"Where is she? Where is she?" Eyes shining with eagerness like a puppy about to get its favourite chew toy, the dowager duchess came racing into the room. "Is the dress finished? Can I see it?"

"I...I'm not quite sure..." Amy's hesitant voice came from behind a flowery screen. "I'm not quite sure that it...that I..."

Mademoiselle Balzac reached out and, with a firm tug, pulled the screen aside.

"Eeep! No, don't! You can't just do that while I still look like this!"

The dowager duchess stared. The seamstress stared.

"What are you talking about, girl?" the dowager duchess demanded. "You look gorgeous!"

Amy looked down at herself in the resplendent white silk dress, decorated with blue forget-me-nots and golden daisies. It hugged her curves tightly yet elegantly, along with the velvet shawl, the bonnet and the lace gloves making her look like an...an actual lady!

"Dat's da point!" Flailing her arms like an extraordinarily attractive windmill, Amy gestured at her attire. "I ain't supposed ta look like dis! Nobody can see me like this! I almost look...decent!"

The duchess blinked.

"Don't you mean 'not decent'? That is what people usually want to avoid, my dear."

"I know exactly what I mean! Decent? Decent? I've never looked decent before in my life!"

The noblewoman's face softened. She stepped forward and, before Amy could duck out of the way, enveloped her in a hug. A hug? A hug?

Amy felt a lump in her throat.

It wasn't as if this was the first time she'd been hugged. Hell, the number of 'hugs' she'd received was in the tens of thousands! But those had mostly involved a lot less clothing and a lot more male groping! This, on the other hand...

Is this what having a mother feels like?

"Poor dear!" the dowager duchess cooed. "Don't you worry! I know this must all be horribly new and confusing to you. I know you must feel out of your depth. But the etiquette and elocution teachers are already on the way, and the others are soon to follow. If that is what it takes, I shall pay them overtime so they will teach you all day long until you are the princess my son deserves."

Amy decided: She didn't want a bloody mother!

In fact, all relative candidates can go frigg themselves! Or dey can go to my place of work and get some 'elp with dat!

"Um, ye don't 'ave ta do all dat just for me, Yer Ladyship," Amy protested virtuously. "I'm just a pros—ehem, humble servant wench. I ain't really worth da trouble."

"Such a humble girl!" the dowager duchess gushed. "Don't you worry, all of this is no trouble at all! I knew I was right when I decided to bless this union!"

Who wants your blessings? Give me condemnation! Give me denial!

But, to judge by the elated expression on Her Ladyship's face, she didn't catch Amy's subtly conveyed meaning.

Well, time to get a little less subtle! Amy opened her mouth, and—

And she got hugged again.

"I'm so happy!" Lady Henrietta whispered. "I know that you're not exactly the traditional choice of wife for a future duke, but...I'm just so happy he's found someone."

Amy closed her mouth.

Damn! Damn ye ta 'ell and back, Lord Patrick Day! Why did ye 'ave ta 'ave such an accursedly, abominably...nice mother?

And why did she, Amy Weston, have to have such a bloody mushy heart?

No. No, dis ain't gonna 'appen! I'm me own woman! I've always taken care of me and mine, and won't let myself be turned into some namby-pamby princess for some bloody lordling! Even if said lordling 'appens ta 'ave da most piercing, beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen.

And a chiselled face.

And a huge bank account.

And a nice mother.

So...why the hell didn't I want to marry him again?

Shut up! Shut up, shut up!

Amy decided she really had to get it together. She hated to do it, but she had to pop Lady Henrietta's happy bubble and tell her she wasn't going to go through with this. Gathering her determination, she opened her mouth to speak, and—

—and the door swung open, admitting a red-faced maid into the room.

"My Lady, the instructors have arrived! The footmen are guiding them inside right now!"

"Splendid!" A smile on her face as wide as that big wall in China, Her Ladyship the dowager duchess rushed towards the door. "Send them in, send them in, straight away!

Throwing all caution to the wind, Amy rushed towards the window to leap out into the street and escape. A moment later, the dowager duchess appeared beside her, slinging an arm around her shoulder, hugging her close.

"Looking out for them? You can't wait either, can you, dear?"

Ye're right! I can't wait! Ye can't stand around waitin' if ye're tryin' ta run away screamin' instead!

"Um...aye, dat's right, Yer Ladyship. I...can't wait."

As if lady fate had heard her words, the vengeful bitch chose that moment to grant her wish. Sedate, smooth footsteps approached down the corridor outside. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing an impressive figure in an even more impressive dress. A tall woman with hawk-like eyes and a proud beak of a nose strode into the room, curtsying to the dowager duchess.

"Greetings, Madame La Duchesse. I 'ope my response to your summons was sufficiently swift."

"Certainly, certainly!" Beaming, the dowager duchess stepped forward, arms extended in welcome. "I'm so glad you safely found your way here. Come, come, meet your new pupil!"

"Wotcha, lady!" Amy waved at her. "Me name's Amy!"

"My name," the woman answered stiffly, "is Mademoiselle Camille Rosamonde Renoir. And I am not a 'watcher lady' or whatever you seem to believe, mademoiselle."

Amy pulled a face. "Well, what are ye den, Mademoiselle Stick-up-my-Arse?"

"I," Mademoiselle Renoir answered in a voice that could freeze erupting volcanoes, "am your new etiquette teacher."

***

In a distant part of London, in a most reputable university, two figures were striding beside each other. Or rather, one was striding ahead, while the other was scurrying behind.

"I sincerely request you to reconsider, Professor. We have prepared the very best venue for you! Our students are the most academically diligent people in the entirety of London, and the fee we would pay you for the lecture would be—"

"Pardon the interruption, but I'm afraid I will have to decline, Mr Shaw. I've received a better offer."

"Better offer?" The man looked affronted. "I know you are a highly respectable scholar from Oxford, but within this city, there is no educational institution more respected than ours. Which university could possibly provide you with a better offer?"

The professor countered the question with a question. "Who said the offer came from a university?"

"You can't possibly mean..."

"Yes. I have been hired as a private tutor."

Shaw gawked in a manner most unbefitting of a university dean. "A...private tutor? Sir! You are one of the foremost scholars in your field! Your research papers have been regularly published in the nation's most reputable academic journals! Why on earth would you waste your time on accepting a position as a private tutor?"

"Waste my time?" the professor raised an eyebrow. "I would hardly consider it a waste of time."

"But..." The poor dean rang his hands. "You're Professor Salisbury. The Professor Salisbury! Why would you lower yourself like this?"

"Lower myself?" His eyebrow rose a little higher. "By accepting an appointment in the household of Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Exeter?"

Shaw's eyes went wide.

"You're jesting!"

"No." The professor smiled proudly. "I shall be instructing the future daughter-in-law of the dowager duchess herself. Or, in other words, the woman who most likely will one day become a duchess in her own right."

"My word!" The dean sucked in a breath. "Such an august position! Such an extraordinary opportunity!"

"You see now why I took the position?"

"Of course! Were I fortunate enough to be in your place, I would naturally have done the same! The opportunity to shape the mind of the next generation of Britain's highest echelons of society...it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"Indeed." The professor nodded solemnly. "Not to mention what an extraordinary young woman the lady in question must be. To require instruction from a linguistics professor at such a young age...she must have reached a truly amazing level of intellect, to be interested in this kind of academic subject."

"How very true." The dean gazed longingly into the distance. "I wish I, too, could witness development of such a magnificent, intellectual mind."

***

There was a poignant pause.

"Oh." Amy swallowed. "Um...me etty cat teacher?"

"Vraiment, mademoiselle."

"Well...crap."

"Sat is one way of putting it, fille."

"Ye um...couldn't possibly forget what I said earlier, could ye?"

In answer, Mademoiselle Renoir grabbed Amy by the scruff of the neck and started dragging her off towards the billiard room.

"Oy! Ain't ye supposed to be an etiquette teacher? Dat ain't polite!"

"It is where I come from, fille grossière!"

"And where is dat?" Amy enquired innocently. "Da Paris 'ome for senile shrews?"

The shrew in question took that as a signal to change her grip from Amy's neck to her earlobe.

"Ow! Ow!"

"Mon dieu! Jamais de ma vie je n'ai rencontré une fille aussi inculte! Ce sera un miracle si je peux lui marteler quelques manières!"

"What was that ye said about manure?"

"Parbleu! Dieu me protège des sauvages!"

"So...I guess dat wasn't a compliment on my pretty new dress, was it?"

"Silence, fille impudente!"

"Aye, I thought not."

Amy threw a last, desperate look at Lady Henrietta Valentina Day. The woman was her prospective mother-in-law, right? She would protect her, right?

"Oh my, oh my!" Her Ladyship beamed. "The two of you are getting along so well already! I can see this is going to work out splendidly!"

I reiterate: prospective relatives can go frigg themselves!

And, with a last howl of protest, Amy was dragged into the room next door, and her torture began.

***

"So...what is dis job ye want me ta do?"

Unfortunately, Patrick's question did not get the answer he desired. Rathbone's face, which had been smiling invitingly just a moment ago, twisted into a sneer. "Ye don't honestly believe dat I'll be da one ta bother telling ye, do ye?"

Ah. Seems like the recruitment pitch is over.

Inwardly, he readied himself. Outwardly, he didn't show a hint of a reaction.

"Well, let's get to it, den!" Striding over to a nearby door, Rathbone pulled it open and stuck his head out into the corridor. "Kerrigan! Get yer arse in 'ere!"

Turning around, he gifted Lord Patrick with the kind of smile His Lordship was quite used to seeing. Usually on the faces of his fellow peers whenever they spoke down to commoners.

"Ye're wonderin' why I'm unloadin' ye on someone else? Well...ye see, I'm Rabid Rathbone, boss of the Blackstreet Snakes—while ye, on da other 'and, ye are just some rat from da street. And now dat ye'll be workin' for me, ye won't be seeing me again, unless..."

With an abnormal speed his fat body shouldn't even be capable of, Rathbone swept across the room, his knife at Lord Patrick's throat in an instant. The gleaming, polished blade bit savagely into his skin.

"Unless ye doublecross me. Clear?"

"Crystal!" Lord Patrick squeezed out through what little remained open of his airway.

"Good." With a last squeeze of the throat, Rathbone turned away, letting the Peer of the Realm sag to the floor. Patrick stared at the other man's back coldly. There were half a dozen chances to strike out at the walking embodiment of pork in front of him. Six distinct ways Amy had taught him that could have been used to take the son of a bachelor down.

Patrick used none of them.

Soon, he once again repeated to himself. Soon.

Not even bothering to glance back at him, Rathbone strode out of the room. Lord Patrick was just about to gather the motivation to rise, when a boot in the ribs did the job for him.

"Up with ye, maggot!"

Rat...snake...maggot...such sweet names they have for each other. Such a lovely family.

"I'm movin', I'm movin'," he grumbled, pushing himself up. "Who da hell are ye?"

"Me?" The newcomer, a boulder of a man with eyes as sharp as swords, spat on the floor in front of him. "As far as ye're concerned, I'm da Queen, da PM and God, all rolled inta one!"

Patrick held the man's cold gaze for a moment—then lowered his head. "Aye."

"Aye, what?" A fist slammed into him. Quickly, Patrick steadied himself against the wall.

"Aye, Boss!" Patrick squeezed out between clenched teeth. "Boss...may I ask..."

"So, ye've learned yer place, 'ave ye, maggot? Good. Speak!"

"Mr Rathbone said ye 'ad a job for me. May I ask...what is it?"

In answer, all Lord Patrick received from the man was an evil smirk. "Well, now. It's such a very interesting task..."

Heck! Lord Patrick swallowed. By now I wish I'd gone to visit my lady mother instead. Surely, Amy is having it easier than I am?

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

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

"PM" in this case doesn't stand for the later half of the day. Rather, it is what the British call their Prime minister. Below are the french translations from the upper chapters, if you are curious!

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Fille grossière—uncouth girl.

Jamais de ma vie je n'airencontré une fille aussi inculte! Ce sera un miracle si je peux lui martelerquelques manières! - Never in my life have I met such an uncultured wench! It will be a miracle if I can hammer some manners into her!

Dieu me protègedes sauvages! - God save me from savages.