"Y-you know?"

The maid stared at her employer. She knew. She knew, and yet still she would let her son marry that girl. The poor servant clutched at her chest. All preconceptions of her lady's moral fibre had been crushed.

"That the girl is a professional?" The dowager duchess gave a dismissive wave. "I saw the girl working in her maid uniform. Of course I know she's very good at her job!"

Relief flooded through the maid. "J-job. Of course. Right."

"She seems to be quite conscientious and experienced in her duties." The dowager duchess stroked her chin. "A maidservant...not exactly what I had in mind for a daughter-in-law for the noble house of Day. That boy will still have a lot explaining to do. But upon reflection, I have come to the conclusion that there is one factor that outweighs all the negative aspects of this matter."

"A-and that is, My Lady?"

"Grandbabies!" Suddenly, there was a fiery sparkle in the dowager duchess's eyes. "Finally, I will have grandbabies! Cute, cuddly grandbabies I can spoil and show off to my friends and knit socks for! Mwahahahaha! Hahahaha—ehem. Not that I'm obsessed or anything."

"Certainly, My Lady."

"And the best thing is—the boy found this one on his very own! He can't finagle himself out of it! True, the girl is of a lower social class, but at least she seems well-behaved and respectable enough. I suppose it could have been much worse."

"Y-yes," the maid agreed, while silently deciding to never, ever speak of certain things she knew. "Yes, it could."

The dowager duchess perked up. "Now that I think about it, her professional experience might even be quite helpful in her duties as a wife."

A number of mental images popped up in front of the servant's inner eye. Making sure her reddening face was turned away from her mistress, she cleared her throat. She was not about to laugh. She was not. "C-certainly, My Lady."

"Still, we must make sure that we make a proper lady out of her. With my talents and experience, it shouldn't take too long to make her into an accomplished, respectable young maiden. By the time I'm finished with her, she'll be the perfect prospective bride! That boy is going to end up thanking me!"

"Err...I'm sure you're right, Your Ladyship."

"And then...grandbabies! Pudgy, pink, cuddly grandbabies! Mwahahahaha—ehem. Bring me my appointment book, please. I will have to arrange a meeting with my personal seamstress, some dance instructors and a piano virtuoso for Miss Weston."

"At once, My Lady."

***

The coach came to an abrupt halt in front of the newspaper building.

"Wait here, Everstone!" With a grim expression on his face, Lord Patrick leapt out of the coach, quickly followed by a certain lady of the night. "We'll be back momentarily."

Because right now, we can't afford to waste a second.

Storming forward, he slammed open the front door, nearly nailing a paperboy against the wall. The fact that he didn't stop to apologize for his deplorable lack of manners told him all he needed to know about exactly how burning was the urgency he felt. Taking the stairs three at a time, he soon reached the correct storey and pushed open the door, Amy hot on his heels.

"Where's Hendrickson?" he demanded.

"Um...in his office, Sir," a young journalist stared up at him from behind his desk. "But he's in a meeting. May I know your name so I—"

Lord Patrick had already breezed past him, pushing open the chief editor's door. There were three men already sitting in Hendrickson's office. Not that he cared.

"Out!" he commanded. "Everyone!"

"Now see here," one of the three blustered. "I don't know who you think you are, but—"

"A regrettable lack of knowledge." Lord Patrick's eyes narrowed as they landed on the two other men, whose faces had blanched at the sight of him. "Especially since your two companions do not seem to share it."

"What are you talking about? You—"

The man was promptly grabbed by his two friends and dragged towards the door.

"Hey! What are you doing? You can't just—"

"Shut up!" one of the other two hissed. "Shut up, you idiot!"

Then the door closed. Patrick smiled. It was good to be a lord.

"Hendrickson." Striding forward, he bent over the desk. "Report."

"Thank you," the chief editor said, staring up at him. "Thank you so very much for driving off three rich, influential, potential investors."

"You're welcome. Now report."

"There isn't much to report. Gotta give those rapist bastards credit—they cover their tracks well. Dat's if dey left any in the first place."

Lord Patrick's eyes narrowed. "If they left none, then why did you call us here?"

Hendrickson grinned. And for a moment, just a moment, Lord Patrick saw a flash of the ruthless bulldog of a journalist who'd worked his way up to the very top by exposing high society's dirty secrets and, occasionally, underwear.

High-brow journalism was such a wonderful thing.

"We got lucky. Incredibly lucky." Hendrickson tapped the report on his desk. "One of the kidnapped kids is a tanner's daughter."

"And that is relevant why exactly?"

"Because she recognized the smell."

Patrick frowned. "Smell? What smell?"

Instead of answering, Hendrickson looked over at Amy. "What smell? Is he for real?"

"He's a lord." Amy raised her eyebrow in an infuriatingly meaningful manner. "What do ye think?"

"Let me see..." Getting up from his desk, the chief editor stepped over to a window. A window that, for some strange reason Lord Patrick couldn't fathom, had newspapers stuffed into its cracks. "The wind should be coming from the right direction."

That was when Hendrickson pulled away the newspapers, shoved open the window, and a sledgehammer hit Lord Patrick's noble nose.

"Grrk! Nfg! Galk! What in the name of St George...!"

"That smell," Hendrickson said.

"Clff d wndwfff!!"

"Pardon, Your Lordship? I'm afraid I don't understand Welsh. Especially while you have your hands clamped over your face like that."

Lord Patrick's noble eyebrow twitched. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his hand.

"You, ehem...can close the window now, Hendrickson."

"I can, can I?"

"Yes. And..." Lord Patrick's eyes slid to the side. "Miss Amy?"

"Aye?"

"Do. Not. Laugh. I cannot help that I grew up in a better part of town!"

"Aye, I'm sure." Amy's lips twitched. "And ye probably can't 'elp that silver spoon sticking out of your mouth either."

Lord Patrick sent a death glare at the wench his mother wanted to marry him off to. "What did I request about you not laughing?"

"Oh, I won't."

"Good."

"Until I'm alone and have lots of free time."

Breathe. Breathe deeply, Patrick. And remember that by English law, you cannot be forced to marry anyone against your will.

A picture of his mother flickered past his inner eye.

Well, probably.

Taking a deep breath, Lord Patrick cleared his throat. "Back to the point..."

"Very well." Once again shutting the window, Hendrickson strode back to his desk. "As I was saying, the brats those bastards grabbed off the streets were tied up and blindfolded. But one of them recognized the smell." Pulling a folded piece of paper from his desk, he spread it over the top, revealing a map of the city. "That narrows the area where they were held down quite a bit. Tanneries aren't allowed within the city limits, and can only be found quite a way downriver." Patrick watched the chief editor's finger sliding along the winding path of the river Thames, until he encircled a large area southeast of the city. "Several of the girls mentioned they heard water running—even if they were brought to places that, from the descriptions, are quite obviously different. That fits, since most tanneries are near the river due to the need for water."

"So..." Leaning forward, Amy pointed to an area around the riverbanks. "Dat narrows da area down quite a bit."

"Yes, it does."

"It fits," Patrick mused. "What they need most is privacy. And what better way to keep curious people's noses out of their business than locate their operation in the middle of an area no sane person with a working nose would willingly enter?"

"Plus," Amy added, "it's easy ta ferry deir 'merchandise' up and down da river. Nobody would look twice at some 'alf-rotten old fishing boat."

"Hm..." Patrick frowned, staring down at the map, the stench in the air all but forgotten. "That still leaves far too large of an area to search. We'd be drawing far too much attention, if we ever manage to comb through it all."

There was a moment of silence before, slowly, a smirk started spreading across the face of the lady beside him. Lord Patrick suddenly had a very, very bad feeling.

"Aye, but we don't 'ave ta. Listen up. 'ere's what we're gonna do..."

***

"This," Patrick stated, "is a horrible idea."

Amy glanced up at him where he was striding beside her in his shabby East End outfit. "We're doin' dis for freedom, justice and honour."

"I know," he growled. "Why do you think I came along anyway?"

Cocking an eyebrow, she smirked up at him. "'cause ye wanna spend time with yer brand-new, beloved fiancée?"

The look he gave her indicated exactly what it was he wanted to do to his "beloved fiancée". Which was murder. Or raunchy sex. Or both. You never knew with these kinky aristocrats.

"Come along now, Yer Lordship. We've gotta get goin'."

Lord Patrick shivered. "Do we really have to?"

"For freedom, justice and honour."

"Damn you."

"Aww, I love ye too, my snoogly-wooglybums."

"Miss Amy?"

"Yes?"

"If you refer to me thusly one more time, I shall use my considerable resources to acquire the services of a hired assassin."

"Oh, goodness gracious! Ye'd send an assassin after me?"

"No. I would send it after the person who committed the crime of educating you in the English language. Now let's move before I think better of this abomination of a plan."

"Too late," Amy announced cheerfully. "We're 'ere."

"Oh God help u—nngmmmph!"

Desperately, Lord Patrick clamped his hand over his mouth. "Gddd! Wht iff dat smell? Nd I fought da tanneries were bad!"

"Aaah..." Amy sniffed with the appreciation only a true East Ender could muster. "Dat delicious aroma...dat's da smell of 'ome."

Lord Patrick's incredulous, watering eyes were drawn to the courtyard beside the house, where ginormous, fragrant brown piles rose towards the sky. "Fmell of home?"

Amy smirked. "Never said my 'ome's nice."

Reaching out, Amy knocked on the door.

All right, Amy. Dis is it! Put yer game face on.

A moment later, the door opened, accompanied by a waft of odour that made Amy extremely glad her game face included cotton stuffed up her nostrils. A man with a face that looked...quite presentable, shockingly enough, opened the door.

"Aye? What's da matter, luv?"

Amy put on her most charming smile, trying her best not to let any air enter between her teeth. "We're 'ere ta negotiate a price. We'd like ta buy some of yer...produce."

The man blinked. "Buy?"

"Aye."

"Ye mean buy... as in for actual money?"

"Aye."

The young man blinked. "Well...dat's a change.

Amy glanced at the piles of...produce in the courtyard.

"I'd imagine so."

"And ye...really wanna buy?"

In answer, Patrick stepped up beside her and pulled several banknotes out of his pocket.

"All righty!" Beaming, the man stepped back and opened the door. "Welcome to our 'umble business, ladies and gents! We know all about 'ospitality, cause all we got is yours!"

"Oh," Patrick muttered too low for anyone but Amy to hear. "How marvellously generous."

Amy smirked, as the night soil man turned around and headed into the house, apparently expecting them to follow. "It is, ain't it?"

"Miss Amy?"

"Aye?"

"I hate this plan."

"No, no. Ye're forgettin' yer language lessons. It's I 'ate dis plan."

"If you mention anything that sounds like the past tense of the verb 'to eat' in this environment, I shall make you go through with it."

"Ye're a cruel man, Yer Lordship."

Together, the two stepped into the house. As Amy passed the tiny kitchen, she was severely tempted to mutter "eat, 'ave eaten, was eatin', 'ave bin eatin'", but in the end thought better of it.

Following the man who was marching ahead, the two of them made their way through the house to the back courtyard. The moment she stepped outside, her mind flashed back to the moment she had told Patrick all about her "brilliant plan"...

"'ere's what we're gonna do. To find da gang, we need to find deir victims. In other words, a place where a lot of girls are being kept."

"Kept in complete secrecy."

"Yep."

"In a place that will be incredibly hard for anyone to find."

"Yep."

"So...how precisely do you suggest we accomplish that?"

Amy grinned. "Well, dat's easy. Ye can 'ide people, but ye can't 'ide things dat every single person needs, or needs ta do."

Patrick's eyes widened. "You mean...food? We're going to track them through food deliveries?"

"Nah." Amy waved his words away, "I'm sure dey took precautions for dat. Like orderin' from different grocers and stuff. But..." Her grin widened, eyes falling on his butt. "I'm equally sure dey didn't think of takin' da same kind of precautions for somethin' else."

"Something...else?"

"Aye. Everyone must eat. And what must everyone do after eatin'?"

If Lord Patrick Day's eyes had widened before, they were about to pop out of his head now. "You don't mean—"

"Aye. Aye, I do."

Resurfacing from her memories, Amy glanced up at His Lordship. "Ain't ye glad ye've got me ta do da thinkin' for ye?"

"I repeat: I hate this plan."

She grinned. "I know."

Together, they stepped out into the back yard, where they were faced with a truly amazingly, magnificently shitty view.

Literally.

"Well, dere we are!" the night soil man said, proudly. "All our stock!"

Amy, wisely, said nothing. Patrick was keeping his lips clamped shut so tightly you couldn't have squeezed a hair in between them.

"Little brother! Come on out!" the night soil man shouted. "Come out! We've got customers!"

"Customers?"

A young man with a disturbingly cheerful grin on his face stuck his face out from behind the house. "More shit ta shovel?"

"Nah. Dey wanna buy some."

The young man blinked. "Dey do? For what?"

The older brother blinked—then turned towards Amy. "Dat's a good question, actually. I mean, not dat I give a shit, but why do ye want me ta give ye shit?"

"Ah, well, we've bin sent 'ere by some farmers from outside of town," Amy answered cheerily, spouting her prepared backstory. "Dey all dump lots of shit on deir land, and when da cow dung runs scarce..." She left a meaningful pause. "Crap is crap, right?"

A grin spread over the man's face. "Got ye! So, 'ow much do ye want?"

"Hm...I don't know." Tapping her chin, Amy started strolling along the mountains of dung of various sizes. "What we really need, ye know, is a good, steady supply. From what I saw outside, dis part of town don't really look like it's got enough people to meet da demand, ye know?"

"Are ye kiddin'?" Wounded professional pride obvious on his face, the younger brother strode forward, grabbed a shovel and...presented his product for inspection. "Dis is quality stuff! With lots of worms and wriggly things, and there's plenty of it!"

"Hmm...aye, there is." Amy cocked her head. "Which is a little bit strange. Dere shouldn't be dis much around 'ere, right? Dis area seems ta be pretty run-down and empty. 'ow come dere's so much of da stuff around 'ere?"

"Ha! Dat's a funny story, actually."

Amy tensed.

Dis is it! Keep cool, Amy. Keep your cool.

"Oh, really? What's dat?"

"Well, dere's dis one big 'ouse at da end of da street where dere's always tons of shit piled up. No one inside, really, except some shifty buggers, but man, do dey pile it up!" He chuckled. "Maybe dey've got a herd of donkeys stashed away in there somewhere."

"Aye," Amy said quietly. "Maybe."

"Oh well, back ta business!" The young man rubbed his hands. "That's...if we are in business?"

"Sure! Ye seem like a really standup fellow, and yer supply's good."

The young night soil man's eyes lit up. "How much do ye want?"

"Hm...a few tons, I think? Three? Four? Aye, four tons should do it."

The two men beamed, delighted. "Spiffin'! Where should I deliver da stuff?"

Amy grinned and, glancing sideways at the nobleman whose face by now had taken on a most interesting shade of green, inspiration struck her.

"Oh, I've got just da place in mind."

And, without hesitation, she handed the man a slip of paper with the home address of Lord Patrick Day. After all, he was paying for it, wasn't he? The least she could do was to ensure he received his delivery.



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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

If you're wondering about the use of the appellation "luv" or "love" in the above chapter - this is quite often used by British people to refer to women, regardless of whether they actually love them or not. I guess here is the proof: all Britons are secret casanovas ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob