"Some swig," a voice growled right over Patrick. "Now!"

Hurried footsteps rushed closer, liquid splashed, and...

Crash!

"Ye call dat a drink? Get me somethin' decent! And a whore ta boot!"

"A-aye, Mr Rathbone, Sir!"

Beside him, Patrick heard Amy suck in a breath. When he glanced over, her face had gone pale.

"Rabid Rathbone," she whispered. And had that been a tremor in her voice? "Dat's...bad."

He waited for her to elaborate, while above, henchmen hurried about, trying desperately to find what was demanded.

She did not.

That in itself did not bode well.

"Rabid?" he asked.

"'e's da boss of da Blackstreet Snakes. From what people say, 'e earned both 'is name and position by—"

A woman's scream ripped through the air above.

Amy met his gaze. "Well...'e didn't get 'is name by picking daisies."

Another scream.

The next few minutes were the most torturous of Lord Patrick Day's life. Having to stay still and listen while that happened only feet away from him...

He had always considered himself a man of honour. But could he still call himself that now?

Finally, it ended. With a thud, something hit the floor. Something that sounded suspiciously like a body.

"Now," Rathbone growled. "'ow many do we 'ave?"

"F-forty-seven, Mr Rathbone, Sir. Soon, dere'll be another dozen, and—"

Wham!

"'ow many did I say I want?"

"S-sir, we tried our best ta—"

Wham!

"'ow. Many."

"A-a hundred, Sir. For da big auction."

"And what will ye do now?"

"F-find more, Sir."

"Go. And don't disappoint me again."

Hurried footsteps rushed out of the room.

"Now..." If Patrick had thought the voice above had been filled with venom before, he had been mistaken. What he heard now sent a shiver down his back. "Bring me Crombie!"

Silence descended over the hall.

"B-but I thought..."

"What?" Rathbone scoffed. "Dat 'e was gonna get off scot-free?"

The silence that descended was answer enough.

"Bring him. Now!"

"A-aye, Mr Rathbone."

Once again, footsteps hurried off. When they returned a moment later, they were accompanied by a second, considerably more reluctant, pair. A moment later, something hard hit the floor.

"Well?" Rathbone sneered. "Not so cocky now dat ye're on yer knees in front of me, are ye?"

"P-please, boss! I took care of da Barrintons! I did! I—"

"Aye. Ye did. Only ta find out dat dey 'ad nothin' da bloody 'ell ta do with our merchandise goin' missin'! Nada! Zilch!"

"M-Mr Rathbone, Sir, I—"

"And do ye know what dat means, Crombie?"

"W-well, Sir—"

"Dat means dat whoever da 'ell took our merchandise is still runnin' around out dere, laughing deir arses off at 'aving made fools of da lot of us! Us! Da Blackstreet Snakes!"

"I—"

This time, the man called Crombie didn't even get out a single word before Rathbone cut him off. With his fist.

Thwack!

"Silence, ye gutless worm!"

And silence there was.

"Tell me, Bailey," the boss of the Blackstreet Snakes growled. "Did 'e make any progress in findin' out who da friggin' 'ell is behind dis?"

"No," A new voice stated calmly. "None whatsoever, Boss."

"And what," Rathbone enquired, his voice deadly, "was 'e doin' when ye caught up with 'im?"

"Stickin' 'is dick in some three-penny-upright."

"Is dat a fact?"

The noise that next came from above the wooden ceiling was...indefinable. Creaking? Cracking? Lord Patrick had never heard anything the like of it before. And he never wanted to again.

"P-please... don't..."

Crunch!

Thump!

"Good riddance ta bad rubbish."

"A-aye, Boss!"

"'e definitely deserved it, Boss!"

"Get rid of 'im! And den, find some more competent 'elp. If, next time I come 'ere, I find similar results, things will get...unpleasant."

Dozens of voices rose up to reassure Rathbone that they wouldn't fail him, that they would find the very best of the best to serve. But above all, two particular voices stood out to Lord Patrick Day. Not only because they were louder than any others, but because of what they said.

"We already found someone useful," someone grunted.

"Aye!" came another eager voice. "Some bloke called Willy Perv!"

***

Ding-dong...

After a moment, the door of the town house opened a crack, and a suspicious butler's eye appeared.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"Hey!" Titus protested. "I'm not some travelling salesman!"

"No," the butler stated, "you are worse."

"You always knew how to give the best compliments, Griffiths! Now, won't you let me in and offer me something to drink?"

"Yes, Sir."

Titus waited for a long moment for the door to open.

He waited in vain.

"Griffiths?" Titus enquired.

"Yes," Griffiths elaborated, "as in—yes, I will not let you in and offer you a drink, Sir."

"You are no fun, you know?"

"A fact I take great pride in."

"Are you trying to drive me insane?"

"One does not have to work hard at one's true talents, Sir."

Titus considered his next approach for a moment. Finally, he fell back on the tried and tested failsafe.

"I'm Patrick's friend. You have to let me in and be nice to me."

"During your first meeting with His Lordship, you emptied a bucket full of turquoise paint over his head."

Titus grinned. "I never said I was a good friend."

From beyond the door came would could be called a grumbling noise, if British butlers would ever do something as outrageous as grumble.

"Very well, then. Please come inside, Sir." Pulling open the door, Griffiths bowed stiffly and gestured for his employer's friend to enter.

"Why, thank you very much, Griffiths." His grin widening, Titus picked this moment to step aside, revealing the three figures behind him: Karim, Cora, and...

"No," Griffiths declared. "By all the seven hells, no!"

"Yes," Titus shot back, unperturbed. "Oh yes."

"You are not going to enter His Lordship's house with...that!"

"Would you prefer for us to stay in front of the house, visible to any passers-by and neighbours?"

There was a pause.

"You, Sir, are evil."

Titus nodded happily. "Utterly and completely."

"Inside! Inside, before somebody sees you!"

"Your wish is my command. As long as you serve me some good whiskey, that is."

Muttering to himself, Griffiths ushered his employer's friend and company into the house and, as quickly as he could, closed the door behind them.

"His Lordship should really not associate with people such as you," the butler sniffed. "He is a respectable gentleman."

***

There was a moment of silence in the criminal's hideout. Dirty water dripped onto Lord Patrick's nose.

"Willy." Rathbone's deathly voice reached his ears, repeating his subordinate's statement. "Willy. Perv."

"Um...yes, Boss?"

Thwack!

"Do ye think now's da right time ta be bloody jokin' around with me?" The roar was enough to rattle the house's foundations.

"N-no, Sir! Dat's really 'is name! I swear! Cross my 'eart and 'ope ta die!"

The sound of knuckles cracking came through the wooden boards of the cellar ceiling. "Are ye sure about da last part?"

Patrick could almost hear the thug gulping through the planks. Up until now, His Lordship had not been an admirer of his new nom de plume. Suddenly, however, he felt he might change his mind.

"So..." Rathbone's voice was as deadly as a gun-shaped gravestone made of arsenic. "Who exactly is dis 'Perv'? And if ye say da best customer of da local brothel, I'm gonna skin ye!"

"'e...'e's a tough bloke, boss! A real tough bloke, and gutsy, too! 'e's bin breakin' into lords' mansions right and left, stealing lots of bling!"

"Hm...tell me more."

"'e's bin bringin' stuff to Old Jem's," the thug rushed on, relief evident in his voice. "'e beat up dat beefy bastard, Pritchard—"

"Ian Pritchard? From Scotland Yard?"

"Aye, dat's da one! 'e beat 'im black and blue! And another copper ta boot! Took 'em both on at once!"

"Is dat a fact..." The floorboards above Lord Patrick's head creaked as the gang boss strode past, deep in thought. "Do ye know where ta find dat man?"

"Aye! Aye, we do! We've squeezed it out of some fat little bugger dat 'e's always 'anging out with at da White Hart Inn!"

"Get 'im! I want 'im in front of me before da week's out! And dis time, ye'd better do a decent job, or I might just decide dat Crombie ain't da only one who deserves ta get 'is skull crushed! Or maybe..." A low chuckle echoed through the room above. "Maybe I'll inform da boss."

The silence that spread in the room above, permeated with terror, was sufficient to send a chill of fear down Lord Patrick's back. And so, for that matter, were the words spoken.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned to face Miss Amy Weston. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a whisper.

"I thought you said this Rathbone was the boss of the entire gang?"

"He...he is."

"Then who...?"

He saw the realization flicker to life in her eyes the moment it struck him.

There's someone behind all this. A mastermind, pulling the gang's strings from the shadows.

There was a moment during which the only thing that could be heard was the drip, drip, drip of the dirty water. Then...

"Miss Amy?"

"Aye?"

"I find myself feeling a sudden craving for tasty pig ears."

"Do you, now, My Lord?"

"I do." Reaching out, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips in a ravishingly romantic gesture that, he was sure, was helped along by the lovely view of the dirty brick walls and the enrapturing scent of rotting sewer rats. "Tomorrow, would you do me the honour of accompanying me on a little trip to the White Hart Inn?"

"Oh!" A wicked smile started to play around Amy's lips. "Are ye askin' me out?"

In that moment, Lord Patrick could have done many things. He could have ignored her. He could have used one of the many interesting derogatory words he had learned since he had first met her. He could have strangled her, as some part of him undoubtedly wanted. But, looking into Amy's fierce green eyes, there was only one word left on his tongue.

"Yes."

And for once, Miss Amy Weston was left speechless.

It didn't take them long to return the same way they had come. It did, however, take them considerably longer than Lord Patrick would have liked. He sincerely hoped that if, in the future, someone would write his biography detailing his adventures, the blasted author would leave out his climbing through the refuse hatch.

He could always bribe the man, if necessary.

Finally, tired, dirty and bedraggled, the two of them returned home. The moment they entered Patrick's townhouse, Amy kicked off her dirty shoes and marched towards the stairs.

"I'm gonna take a bath," she announced. "And den I'm gonna eat three lunches."

His Lordship raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly makes you think you can simply march in and use my facilities?"

Amy stepped closer and wafted her scent of sweet sewage in his direction. Patrick grabbed his throat, gagging.

"Y-you can go."

Amy curtsied. "Why, thank ye kindly, Sir. Ye are so considerate ta yer feiancee."

And, before he could think of a retort, her skirts vanished around the corner.

His life was going to be hell on earth from now on, wasn't it?

With a groan, His Lordship staggered into the billiard room and pulled open a cupboard, retrieving a decanter of whiskey.

"Aaaahhh...goodness, it's been a long day," Lord Patrick groaned as the burning liquid travelled down his throat. He wasn't a heavy drinker, but, well...that had been a heavy experience. He could still feel the weight, pressing down upon his shoulders. Later, he would think about what to do. Not now, however.

"I'm just happy it's over," he murmured to himself, his eyes half-closed. "We can get some peace and quiet now."

Just then, the door to the billiard room opened and the face of a smirking Titus Irving emerged. "Ah, Patrick, my dearest friend, there you are! Come, come! You've wasted enough time. While you've been gallivanting around with your ladyfriend, I have come up with a brilliant plan to infiltrate those vile, wicked gangs!"

Patrick closed his eyes. "I stand corrected."



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

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentleman,

"Hart" is not a misspelling of "heart", but rather is an archaic word for "stag", The white hart was the royal crest of Richard II, and many inns in England are named after it.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob