Proudly, the innkeeper nodded. "Why're ye askin'?"

"Well, my cousin Willy 'ere is lookin' for somethin' ta do. Something ta fill 'is wallet—and 'is stomach." Winking, Amy pointed at a certain empty plate.

The innkeeper chuckled, and scratched his head. "Hm...dere's an opening as a stable'and at Grandpa George's stable, I think. I could go ask and—"

"Nah." Giving him a meaningful look, she shook her head. "'e's lookin' for a...special kind of job. One for people who need ta be a little more, ehem...discreet."

"Discreet? Why—oh!" The innkeeper's eyes widened, and flicked to Lord Patrick's face. "He's da one—!"

"Shh!" Amy silenced him.

"S-sorry." Glancing around, the man lowered his voice. "So...'e's da fella who's bin sellin' bling ta old Jem? Da one who beat up dat copper?"

"Ye 'eard?"

"'eard? God, woman, 'alf da bloody town is talkin' about it!"

"'is reputation proceeds 'im, does it?" Amy cocked an eyebrow. "Good. So, does dat mean ye've got somethin' suitable?"

"Hm...well, dere are some people who are always on da lookout for talented men. Men who're ready ta do what's needed for da right price, if ye get what I'm sayin'." Meaningfully, he dragged a finger across his throat, then cocked a questioning eyebrow. "Can 'e do dat?"

"Did ye see da face of dat copper?" Amy answered with a smirk.

The innkeeper winced. "No. But I 'eard descriptions."

Amy's smirk widened. Seemed like they were in business.

A few minutes later, they left the inn and headed back up the street the way they had come. Amy was whistling, while Lord Patrick Day was prodding his stomach, apparently trying to determine whether it was still there or had run away in terror.

"We did it!" Amy exclaimed, smirking up at His Lordship. She might still have a bone to pick with the man (or a boner, depending on her mood), but that didn't mean she wasn't happy their combined efforts were getting somewhere. "Did ye see 'ow dose people in da inn were lookin' at ye? We managed ta fool dem! Dey thought ye were a real gangster. A vicious villain." She shook her head in amazement. "Dey actually looked at ye as if ye were...impressive."

"Is that so?" Lord Patrick enquired, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That is strange indeed."

"I know, right! I guess I did a better job improvin' ye dan I thought."

"Your faith in me is truly astounding."

She nodded, earnestly. "I do me best."

A moment or two passed by in silence. The impish smirk slowly slid off Amy's face, replaced by a far more serious expression. "We managed ta fool dem. Da whole tavern full of cutthroats and crooks."

It might have been the same statement as before, but it did not carry the same connotations.

"True."

"With da way people gossip, news of yer wicked ways will quickly be spread all across da city. Soon enough, da gangs will 'ear of it. Soon enough, one of dem will 'accidentally' bump inta us. We'll 'ave our chance. We've done it! We've actually done it!"

"Yes." Lord Patrick nodded, pulling a watch out of his pocket and, letting it snap open with a grim expression on his face. "Now it's time for the real challenge."

Amy blinked. "Huh? What could possibly be more difficult than fooling a gang full of cutthroats?"

The expression on His Lordship's face turned worse than when he was eating a plate full of pig ears. "Fooling my mother."

Amy grinned.

Oh, 'ello opportunity! Part two of revenge, 'ere ye come!

***

Lord Patrick Day had always considered himself a brave man. By now, he had risked his life to protect innocent women and children on numerous occasions. He had charged a horde of screaming Frenchmen with bayonet in hand. He had shown up to his sister's birthday without a present. There was little Lord Patrick Day feared in this world.

And the board of governors meeting of the London Society for the Aid of Orphans and the Poor was certainly one of those.

Muttering a curse that he would not even have touched with a ten-foot-linguistic-pole before meeting Miss Amy Weston, he dashed out of his house, slamming a hat onto his head.

"Let's move, Everstone!"

The carriage driver watched apprehensively as his lord tore the coach door open, nearly ripping it off the hinges in the process.

"Um, My Lord? Is there any reason to be so upset? After all, it is only a meeting of a board of governors? You attend those all the time for the companies in your possession."

Lord Patrick pulled a face. "Not ones like this. I promise you."

With that, he slammed shut the door behind him and tapped the roof of the coach. "Take me to the board of governors' headquarters."

"Um...which is?"

Lord Patrick's scowl practically oozed through the wall of the coach.

"Well..."

Half an hour later, the coach rolled to a stop in front of the cheerful façade of a tall townhouse. The cheerful, bright, pink façade. Over the door, cursive golden letters proclaimed:

Madame Mulberry's Tea Saloon for Sophisticated Ladies

"Oh dear," the driver said.

"Exactly."

"What should I do while you are, ehem...occupied, My Lord?"

"Find a spot to park the coach. At a safe distance."

"Yes, My Lord! As you command, My Lord!"

"Oh, and..."

"Yes?"

"Pray for me."

Lord Patrick leapt down to the pavement, and the coach rattled off at a pace a little too fast for a loyal servant who was supposed to stay at his master's side through thick and thin.

He would have to do this without a human shield, wouldn't he?

Darn!

Straightening his bow tie, Lord Patrick Day gathered his courage, strode forward, and pushed open the front door. Above him, a set of little bells tinkled.

"Welcome, Madam!" an enthusiastic voice came from behind the corner of a pretty bookshelf filled with guides on flower arrangement and proper ladies' behaviour. "Welcome to every lady's favorite retreat! What may I do for y—"

That was when the woman came around the corner. Freezing where she stood, she stared at Lord Patrick Day, wide-eyed.

"You...you're a man."

"You don't say. I hadn't noticed."

"You're a man."

His noble eyebrow twitching, Lord Patrick stepped towards the counter. "I am here to see my mother, Her Ladyship Henrietta Valentina Day, Dowager Duchess of Exeter. Please lead the way."

"I-into the ladies' salon?" the woman demanded, in a tone as if he were Mephisto himself asking for entrance into heaven.

Lord Patrick opened his mouth to answer in annoyance—then quickly thought better of it.

"Or, if it's inconvenient, I can come back later," he offered hopefully. "I do have an appointment with my mother, but I'm sure it's nothing important. If she is busy, I could just leave and you can tell her that I will return when she is not inside the ladies' salon. After all, it would be very impolite for me to enter such a—"

"Th-the dowager duchess is expecting you?" The woman paled. "No, there's no need to leave! Please, come right this way!"

"Oh, wonderful," Lord Patrick rejoiced. For a very much alive person, his voice sounded strangely like a groan from beyond the grave. "Simply wonderful."

Following in the woman's wake, His Lordship marched down a corridor until he reached the board room of the renowned board of governors of the London Society for the Aid of Orphans and the Poor, otherwise known as...

(insert ominous drumroll)

The lady's pink tea salon.

"Patrick, dear! There you are, finally!"

His Lordship, with the admirable restraint of a man who had taken part in over five hundred political debates without fleeing or strangling a single opponent, stepped into the room to face his mother and...them.

They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. They are wrong. Hell hath no furies like old women hungry for gossip.

"What are you waiting for, dear? Come over, come over!" Lady Henrietta waved like a windmill, gesturing for him to come over. Before he could turn around and run, she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards a certain table. "Let me introduce you to my friends! Lady Maeve, Lady Alathea...oh, and you've already met Lady Gwendolyn, haven't you?"

Unfortunately.

The middle-aged lady, despite the fact that she was no older than forty-five years, somehow managed to give him a grandmotherly smile. The kind of grandmother that lived in a cabin in the woods and liked her children well-done. The others, ruthless hyenas that they were, put on similar expressions. One even—shudder—waved at him.

"You know," his mother informed him, "They've been dying to talk to you!"

And you're totally disinterested and blasé, are you?

"I'd be most happy to oblige, ladies." Lord Patrick lied, indulging in the only kind of lie allowed for a well-bred English gentlemen—politeness. He inclined his head to the four of them. "A chat would be delightful. After all, children's charity is an important subject. I'd be happy to have a lengthy discussion with you about this and—"

"So," one of the middle-aged ladies gazing at him avidly demanded, "what is she like?"

So much for that distraction tactic.

"Are you referring to one of the poor, homeless orphans?" he asked, hopefully. After all, homeless orphans were such a wonderful, harmless conversation topic.

The middle-aged ladies tittered as if he had made a fabulous joke.

"Oh, how funny, dear," his mother said, with a sparkle in her eye that said, yes, it was indeed funny, but it would stop being so if he didn't spill his guts in the next five minutes. "You know what my friends and I really want to know, right?"

"Right!" an apple-cheeked lady with the smile of a wicked wit—ehem, a kindly grandmother leaned over towards Lord Patrick, making him shiver with terror.

"So, tell us," the dowager duchess demanded, "Who is your young lady? What is she like?"

Lord Patrick forced a smile onto his face and screwed his courage to the sticking place. This was it. The big one. He would have to fool the one woman who could strong-arm the Queen of England into hosting a tea party at Buckingham Palace. His mother. Dragging in a deep breath, he opened his mouth. He would have to think of a really convincing lie.

"She is one of the most amazing, elegant young noblewomen I have ever met," he told her with a gentle smile. "She is—"

"—here."

He froze.

He had imagined that voice from right behind him just now, hadn't he?

"'ello dere, everyone!" Miss Amy Weston exclaimed as she stepped past him, beaming. "I 'eard me darlin' was gonna come out about da two of us, so I thought, ta 'ell with it, why don't I just intro-frigging-duce myself?" Still beaming broadly, she reached out and hugged the frozen Lady Henrietta. "Hello, future Mum!"