Amy stopped halfway down the dingy corridor, right in front of one of the cells in a certain police station.

"Is this it?" she asked.

The policeman beside her nodded. "Aye, Yer Ladyship, dat's it."

"How long do I have?"

"Inspector Pritchard told me ta tell ye ta take as long as ye need, Yer Ladyship. And..." The man's beard twitched into a smile that should have looked eerie in the shadows, but to Amy, it only looked promising. "...if ye need something, let me know."

"Something?"

"Like a truncheon. Or some nails and spikes. Or some thumbscrews."

"We think alike, detective. We think alike."

The policeman's face darkened. "Respectfully, My Lady...having seen what I've seen da last couple of days, anyone would think alike." His face darkened even further. "Anyone who deserves ta be called a human being, dat is."

Both of them looked at the cell.

Which is more than can be said for the occupant of this cell.

The words that neither of them uttered hung in the air unspoken.

"Well...let's do this, shall we?" Flexing her fingers, Amy stepped forward. "Be so kind as ta open up, would ye?"

"My pleasure."

Keys jingled. A moment later, the stained, old, wooden door creaked open, revealing the gaping maw of darkness that was the cell beyond.

"Here." The policeman held out his oil lamp to her. "Take this."

"Thanks."

"Ye're welcome. And just so ye know...in case someone makes noise down 'ere...like screams, for example...let's just say dat me and me men 'ave very bad 'earing."

Amy smirked. "Good to know."

Then she stepped into the cell. The door slid half-shut behind her, and through the gap, she heard the footsteps of the policeman receding. A minute or two passed in silence, before...

"Well, what the hell are you here for?" a voice came from the darkness. A smooth voice. A familiar voice. A voice that once must have sounded elegant and cultured. Now it just sounded bitter. "Another round of questioning? Some more interrogation?"

"No," Amy said. "I know all I ever wish to know about you, Compton."

Silence.

"Who's there?" he hissed.

A mirthless chuckle escaped from Amy's throat. "You don't even remember, do you?"

"Remember? Remember what?"

"It probably wasn't even special for you, was it? Just another day of the week. Another woman used, thrown away and disposed of."

"What the blazes are you talking about?"

"Did you bother to ask her name? Did you even care if she had one?"

The rattling and scraping of chains came from the darkness ahead. A moment later, from the shadows, emerged a figure. Amy supposed some women might have called him elegant. Handsome even. But only those who never had the misfortune to personally meet the man.

"So, is this a new police interrogation strategy?" Fabian Evander Compton enquired, cocking his head. "Sending brainless females into my pitiful accomodations until I crack from the strain and start confessing my supposed misdeeds?"

"No." A smile played around the corners of Amy's mouth. "Confessions won't be necessary. Not in your case. This is me getting my revenge. Just as I promised myself all those years ago, when I watched you order my friend's corpse to be thrown into the Thames!"

He froze.

Ah. Apparently, a murder charge was enough to even get his most noble lordship's attention. Brought that whole being locked in prison thing home, didn't it?

Suddenly, his face paled.

Ah. The penny has dropped, has it?

"Successfully jogged your memory, did I?"

"You!" he hissed. "It's you!"

"Aye, me." Amy smirked, momentarily falling back into her old accent. "And? 'ow's prison bin treatin' ye?"

Growling, he stepped forward—and promptly stumbled, as the chain attaching him to the wall went taut, nearly sending him tumbling face-first onto the stone floor.

"You don't need to kneel before me to apologize," Amy told him sweetly. "It's not like I would ever forgive you anyway."

With a snarl, he pushed himself up to his feet and glared at her. In the face of the man who had once featured prominently in her nightmares, Amy didn't even feel a flicker of fear. She had seen much scarier things in her life than a chained, broken shell of a man.

"So..." he hissed. "You're here to kill me, are you?"

Amy stared him down—then one corner of her mouth twitched.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? That's the kind of thing you would do. But no, I'm not here to kill you. You're nowhere near important enough for that."

He blinked. "Not im—... What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"Not important enough? Not important enough? Do you know who I am?"

"Apart from a pathetic pervert of a prisoner?"

"You...! I'm Lord Fabian Evander Compton! I'm—"

"I know exactly what you are!" The hiss that escaped Amy's mouth was sharper than any knife she had ever possessed. And for someone who had survived for years in the East End, that was saying something. "I know better than anyone else! And that is the reason why I won't kill you. I won't dirty my hands with the likes of you!"

"You, dirty your hands?" He snorted. "A whore?"

"That's Lady Whore to you, thank ye very much." Amy took another step forward. He lunged for her—and again was caught by the chain, just an inch or so shy of grabbing her.

"You'll never touch me," Amy sneered. "In fact, I rather doubt you'll touch any woman ever again."

"You...you...!"

"By the way," she cut him off and made a mental note to add "interrupting arseholes" to Lady Amy Weston's Revised Handbook of Good Manners for Ladies, "do you want to know why I am here?"

"By all means," he sneered, "enlighten me. My anticipation is killing me."

"It's quite simple, really. I'm not here to kill you. Nor even to harm you. So what does that leave? Easy. I'm just here to see justice do its job. To watch as a criminal gets what he deserves. Which means letting you rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life—all while your children live in luxury, not knowing or caring who or where you are!"

His mouth dropped. "Ch-children?"

"Oh yes. Didn't you know?" Amy cocked her head. "She gave birth. Your children survived. And what wonderful children they are. So wonderful, actually, that they've been adopted by a lord of the realm. The very same lord, coincidentally, who's going to be my husband." Deep in thought, she stroked her chin. "As a family, I guess we'll need to find a larger home in the country. I wonder where? Hm... I've heard there's this pretty mansion that's being sold off because some broke lord got arrested and needs some quid to pay his fancy solicitors. Isn't that a funny coincidence?"

"You whore!" Roaring, Compton threw himself towards her once again, his fingers seeming to stretch in their desperate attempts to clench around her throat. "Whore!"

"Really?" Amy cocked an eyebrow. "Yelling my occupation at me? That's the best insult you can think of?"

"You...!"

"Or rather, I should say 'former occupation', right? After all, I doubt very much that, as Lady Day, future Duchess of Exeter, I will need to work a day in my life from now on. Ah, the life of a noble, being just able to relax and indulge in my hobbies...isn't it wonderful? So much more enjoyable than rotting in some underground cell for the rest of your life."

With a last, beatific smile at the sad excuse for a man, Amy turned around and moved towards the door, waving over her shoulder.

"So...goodbye, Your Lordship. Enjoy spending the rest of your life in a dark hole. I hope you like it. After all...it would be horrible of you'd end up regretting your life choices, wouldn't it?"

The last thing she heard before stepping out of the cell and closing the door behind her was an inhuman, bestial roar.

"Well?" the policeman asked when Amy reached the top of the staircase leading up from the cells and stepped back into the main hall of the police station. "'ow did it go?"

Amy shrugged. "Doesn't really matter." She smirked. "What matters is that he won't be going anywhere."

"Damn right 'e won't!" The detective gave a grim nod. "Want me ta send ye a notice when 'is trial is, Yer Ladyship?"

"Na."Amy shook her head. "I'll read about it in da paper. And..."

"Aye?"

Amy's eyes met the man's. "Thanks for this."

"Ye're welcome, Yer Ladyship. Ye're welcome."

She gave him a last nod in thanks, then moved past the policeman and strode out of the station. Outside on the street, she waved to a passing cab. It rolled over towards her, and the cabby bent down, tipping his head.

"Where to, Miss?"

"Home." Amy smiled to herself. "To the town house of Lord Patrick Day, please."

***

Three Months Later

"Lady Weston. Would you care to grant me the honour of accompanying me?"

Amy sent the man beside her a glare. A glare which Lord Patrick promptly and easily ignored.

"When," she demanded, "are you going to stop calling me that?"

"When you do something sufficiently bad to merit the Queen taking away your new title." His eyes sparkled. "Though I fancy that would be rather difficult, considering the Queen's reaction at that little, ehem... 'garden party'. I think she would have made you a viceroy if it would have gotten you out of there any faster."

"You...!" Amy aimed a kick for his shin. A kick which he dodged. Dammit! She probably shouldn't have taught him this well.

"Am I detecting a glimmer of interest? I could probably have you made a viceroy if I put my mind to it. Hm...I would just have to—"

"Don't ye dare!" she hissed, momentarily falling back into her familiar speech patterns. "Don't ye bloody dare! It's already bad enough dat I 'ave me friends bowing and scraping everywhere I go, calling me 'Yer Noblemost Ladyness' and stuff like dat! Jenny still can't keep 'erself from laughin' every time we meet!"

"And you get the chance to spread good cheer around everywhere you go." He beamed at her. "Isn't your life amazing?"

Again, he managed to duck the swipe she aimed at him. Bloody hell! She really shouldn't have taught him this well.

Amy was about to pick a good spot for her next attack when the double doors in front of them swung open, and a joyful cacophony of sounds flooded out.

Oh, right! Punching later. Wedding now.

The moment the guests inside the church spotted them, cheers broke out, drowning out even the ringing of bells from above.

"Allow me to correct myself," Patrick amended. "You wanted to know when I was going to stop calling you Lady Weston, right?"

Amy swallowed. "Y-yes?"

"The answer is: in about ten minutes. When I make you mine, and start calling you Lady Day."

And then the march started.

The wedding march. Her wedding march. Because, hard as it may be to believe, this was her wedding. It felt unreal. Amy had never dreamed this day would come.

Well, no...that was a lie. She'd always dreamed of it. In the darkness of the night, when her life had been at its lowest, she had dreamed of a Prince Charming to come and take her away. She'd just never believed that dream would actually come true.

It somehow still felt like a dream as Lord Patrick Day, heir to the Dukedom of Exeter, linked his arm with hers and took the first step down the aisle. Side by side, they walked into the church together.

Amy knew perfectly well that, normally, it wouldn't be done like this. Normally, she would step into the church arm in arm with her father, or uncle, or guardian. Someone to give her away. A trusted, paternal figure.

Only...Amy had a distinct lack of those. And more importantly, when, a few days ago, she'd brought the matter up with Patrick, the way he'd fixed her to the spot with his gaze and stared straight into her soul took her breath away.

"Nobody will give you away," he'd told her, "because nobody owns you. Nobody but yourself."

If, before that moment, she'd had any doubt that she loved this man, it was gone now. Utterly and completely. Warmth bloomed in her heart.

"Nobody will give me away?" Cocking her head, Amy quirked her mouth into the tiniest of smiles. "Then perhaps you're not going to get to marry me after all, Your Lordship."

He jerked. "Wait, what? Why?"

"Well, maybe because you haven't asked yet."

He blinked.

"I...I haven't?"

"No."

"Oh."

A pause.

"I...really haven't? Asked for your hand, I mean?"

"No. You did ask for someone's hand once, but I'm afraid your doctor friend's morgue supplies will play no role in our wedding."

"Ah. Ehem. Yes, I agree that would be rather unsuitable." Taking a deep breath, he rose from the chaise longue they were sitting on and sank to one knee on the carpet in front of her. Looking up at her, he gave a gentle smile, extended his hand and...

And froze.

Slowly, he closed his eyes.

"Tarnation!"

Amy couldn't help it. One corner of her mouth twitched.

"You don't have a ring, do you?"

All that answered her was heavy, meaningful silence.

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

What do you think? Did Amy kick sufficient verbal ass in this chapter ;)

Next week is the last installment of this story!

Yours Truly

Sir Rob