"Let's do this," Titus challenged. "Or are you scared?"

His smirk widening, the fatty shoved his entire pile of chips forward. "Not on your life!"

"This time I'll win!" Titus snarled. "I will!"

"Of course you will."

With a whirring sound, the roulette wheel started to twirl.

Several long seconds later...

"Crap! Shit, shit, steaming pile of shit straight from a pigsty!"

"Too bad," the fatty exclaimed with false sympathy, reaching for Max's collar. The little fellow put on a terrified expression, starting to tremble in his tiny boots. Oh dear. Titus couldn't help feeling pity.

For the poor pervert, that is.

"Bloody hell!" Growling, he punched the roulette table, to keep up the charade and suppress the urge to laugh his arse off. "I lost! I bloody lost!"

"Now, there..." The fatty, who seemed to be in an excellent mood, poor fool that he was, patted Titus on the shoulder. "You can't win every time. Want to have a drink to drown your loss? It's on me."

Finally! I've only been plying him with alcohol for two hours now!

"That'd be welcome. Honestly, I'm more riled up about losing than I am about being rid of that little twerp." He jutted a thumb towards Max, who trembled under his stern glare, poor little mistreated child that he was. "I've gotten tired of him long ago. Should have gotten a replacement ages ago. But the, ehem...gentleman who supplied my special tastes had to leave Britain in a hurry. Those plebs that call themselves policemen can be such a bother to upstanding citizens."

"Well—hick!" Leering, the fat fellow leaned closer towards Titus, forcing him to fight the instinct to leap out of the closest window. "That's rotten luck, old boy! Completely rotten luck! Hm...hick! Tell you what, since I'm partially responsible for your losing your little toy, why don't I help you get a new one?"

"Huh? You...you can do that?" Titus demanded, somehow managing to sound surprised, and making his voice slurred. A-plus acting! "How?"

"Well...I trust you won't—hick!—share this with anyone, but..."

"Yes?"

"I happen to be a member of a certain gentleman's club. Occasionally, we host auctions for people with—hick!—special tastes."

Yes! Yes, finally!

"You don't say?" Titus let wicked smile #3 spread across his face, the one he normally used to scare off prospective mothers-in-law. It seemed to do the trick.

"I see I was right. You do share my—hick!—interests, don't you? Well...new members of the club are invited on a referral basis. Interested in joining?"

Titus's wicked smile widened. "Tell me more."

The fat man cackled and, reaching over to a passing waiter, popped open a new bottle of wine.

Three alcohol-filled hours later, a chipper and surprisingly sober Titus Irving sauntered over to the corner of the lounge where a bearded mountain was stewing in misery. Apparently, after Titus had (completely accidentally, of course) let it slip what kind of status and fortune the man's employer commanded, Karim had been showered with quite a bit of attention by the ladies.

"Well, well, Mr Bodyguard..." Grinning, Titus sidled over to the bearded man, whose face was covered in glitter and lipstick stains. "Were you successful in guarding your body?"

"I am going to murder you. I am going to murder you slowly with a rusty chisel!"

"Ah." Titus nodded solemnly. "So your virtue was lost, and you wish for revenge. I can understand that. Any virgin would—"

He ducked just in time to evade the small decorative porcelain figurine that came flying at his head.

"Now, now, there's no need for that. I'm perfectly willing to take responsibility for my actions and—"

He ducked again, barely avoiding the ornate candle holder meant to skewer him.

"Hey, you haven't even heard about the result of our mission! You wouldn't want to accidentally harm me and jeopardize the health and safety of innocent little children, would you?"

"No." Karim's fists clenched and unclenched. "There would be nothing accidental about it."

"Ehem." Cautiously, Titus took a step back. "There's no need for this kind of aggression..."

"Agreed." Karim's hand landed on his sabre hilt. "I can think of better kinds of aggression to use in this situation."

"Um..."

"But, as much as it pains me to admit it," Karim continued in a low growl, "you are right. We have work to do. So, let us leave this place and find a more suitable location for this discussion, shall we?"

"Ah." Titus breathed a sigh of relief. "Excellent!"

Together, they left the casino, Titus making sure to convincingly stagger and sway on the way out, even breaking into a little drunken song for a minute. Once they were outside and well away from the den of iniquity—which, while a horrendous place of sin, Titus had to admit had really good booze—they found a little café, ordered one cup each and waited until the waiter had disappeared.

"So," Karim enquired, his face grim. Or at least as grim as a face could look with traces of lipstick still visible on one cheek. "How did things go?"

"Excellent!" Titus responded, nibbling on a croissant.

"Is that so?"

"Mmm-hmm!" Taking another bite, he nodded enthusiastically. "I lost all my friend's money at roulette, sold a little fellow to a depraved sexual deviant, and you know what's best of all?"

"Fortunately, no. But I get the feeling you're about to tell me."

Grinning, Titus held up several shiny black tickets with silver cursive writing. "I got these. Special invitations for an illegal slave auction. Patrick will be so thrilled!"

***

Lord Patrick Day watched with twitching brows as his servants rushed through the garden behind his house with wheelbarrows full of...

Well, he preferred to refer to it as "fertilizer". Using that word made it so much easier not to focus on what the stuff actually was.

He had to hand it to Amy. She certainly was talented at taking revenge on people. Amazingly talented, in fact, considering he suspected she had placed this "present" here before he even did anything annoying enough to warrant revenge. How very "generous" of her.

"Oh, just you wait," he growled, marching up and down in front of the French windows that provided the view of Mont Merde, to put it in French. "Just you wait till I get my hands on you!"

"I'm afraid I shall have to decline, My Lord," Griffiths replied from behind him. "I am not interested in that kind of relationship. And besides, there is the little fact it is illegal."

Lord Patrick took a deep breath. "Griffiths?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Why do I keep you around again?"

"I keep your socks organized, My Lord. And I keep prospective mothers-in-law at bay whenever they try and come for tea."

Sometimes, nothing was more irritating than the truth.

A mental image of Amy piling up dung in his garden flashed past Lord Patrick's inner eye.

Right now I can think of at least one thing, though.

"Griffiths!"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Tell Everstone to bring the coach around, will you? I need to go see Miss Amy Weston, to...discuss the next step of our plan with her."

"Certainly, My Lord. Do you wish for me to clean and prepare your dueling pistols for the occasion?"

Lord Patrick considered for a moment—then shook his head, cracking his knuckles. "No. After all the lessons she was kind enough to teach me, that would be impolite. This case requires more...personal attention."

"I see. I shall inform Everstone at once, My Lord."

It didn't take long for the carriage to roll out in front of the house. Armed with righteous wrath, Lord Patrick strode outside and climbed into the carriage.

That woman...! I'm going to wring her neck! And then I'm going to invite her for a "sparring session" and show her how much I've been practicing. I can't wait to put her down on the mat and give her a thorough pounding!

The whip cracked and the carriage started down the street, but it didn't take long for Patrick to notice they weren't heading in the direction of the East End. He frowned.

"Everstone? Where are we going?"

"Didn't you know, My Lord? One of Her Grace's servants told me Miss Amy would be coming over to her house for more lessons. She's currently with your Lady Mother."

Lord Patrick swallowed.

On second thought, putting Miss Amy down on the mat and giving her a thorough pounding might not be such a good idea at the moment. In any sense of the words.

"But, right now, I think Her Grace is at the tea salon with the other ladies of the board of governors of the London Society for the Aid of Orphans and the Poor. She shouldn't be back before three pm."

"Is that so?" Lord Patrick's head rose with new hope, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Everstone?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Bring the horses to full gallop! I want to be at Her Ladyship's place in a maximum of five minutes!"

"Yes, My Lord."

Two minutes, several terrified pedestrians and four exhausted horses later, they came to a screeching halt in front of the dowager duchess's secondary townhouse. The instant they did, Lord Patrick leapt out and strode up the porch steps.

"Should I bring the coach into the stables and rub down the horses, My Lord?"

"No need." Throwing a few experimental punches into the air, Lord Patrick Day smiled. "This won't take long."

"If you say so, My Lord."

It didn't escape Lord Patrick's attention that his servant did not sound particularly convinced.

Ha! I'll show him! And more particularly, I'll show her! She might have some sneaky tricks up her sleeves, but she's shown me all of them by now. In the end, all that matters is power. Whether in the form of money, influence or power, I have the advantage over her in every single aspect! An advantage I plan to put to good use for the first time. Miss Amy Weston is going down! And there is nothing she can do to stop me!

The instant the butler of the house opened the door, Lord Patrick stormed inside, utterly ignoring the man's startled face. He had prey to hunt! And nothing and no one was going to get in his way!

"Miss! Amy! Weston!"

His voice shook the walls. Only a second or two passed, then a door at the end of the corridor opened, and Amy stuck her head out into the hallway.

"Why, good afternoon, Lord Patrick! What can I do for you?"

Lord Patrick felt his jaw drop, unable to do anything to stop it. Instinctively, he felt the urge to clean his ears. Where were the swear words? Why were there so many Hs? "A-Amy?"

"Naturally, Your Lordship." The sweet voice of the woman that surely could not be Miss Amy Weston responded. "Who else would it be?"

Taking a deep breath, Lord Patrick shook his head. Ignore it! You know she's been taking lessons, don't you? It shouldn't surprise you that she learned how to pronounce the eighth letter in the alphabet. And it sure as hell shouldn't make you forget the fact that she dumped a mountain of feces in your garden! And stop staring at her!

"You...!" Stalking towards the innocently smiling young woman, Lord Patrick speared her with his gaze. And he had to restrain himself not to do the same with one of the decorative swords hanging on the walls. "You've got a lot to answer for!"

"I do?" she blinked at him, innocently. "What could you possibly be talking about?"

"Don't you play innocent! You know perfectly well what you did!" He stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. An entirely un-lordly gleam entered his eyes. "And there is nothing and no one who can prevent me from dealing out the punishment you deserve!"

"Is that so?" Amy enquired sweetly.

"Oh yes!"

"Girls?" Amy called out, her voice melodious. "Would you come out here for a moment, please?"

He heard the pattering of little feet and, a moment later, Flo, Jo, Leona, Grace and Aggie stuck their little heads out of the door, gazing up at him. Oh, and Throatripper the rabbit was, of course, also there.

"Now," Amy enquired, sending an angelic smile his way. "What were you saying about nothing and no one standing in the way of you dealing out punishment?"

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Sorry if today's chapter is a little short. The next one will be longer again :)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob