"Yes, by all means," another of the surrounding ladies said, a saccharine smile on her face. "Tell us all about you and Lord Patrick! Do share!"

Amy opened her mouth—and hesitated. Just five minutes ago, she had formed a resolution to make it clear to Patrick...no, Lord Patrick, the darn Duke of Exeter's son, that there could never be anything real between them. And here she was now, essentially spreading rumours about the two of them that would only give more credence to this so-called "engagement". Maybe she should stop. Maybe—

"What's that?" Lady Bellford smirked. "Nothing to say?"

To hell with stopping! Full steam ahead!

"Oh, I was just looking for the right words," Amy sighed, placing one hand over her heart with a lovelorn look. "It's so very difficult to find words for how I feel about Patrick. I—"

"Patrick?" Lady Bellford practically choked on the word. "You call him by his first name?"

"Did I just do that? Oh my!" Snapping open her fan, Amy raised it to cover the lower half of her face and conceal her embarrassment. It certainly wasn't to conceal her face-splitting grin. "I suppose it doesn't seem very appropriate. But I can't really help it. After having so much time with him, I—"

"So much time?" another young woman demanded, her eyes practically oozing jealousy. "How long have you known His Lordship, exactly?"

Amy had to suppress her urge to snort. They were all suckers! Complete and utter suckers for punishment!

"Oh, well..." Amy nibbled on her lower lip. "A few weeks or so...I think?"

"Just a few weeks? And you're already engaged to be married?"

"Oh, but we spent almost all day together all the time!" Amy added, brightening. "Sometimes even the nights. So, that makes it better, doesn't it?"

By then, most of the women and girls around her were green with envy. That statement, however, caused an abrupt colour change to bright, flaming red.

"Nights?" Lady Bellford hissed, looking ready to strangle her. "You spent nights with him?"

"Why, of course," Amy admitted, innocently batting her eyelashes at her new friends. "Why wouldn't I? Don't you spend nights with your fiancés?"

Lady Bellford raised a trembling finger to point at her. "You...you...slattern! Trollop! Harlot!"

Oh, darlin', ye don't know 'ow right ye are.

"Why?" More innocent eyelash-batting. If she went on like this, her eyelashes could become professional cricket players. "Don't you accompany your fiancé to the theatre or the opera in the evening?"

The woman's mouth dropped open.

Then she closed it.

Then it opened again.

"Oh, silly me!" Giggling, Amy clapped her hands. "How could you? After all, none of you have a fiancé yet, do you?"

That caused the faces of all the women to twitch. Hm...odd. Did they suffer from some sickness that caused muscle spasms?

Well, Amy, charitable and refined lady that she was, would just have to do her best to cheer them up. Surely, if she put her mind to it, she could think of something to improve these ladies' mood.

"Don't worry." Smiling widely, she patted Lady Bellford's shoulder. "I know that, at your advanced age, you must be rather desperate to find someone before you end up, how do they put it...on the shelf? But have no fear, because I am here! With my advice, you'll probably soon find a respectable accountant or clerk to marry. Now, let me tell you all about me and my fiancé, Lord Patrick Day, Heir to the Duchy of Exeter..."

Oh dear, the ladies really were sick! Amy couldn't help but notice that several of them now seemed on the verge of choking.

What could this be a symptom of, I wonder?

Clearly, they needed some more cheering up with happy stories.

"So, would you like to know how the two of us met?" Amy enquired, helpful as ever.

"Oh yes," Lady Bellford hissed. "By all means, do tell us."

"Well, it's a funny story, really—"

"I'm sure it is."

"You see...a friend of mine was in a spot of trouble. So I went to him, and, well..." She paused, as if not quite sure what to say.

Sneers spread over the faces of the surrounding ladies. "You went to beg him for help?"

Amy smiled. "Well no, I thought he was the one causing my friend trouble, so I went to whack him over the head."

"You did what?"

"Whacked him over the head." Cocking her head, Amy glanced over at Lord Patrick, who, by now, had given up trying to catch up to her and drag her away from the ladies. Instead, he now had his face buried in his hands. "Although considering what happened later, he must have rather liked that. Hm...if he has those kinds of proclivities, that makes one wonder what really lurks beneath that façade of the well-bred gentleman."

When she turned back towards the ladies, she was faced with quite an impressive collection of gaping mouths and gobsmacked expressions.

"What?" Shyly, she once more hid behind her fan. Again, it definitely didn't have anything to do with concealing a shit-eating grin. "Was it something I said?"

"So that's why he never showed any attention to anyone!" a girl in the group whispered. "I wonder what would happen if we—"

"Shh!" Lady Bellford slammed her foot down on the girl's toes, abruptly cutting her off. Then, plastering a smile onto her face that was about as genuine as a Da Vinci sold at a roadside stall for two shillings thruppence, she turned towards Amy. "Say, Miss Weston...you couldn't, perchance, tell us a bit more about Lord Patrick's, um...proclivities, could you?"

Amy raised her fan a little higher. By now, her ribs were aching from the effort of trying not to laugh.

"Very well, since my new friends ask me to share, how can I refuse? After all, I can trust you, right? You wouldn't ever use what I tell you selfishly."

"Of course not!" Lady Bellford agreed, her lips twisting into an insidious smile. "You're among friends here."

"That's great!" Amy clapped happily. "Then listen up. Let me tell you all about what Lord Patrick loves in a woman..."

***

Lord Patrick Day stalked up and down along the wall of the ballroom, every now and again throwing an anxious glance towards a certain gaggle of women. It had been over a quarter of an hour since Amy had disappeared among these ruthless vultures. Patrick knew them all too well. Women like them had hounded him ever since he was old enough to grow a beard. He didn't even want to imagine what they were doing to Amy right now.

He should stop this! He should go over and make sure she was all right.

Are you joking? a voice at the back of his mind demanded. Considering what she's been through during her life, how could a few nasty women possibly faze her?

Well, it most likely couldn't. But that didn't matter. That had been before.

Before what?

Before he had met her. Before he had the power to do anything about it!

Decision made, he straightened and started moving towards the crowd of—

"Ehem, excuse me? Lord Patrick?"

He halted. Glancing sideways, he noticed that, as he'd been preoccupied, someone had approached him.

"Hello there, young Miss." Instinctively falling back on his good manners, Lord Patrick bowed to the young woman. "How may I help you?"

"Well...ehem...I..."

"Yes?"

The young woman took a deep breath—then whacked him over the head with her fan and ran away.

Lord Patrick blinked.

Did that just happen?

He shook his head. No. He must be imagining things. Surely, a young lady at a ball wouldn't publicly—

Suddenly, footsteps approached from behind.

Whack!

"Ow!"

***

Amy was just practicing ladylike nibbling on various delicacies when an arm came around her from behind, pulling her into a motherly hug.

"I'm so glad he found you, my dear!"

"Oh, um..." Cocking an eyebrow, Amy glanced down at the dowager duchess, who was clutching her like a lifeboat. "Well...thank you." Taking a glass from a passing waiter, she started sipping on her drink. "But what brought this on, Your Ladyship? Why suddenly so appreciative of my marvellous self?"

"It's just that I have realized some things." The older woman shook her head. "I'm really glad Patrick found you, dear. Young ladies from high society just aren't the same as they used to be in my day. Do you know I just watched three young women walk over to Patrick and assault him in broad daylight?"

"Pfffft!" Amy spewed the contents of her glass all over the dance floor, then started coughing.

"Are you all right, dear?" Concerned, Lady Henrietta patted her back.

"Y-yes," Amy wheezed. And not at all because she was laughing. No, it was all due to the cough, scout's honour.

"Anyway, that's why I am so very glad he found someone like you. I can rest easy in the knowledge that my son has a good, caring woman by his side, who will always look after him."

Suddenly, Amy felt all desire to laugh evaporate.

"Yes," she said softly. "Yes, I will."

Bloody 'ell! Promising stuff like dat? Was dat really me just talkin'?

Yes. Yes, it was. And more importantly...she had meant it.

Heck! What was wrong with her?

But before she could find a satisfactory answer to that question, a vaguely familiar group of older women approached at race horse speeds. Quite impressive, considering they were moving in corsets and skirts.

"So sorry for being late!" Lady Maeve, Lady Alathea and Lady Gwendolyn dashed towards them, their skirts rustling, their eyes gleaming with interest. "We would have been here sooner if someone had thought to inform us about the interesting events here this evening."

"Don't you dare blame this on me, Alathea Catherine Crane!" Lady Henrietta put on a faux censorious face. "It is your own fault that you are late! Where have you all been?"

"Not here, more's the pity." Amy felt Lady Maeve's curious eyes wander over her. "We had some business with the children's charity to take care of. Now, what is this I heard about Patrick finding a fiancée?"

"Oh yes!" Lady Henrietta exclaimed as, in the background, Lord Patrick was slapped on the butt by a passing young lady. The next one approaching him was already cracking her knuckles. "He has marvellous taste in women, doesn't he?"

Quickly, Amy raised her fan to hide her face. She was not going to laugh. She was not!

"Hm..." Lady Alathea scrutinized Amy through narrowed eyes. "I don't know. This one seems a little shy. Why are you hiding behind that fan, girl?"

Because right now, I'm tryin' not ta burst out laughin'!

"Oh, don't be so hard on the girl!" Lady Maeve gave her friend a little slap on the shoulder with her fan. "It's clear she's just a little out of her element. Don't embarrass her!"

"Hm...yes, you're right." Lady Gwendolyn, who had kept silent so far, stepped forward, steepling her thin fingers together. "She is out of her element. Which makes me wonder why. After all, surely, the young woman our dear friend chose for her son should be an accomplished, well-known lady, shouldn't she?"

Oh, crap.

Out of the corner of her eye, Amy noticed the dowager duchess throwing her desperate, pleading glances.

Promptly, Amy raised her fan a little higher. She was just a shy young girl, after all. And she definitely wasn't trying to avoid having to give answers right now.

Like a pack of hungry hyenas, the three refined ladies in sumptuous gowns encircled the dowager duchess. Clearly, they were on the hunt, stalking the gossip gazelle. Amy decided she did not want to be present when they realized there was more than one prey in the room.

"Come, Henrietta, we're your friends. You can tell us."

"Yes, do share. Where did you find this girl? Who is she?"

"Well, ehem...you see..."

Whirling around, Amy slipped away into the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Patrick, who was currently using a group of elderly military gentlemen to ward off the pack of females on his heels.

So much for the success of her first ever ball.

Well, look at it like dis, she told herself, at least things can't get any worse from 'ere on out, right?

***

Titus Irving was awakened in the middle of the day by a fist hammering on his front door.

"Blast!" he croaked, trying to find a way out of the twisted labyrinth that was his blanket. Grabbing a clock from his bedside table, he blinked blearily into the sunlight. "Heck! Ten in the morning? Who would disturb me at this ungodly hour?"

Bam! Bam, bam, bam!

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he shouted towards the fiend at the door. "And unfortunately, not in the fun way!"

Stumbling down the corridor, he pulled open the door. "Now listen here, you—!"

He stopped when he noticed he was glaring at empty air.

Huh?

"Oy! Down here!"

Titus' gaze lowered, until it fell on a familiar figure. Familiar, and unwelcomingly male. "Oh. It's you."

"No need to sound so overjoyed," Max the Marvellous smirked. "I know you've missed me."

Titus let his gaze seep across the tiny figure, who just so happened to be wearing a tight red leather outfit decorated with purple feathers. "Really? I wouldn't be so sure about that, if I were you."

"Well, we're lucky then that only I can ever be my magnificent self." He patted his chest proudly. "And guess what my magnificent self managed to do?"

Abruptly, Titus Irving was very much awake. He remembered where this fellow had disappeared to all this time, and what his task had been. "You mean you managed to..."

"Yes." Smugly, the little imp nodded.

"Spill!"

"Spill some moonshine," was the midget's answer. "Preferably into a glass."

Titus opened his mouth to say he didn't have any—then remembered who he was and realized nobody in their right mind would ever believe him.

"All right." With a grumble of protest, he pulled the door open the rest of the way. "But then you're going to tell me everything."

"Sure." Marching past him, Max went straight for the liquor cabinet and poured himself a whiskey. "I'll tell you all about how that fellow you sold me to tried to stick his thing up my—"

Hurriedly, Titus cleared his throat. He was not used to being on this end of the embarrassing remarks. Where was Patrick when you needed him?

"All right, not everything," Titus cut the midget off. "Tell me about the important stuff."

"Ah." Max nodded sagely. "Well, after you sold my poor, innocent self to that dastardly villain—" He took another swig of whiskey. "—and he tried to have his wicked way with me, I kicked him in the bollocks, tied him to the bed, kicked him in the bollocks again, punched him in the gut, kicked him in the bollocks again 'cause all good things come in threes, and—"

"Not that either. The really important stuff."

"You really don't know how to appreciate a good story, do you?"

Leaning forward, Titus did his best to spear the twirp with an intimidating gaze without twisting his neck in the process.

"Not," he said, in a voice uncharacteristically serious for him, "when lives are at stake. Tell me what you've found out. Now."

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

My dear Lords and Ladies,

In case you were wondering why anyone would be sitting on a shelf - "on the shelf" was an expression used during the Victorian era for a lady who was considered too old to get married. This could be as early as twenty-five years of age.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob