06. One against the World

"Let 'em go?" The thug sneered. "Ain't gonna happen!"

Lord Patrick took a step forward, his eyes flicking across the yard, measuring the distance, assessing the surroundings. "Let go. Now!"

"All right, if ye insist..."

Obligingly, the man dropped his burden. The girl slammed onto the ground, grunting in pain. An instant later, the man's boot smashed into her ribs.

"Leave her alone!" Gritting his teeth, Lord Patrick dashed forward, towards the man, who was drawing his foot back for another kick. "Did you hear me? I said—"

The man whirled around. Lord Patrick saw cold, hard steel flash towards him. Sliding one arm underneath the thug's, he pushed it up and to the side, sending the knife stabbing harmlessly into empty air.

"What the—!"

"Let me introduce you to my right hook." Lord Patrick smiled a grim smile at the man. "Courtesy of the Balliol College boxing club!"

Wham!

The thug staggered back, and the knife flew out of his hand, clattering to the floor. With a flick of his foot, Lord Patrick kicked it away and, leaping across the little girl on the ground, placed himself between her and the three men.

"Bastard! We'll get you!" The other two ruffians rushed towards him. None of them had a knife, but they wore brass knuckles on their fists.

Lord Patrick snorted. Half-turning to minimize the target area, he raised his fists.

"Come at me if you dare!"

One of them rushed forward, aiming for His Lordship's gut. Weaving to the side, Lord Patrick's arm lashed out in a jab, hitting the man square in the face.

"Ugh!"

Moving in before the thug had a chance to recover, Lord Patrick bent and delivered an uppercut that sent the thug's head snapping back. All equilibrium lost, the man stumbled, and a last fist to the gut sent him crumpling to the ground.

"Stay right where ye are!"

Lord Patrick glanced up, expecting to see another fist sailing towards him—but no. Apparently, the last ruffian wasn't just a mindless thug. Instead, he was simply evil. He stood there, holding the little girl's brother up by the throat.

"Don't move, or I'll squeeze dis little bug till 'e chokes!"

"Jimmy!"

The little girl leapt up from the ground and tried to stagger towards her brother. Lord Patrick grabbed her around the middle.

"Don't! Stay away from those men!"

"But...but...Jimmy...!"

The thug threw her a dirty grin. "Wanna save yer brother, little girl? I'll switch 'im for ye. Ye'll be worth more money anyway."

More money? Lord Patrick frowned. What in God's name was that supposed to mean?

He was distracted by the girl struggling in his arms.

"Let me go! 'e's got my brother!"

But His Lordship only clutched her more tightly. In his head, he couldn't help but hear that phrase over and over again: worth more money. Worth more money. It sent a shiver down his back, and he knew one thing: he was not going to let go of this girl! Not until it was safe!

The thug seemed to be coming to the same conclusion.

"Ain't gonna let go of 'er, are ye?" He snarled. "Fine! Then scram! Get away from me, or I'm gonna break this little twerp in 'alf!"

Lord Patrick didn't move. He didn't step forward—but he didn't retreat, either. Not even an inch.

"What da bloody 'ell do ye think ye're doin'? Ye can't touch me as long as I got dis little rat!"

Still, His Lordship ignored him. Instead of bothering to answer the thug, his eyes met the little boy's, as if they were alone in the nocturnal yard.

"You know what you have to do, right? Be brave. Be brave for your sister."

The boy managed a minuscule nod.

"Oh, and there's one more thing you have to do..." Patrick's eyes bored hard into the boy's. "Kick!"

The thug's eyes widened. But it was already too late. The boy's foot lashed out and hit him in the gut. It was a weak kick, pathetically weak. Yet it was more than strong enough for a second's distraction. The thug's grip on the boy's neck loosened, and he stumbled. When he looked up, something was rushing towards his face, and—

Wham!

The orphan dropped to the ground but stayed on his feet. Instantly, he leapt back, out of the way, leaving plenty of room.

Lord Patrick smiled. Smart boy! Time to get down to business!

He drew his fist back.

"Oy, wait! We can make a deal! We—"

Whack!

His fist slammed into the man's cheek.

"I have only one basic question, but with many facets," he spoke, his voice deadly calm. "Why?"

"Don't! I—"

Wham!

"Why?" His Lordship repeated, stepping forward as the man retreated. "Why would you break into this place? Why grab those children?"

"We...didn't mean any 'arm!" The man's eyes nervously twitched from side to side. "We were just gonna play a little prank, and...and..."

"Do you know one of the benefits of growing up among nobility?" Lord Patrick asked, his voice calm, almost gentle. "Thanks to your peers generously providing examples, you learn to recognize lying scum from an early age."

Wham!

"Tell. Me. The truth. Now!"

"Ye think ye can just keep hittin' me?" In an instant, like a cornered dog, the thug turned from fearful to ferocious. Leaping forward, he aimed a punch at Lord Patrick's diaphragm. Unflinchingly, Patrick stood his ground and slammed his arms together, forming a cross-arm block. As if it were no more substantial than a raindrop, the ruffian's punch bounced off the tensed arm muscles.

"Actually," His Lordship said, "I do."

Wham!

A punch, more powerful than any before, sent the thug sailing backwards. He slammed into the ground and wheezed, fighting for breath.

"N-no! Don't...! Please, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to...!"

"I normally stand by the principle to not beat a man when he's down. But in this case..." Lord Patrick's eyes flickered to the children. The boy was clutching his sister in his arms. He still had red marks around his throat. The third child peeked out from behind them, eyes wide with fear. "I'll make an exception!"

His foot lashed out, slamming into the man's ribs. Then, he knelt above the man, grabbing him by the collar with an unbreakable grip. "Who put you up to this?" he growled, smashing the man against the ground. "Who?"

"I...I dunno!" The young man's eyes flickered with fear. "We was only told to get da brats and leave dem in a ware'ouse! I swear!"

"Patrick!"

The sudden shout from behind him tore Lord Patrick from his rage. He turned his head to see Titus rushing into the back yard.

"I saw Brandon running out of here as if the hounds of hell were on his heels! Why—Crap! What the bloody hell is going on here?"

"You put it quite succinctly, actually." Patrick glanced down at his knuckles, stained red—then looked over at the children. It had been so close. So very close. If he'd only decided to wander into the back yard a few minutes later... "Bloody hell."

He turned to face Titus—and suddenly, the thug made his move. Jerking aside, he tore his collar free of Lord Patrick's grip and, jumping to his feet, raced across the yard.

"Stop him!" Patrick yelled, leaping to his feet. "Titus, go after him!"

They raced after the man, but before they were able to lay a hand on him, he reached the fence and leapt up. Grabbing the top, he swung himself over the iron spikes, not caring that the metal tore his clothes and dug into his flesh. Drops of blood spattering everywhere, he landed on the ground on the other side and, in a blink, had disappeared into the darkness.

Cursing inwardly, Patrick reached up, wanting, needing to go after him—then hesitated. Half-turning, he let his gaze move over the yard. Two unconscious figures were still lying on the ground, ready to be interrogated. And, more importantly...

His eyes landed on the three children huddled together, shivering.

His feet started moving without a thought.

"Patrick?" Titus demanded. "Patrick, what the hell is going on here? Hey...Patrick, are you ignoring me? What are you doing? What the...?"

Kneeling on the ground, Patrick reached out. With both arms, he hugged the shivering children towards him. For some reason, this once, it felt neither odd nor awkward. "Don't be afraid!" he whispered. "You're safe! You're safe now!"

***

"So..." The policeman raised his pencil to scratch behind his ear. "What did dose bloody brats do dis time?"

Lord Patrick's eyes narrowed. "Those bloody brats?"

"Gadzooks! Inspector, will ye look at that?" The policeman's eyes widened, and he stabbed his pen forward, having noticed the scene in the yard for the first time. "Those little rats knocked out those two poor fellows and tied dem up!"

"I saw it, I saw it." Growling, a sturdy figure with a thick moustache shouldered the policeman aside and bowed. "Inspector Ian Pritchard, at your service, My Lord. Don't ye worry. We'll drag dose little twerps off to the station and squeeze out of dem what dey were up to."

Lord Patrick Day scrutinized the inspector as if he were a particularly large cockroach, worth of scientific study due to its notable lack of intelligence.

"You are mistaken, Inspector. Your description does not fit the actual events. What happened is in fact this..."

In calm, concise language, he described exactly what happened earlier that night.

"...so you see, Inspector," he concluded, "it is the children who are the innocent victims here. They barely escaped their kidnappers."

The inspector and his henchman gazed at him for a long moment—then broke out into laughter!

"Hahahaha! Innocent victims? Good one, My Lord! That's a good one! Gawblimey, ye nobles really 'ave a sense of humour!"

"Sense...of humour?"

"Aye!" His moustache still quivering with suppressed laughter, the inspector jerked his finger at the grubby figures of the three children. "I mean, just look at dem! Who on earth would wanna kidnap dem?"

Lord Patrick did not remember what he replied after that. As an upright, well-bred gentleman, he tended to block out people who threw around ear-blistering profanities.

Still...

As much as he did not want to, Lord Patrick had to admit, the policemen had a point. And he was not referring to the one at the tip of the constable's pencil.

Why would anyone kidnap orphans?

Aristocrats? Yes. Wealthy people? Yes. Politicians, even? Yes.

But penniless orphans?

It was sheer lunacy. Orphans were expensive. He should know—his financial advisor complained to him about it often enough. Not only did you pay for their food, board and other living necessities, but you also had to pay someone to take care of them. There was an entire industry of baby farmers who took care of unwanted children, if you paid them enough. Anyone who shouldered such a responsibility for free might certainly be commendable—but would, most likely, be declared insane by most of London's population.

Plus, Lord Patrick very much doubted they were dealing with a selfless saint here. He was not very familiar with saints, but he was fairly sure they didn't usually punch, throttle and kidnap people.

Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

He felt an ominous tingle at the back of his neck. The same kind of tingle he'd felt as an officer in the Navy, just before an enemy ship's cannonballs crashed into them, splitting masts, sails and sailors alike. His instincts told him something was going on here. Something more than was visible to the naked eye.

But what?

He had no idea.

So, he made it his mission to find out.

A man like him, with power and influence most people could only dream of, had many means at his disposal. Not the least of which was that he was related to at least a hundred people no less powerful and influential than himself.

After weeks of diligent investigations, finally, his efforts bore fruit—and he almost wished they hadn't. He found out why exactly someone might wish to kidnap orphans, particularly orphaned girls. He found out, but he didn't want to believe it.

No! No, such a thing could never happen in England! It could never...!

But what if it could?

Growling, Lord Patrick Day marched to the front door and tore his hat off the hatstand.

"Griffiths?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Go tell Everstone to get the carriage! I'm going out! And send a message boy to Mr Irving. The two of us are going on a little trip."

***

"I am never going to go out for a night on the town with you ever again," Titus groaned, trying to shift into a less painful position, "Not ever!"

"Be silent and stop wobbling!" Lord Patrick commanded.

"Drinks, pretty girls, a bit of musical theatre, more pretty girls...now that's what I would provide for my best friend if I would take him out on a Saturday night. I'm generous like that. Such a pity that not all people are so generous."

"Yes, such a pity. Now hold still, or I shall step on your head instead of your hand!"

"You know," Titus mused, "there's a delightful new French restaurant in Christ Church. They serve the most delicious quiche this side of the Channel."

"And I assume the waitresses are even more delicious?"

"Funny you should mention that! It just so happens that there's a young waitress there called Bernadette, who has been sending me meaningful looks, recently, and—"

"Ah, yes. I think I am somewhat familiar with it. The 'Leave-me-alone-you-creep-or-I'll-set-my-older-brothers-on-you' stare, is it?"

"Certainly not! I'll have you know that my charms are appreciated by ladies all over the town and—"

"Shh!"

Lord Patrick cut him off with a jerk of his hand. They both fell silent and listened.

"What?" Titus whispered.

"I thought I heard something. But...no."

"Oh."

"Move forward a little! I need to get a closer look!"

"Of course you do." Huffing and puffing, Titus moved towards the wall. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, Lord Patrick wiped dirt off the small window in front of him and leaned closer, peering through the glass.

"Fascinating view, is it?" Titus enquired. "I, myself, enjoy the panorama of Birmingham sewers more than dingy London warehouses, but to each his own."

Lord Patrick's mouth twitched grimly. "I believe you would find the view more than interesting. Have a look for yourself."

He leapt down and offered his own hands as a foothold. Mumbling something about soft cushions and delicious quiche, Titus pulled himself up to peer through the tiny window.

"Oh. How incredible. An empty warehouse. I can hardly find the words to describe my joy at this marvellous view. I wonder why all the theatre audiences are in Covent Garden and not here."

"I said I was inviting you for a night out. I did not say it would be entertaining."

"Let me explain something to you, Patrick: for most people, that would be entailed in the statement."

"You don't say."

"Patrick?"

"Yes?"

"You've been my best friend since school. So I hope you don't take it amiss when I cordially ask: what the bloody hell are we doing here?"

"I received an anonymous tip."

"An anonymous—Patrick! Have you lost your mind? You're not the police!"

A mental image of Inspector Pritchard appeared in front of Lord Patrick's inner eye.

"Thank the Lord for that."

Titus was just about to retort when, from the other side of the warehouse, they heard a clank!

"Psht! Listen!"

"To what? Two rats copulating?"

"Be quiet!"

There was a scraping noise—then footsteps.

"Rats, you said?" His Lordship whispered, raising an eyebrow.

"All right. Big rats with boots."

"Get down here! I'm going to have another look!"

Titus did as ordered and, reluctantly, held out his interlocked fingers.

Wordlessly, Patrick climbed up and peered through the window. He waited—but Patrick said nothing. That is, until, a moment later, he uttered a vile curse.

Titus blinked.

Lord Patrick Pray-Use-Proper-English-Grammar Day cursing?

"What's going on?"

No answer. Nothing could be heard but the sound of shuffling footsteps. Nothing really seemed to be happening. Titus shivered in the cold.

"Come on, we've wasted enough time here," he whispered. "Why don't we go to Madam Linsey's? I know you're a moralist, but she runs a reputable establishment, and her girls are very accommodating. We could have a lot of fun toni—"

Above him, Patrick stiffened. Instantly, Titus knew that something was very, very wrong.

"You want girls?" Patrick hissed. "Very well! Have a look!"

Leaping down from his friend's shoulders, Patrick interlaced his hands and hoisted his friend up to the dirty window he'd just been staring through.

"What, girls in this place? Have you suddenly become a voyeur in your old age, Patrick?" Smirking, Titus stepped onto the interlocked fingers and hoisted himself up towards the window. "My, my, I didn't know you...you..."

His voice slowly drained away. As he stared through the window, the colour fled from his face on the heels of his smile.

"What the...! What is this?"

"What do you think?"

"Those...those aren't girls as in 'young women'! Those are little girls! A bloody warehouse full of little girls!"

"Yes."

"Patrick...what the hell is going on here? Why are they here?"

"That," Patrick said grimly, "is what I'd like to know."

Titus opened his mouth—and abruptly snapped it shut again when a door somewhere flew open with a crash! Titus might not have gotten the best of marks at Eton, but from previous experiences with jealous husbands, he had obtained more than enough practical intelligence to avoid flying bullets and stabbing blades.

Swiftly and silently, Titus leapt down from Patrick's hands, and the two friends pressed themselves against the wall below the window.

"This is a factory, right?" Titus's voice was nothing but a whisper. When Patrick glanced over to look at him, he had an almost pleading expression on his face. Poor fellow. "Tell me you decided to take me to a factory night shift?"

Lord Patrick felt his hands clench into fists. "I'm afraid not, my friend. If it is what I think it is—"

He abruptly cut off when a rough voice barked inside the warehouse. The walls were old, but very sturdy—somewhat too sturdy, in fact, for a mere warehouse.

His Lordship gave a humourless smile. It almost seems as if it were built to keep people in, instead of the wind and rain out. I wonder why.

The thick walls had one additional effect. He could hardly understand a word of what was said inside. Not that he didn't try, though. He almost squashed his ear to pulp as he pressed it against the wall, trying to listen.

"...tomorrow...no damagin' da merchandise..."

Lord Patrick turned pale.

Tomorrow!

They had to do something. They had to do something now!

"Patrick...?" Titus knew his friend very well. His hand instantly latched onto the man's wrist. "Don't even think about it!"

Lord Patrick indeed did not think about it. Instead, he just acted by instinct. Leaping down from the reluctant ladder that was his friend, he bent to pick up a pebble from the ground, pressed it into his friend's hand and jerked his head up at the window.

"Give me ten seconds. Then...well, you know what to do."

"I hate you!"

"Then you can run. You can leave the dangerous part to me."

"I love you! Platonically!"

"I know. Till later." And, whirling around on the spot, Lord Patrick dashed off into the darkness. In his mind, he started to count.

Ten...

Nine...

Let's hope Titus has improved since elementary school. Perhaps he should have picked a countdown from five.

Eight...

Seven...

Six...

Lord, please let this work, he directed a prayer towards the only superior authority he respected besides the Queen of England. Lord, please! And please lend Titus your divine mathematics skills!

Five...

Four...

Three...

Out of the shadows, he saw the corner of the building appear ahead. He was nearly there! Just a few more yards...!

Two...

One...

Crash!

From behind him, he heard the sound of glass splintering into a thousand pieces. Instantly, shouts started coming from inside the warehouse. Rising above the terrified screams and whimpers of the girls came the men's voices.

"What da 'ell was dat?"

"Someone's watchin'! Get dem!"

"Everyone outside, now!"

Without the slightest hesitation, Lord Patrick hurled himself behind a stinking barrel full of half-rotten fish. Moments later, a group of dark figures thundered by, cursing and wielding knives and clubs.

Run, Titus! Run!

But before His Lordship could dash out from behind the barrel, Titus suddenly appeared beside him out of the shadows.

"What are you doing here?" Patrick hissed. "I told you to run! Are you a fool?"

"Obviously. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"What if those men saw you slip past them? What if they chase after you?"

"Ha!" Titus snorted. "I've been running away from my responsibilities and life in general since I was six! Compared to that, those thugs are nothing."

Lord Patrick felt a grin spread over his entire face. There was a reason why Titus was his best friend.

"Then let's go!"

They raced through the clouded, stormy night as fast as their legs would carry them, gravel crunching and flying up from beneath their feet. Ahead, the corner flew closer at a prodigious speed.

"What now?" Titus panted.

"Now we do this!" His face grim, Lord Patrick leapt around the corner. Before him was the entrance to the warehouse, and before the entrance stood a man. One single man. A fierce smile spread across Patrick's face. Just as he'd thought. Careless fools!

"What...! Who the blazes are ye? Stop right where ye a-aagh!"

The man collapsed as Patrick's fist slammed into his liver.

Titus smirked. "I must say, your manner of greeting people has undergone a drastic change of late, Your Lordship."

"It has, hasn't it?" Lord Patrick smiled. "I think I like the new way. Pity it wasn't more widespread back at Oxford."

Kicking open the door, he raced into the warehouse. Squeals and pleas rose into the air. In the gloom, a dozen or so figures of small girls pressed themselves against the walls, shivering. Lord Patrick felt his throat tighten. There were a million things he wanted to say or do—but he had time for none of them! Instead, he dashed forward, pulling a knife out of his pocket. More screams rose into the air—and abruptly stopped when His Lordship slashed through the girls' bindings.

"Run!" he roared. "Run and scatter, before they catch you!"

None of them needed to be asked twice. Patrick and Titus nearly got trampled underfoot as the girls rushed out the door, into the open. His Lordship glanced from left to right and listened intently. The voices of the remaining men still seemed to be coming from the other side of the warehouse. Yes! The girls were going to get away! All of them would—

"Dey're gettin' away!" Suddenly, the man Patrick had punched down earlier rolled around, starting to shout. "Get 'em! Dey're gettin' awa—oof!"

He broke off when Patrick's foot rammed into his guts—but it was too late. The other thugs were rushing around the warehouse already. His Lordship could hear their footsteps thundering towards the entrance. Growling with frustration, he snatched up two of the thinnest, slowest children and started running. Only when he reached the next street corner did he dare to glance over his shoulder—just in time to see the thugs lunge forward and grab hold of the three stragglers.

"Move!" Titus hissed. "We've got to get out of here!"

"But—"

Yet, before His Lordship could get out another word, one of the ruffians pulled out a revolver and took aim.

Bam!

"Move, now!" And, with all his power, Titus dragged the struggling Lord Patrick away into the midnight mist. As they ran, the whole way home, Patrick saw the desperate faces of those three children who hadn't been able to run fast enough.

Except for when, occasionally, he saw flashes of the men who held them.

"God in heaven..." Coming to a stop, panting and leaning against the wall of a cheap brick house, Titus wretched. "I can't believe... God, I want to kill those bloody bastards!"

"A sentiment which, although roughly worded, I absolutely share." Lord Patrick's eyes glittered darkly. "But killing them is not enough."

"Not enough?" Still pale-faced, Titus stared at him. "Then...then what do we do now?"

Lord Patrick met his friend's gaze. "We strike with the strongest weapon of all—the truth!"

Titus stared at him for a moment—then covered his face with his hands. "Oh no. You don't mean to go to that old bast— um, that elderly gentleman? You can't possibly plan to ask him for help, can you?"

"No." Shaking his head, His Lordship wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and stalked off into the darkness. "I won't ask. I'll demand!"

"But he's a bloody maniac!"

Lord Patrick closed his eyes, nightmarish images once more flickering past his vision. "Currently, he is by no means the only one. Let's go!"

***

The very next evening, just as the moon rose over the shadowy streets and alleys of London, a dark figure stepped out of Lord Patrick Day's house and strode towards a waiting carriage.

"Everstone!"

The coachman glanced down from the box.

"Yes, My Lord?"

Reaching up, Lord Patrick handed him a scrap of paper. "To this address, immediately!"

The coachman took the paper, glanced at it—and his eyebrows shot up. "Are...are you sure, Your Lordship? You haven't been there in years. For, ehem...good reasons."

"Yes. I am sure."

"Very well, My Lord." Everstone inclined his head. "I shall ask for your survival in my prayers."

Lord Patrick gave his coachman a dark look. "He is not that scary."

"Is that so, My Lord? Then, may I enquire why Mr Irving declined to accompany you?"

"Everstone?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Just drive!"

"As you command, My Lord." Everstone cracked his whip. "Gee-up!"

The coach jerked forward. Even though it was dark, lots of people were still on the streets. They all moved out of the way the moment they saw the coat of arms on the door of his carriage. Lord Patrick smiled a small, sardonic smile. If only all things in this world would bend to his will as easily. Then, things like the ones he had seen last night would never happen again.

Well...he would just have to make it bend!

About half an hour's travel later, the coach came to a halt in front of a towering brick building. It looked nothing like Lord Patrick's mansion in the West End. This monstrosity was tall and dirty, and various suspicious figures hung around the entrance. In other words—it was a newspaper.

"Wait here!" Lord Patrick commanded, leaping out of the carriage. "I shall not be long."

"As you command, My Lord," Everstone said, the silent subtext proclaiming: As if I'd go with you!

Pushing open the double doors, His Lordship marched inside. Quickly ascending two flights of stairs, he pushed open another set of doors and plunged into a different world. The giant room he entered was a maelstrom of chaos, chatter and scraping pens. People of all ages and sizes were sitting at dozens of desks, separated by thin wooden partitions, and united by their frenzy to work faster than anyone else. Except for one.

Zeroing in on the fat man behind the desk, Lord Patrick marched straight towards him. The desk was built like a bulwark in front of a particular door, with the occupant's bulk providing an additional barrier. On the door behind him was fastened a shiny brass plate, proclaiming:

Chief Editor's Office

Lord Patrick came to a halt in front of the watchdog's desk, eyeing him with the supreme arrogance of a nobleman who owned many dogs with much better pedigrees.

"I wish to see Mr Hendrickson."

The bleary-eyed man behind the desk bit off a piece of chewing tobacco and, raising an eyebrow, started to chew. "Are ye sure? Most people around 'ere very much do not wish to see Mr 'endrickson."

"I am sure."

"Hm. Well, ye're out of luck, I'm afraid. Da boss ain't seein' anyone who don't come with an interview offer from da Queen of England. It's a standing order. I don't plan ta get me 'ead bitten off for buttin' in on 'im while 'e's workin'. Who are ye, anyway?"

Reaching into his tailcoat, Lord Patrick withdrew a slim, white rectangle from an inner pocket and held it under the man's bulbous nose.

"This is who I am."

The man spat out his tobacco. It sailed past Patrick's ear and bounced off the opposite wall.

"Y-ye are..."

"Yes. The Queen will have to wait today, I'm afraid."

"But ye never show up 'ere! Never!"

"Now I have."

"I...well, um..." Leaping to his feet, the man retreated, bowing repeatedly. "Please wait 'ere! I'll be back right away, and...and..."

Unable to find any more words in his suddenly vacuum-filled brain, the man whirled around and ran. Lord Patrick didn't blame him. There were few things that could instil more panic into a man than his boss, and one of those things was undoubtedly his boss's boss's boss.

"Mr Hendrickson! Mr Hendrickson!"

Lord Patrick heard the watchdog's excited shouts—then they were suddenly muted, as the door to the chief editor's office closed behind him. For a few moments, His Lordship saw nothing but shifting shadows through the milky glass walls, and heard only the whisper of a voice, then...

"Damn and blast! What's that pompous bastard doing here?"

Whoever had built those glass walls of the office, had obviously not reckoned with its current occupant. The glass shook and rattled from the thunder of that voice. Hurried, soothing whispers followed, most likely trying to remind Mr Hendrickson of the possible negative ramifications of calling your employer a pompous bastard.

This was followed by the reluctant grumble of an editorial volcano, and then...

"Inside!"

Everyone in the office hall flinched at the sound of the explosion. Moments later, the door to the office carefully slid open, and the watchdog gave Lord Patrick a tentative smile.

"Um...the chief editor is delighted you have decided to visit and would love to see you immediately, My Lord. Won't ye step inside?"

"Certainly."

Handing the man his hat and gloves, Lord Patrick strode into the office and closed the door behind him.

"Good evening, Chief Editor. I hope you are we—"

"What the hell are you doing here? I ain't got time to waste on noble layabouts, I've got a title story to work on!"

Ah. So Hendrickson was in a good mood today.

"Well," His Lordship said, stepping forward unperturbed. "Perhaps I can help you with that. I have a story for you."

Hendrickson's eyes narrowed, and his moustache twitched. This wasn't the kind of woolly walrus monstrosity that was planted on Inspector Pritchard's face. Oh no, this one was an entirely more dangerous kind of moustache, its waxed ends poking up like the tips of the devil's pitchfork.

"Harrumph! A story? A bloody story? You've owned this paper for a measly twelve years, and already you think you can march in through the front door, pretending to know something about journalism? Just because you pay my salary doesn't mean you can tell me what to do!"

Lord Patrick cleared his throat. "Well, actually, yes it does. According to the general consensus on the mechanics of employment, that is exactly what it means," he felt it incumbent upon himself to point out.

Hendrickson gave a snort that a steam engine would have been proud of. "You can take your general consensus and stick it where the sun don't shine! I'm the general here! And I have no intention of running some insipid little social piece about Lord Whatshisname dancing with the latest society beauty from Hinterlandington! This is a serious newspaper!"

Lord Patrick narrowed his eyes at the man, and one corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile. "I'm so glad you mentioned that. Then you should be very interested in the matter I have brought to you. Listen well."

He proceeded to explain. As he spoke, Arlen Rhett Hendrickson's facial colour intensified rapidly. Apparently, he had not received his second name without a reason. Lord Patrick was about to start detailing the campaign to reveal the truth to the public, and what a vital role he expected the newspaper to play, when the editorial volcano exploded.

"Are you out of your bloody mind, Day? Orphans kidnapped by wicked, sadistic villains? Enslaved girls tied up in a half-ruined warehouse? This is a newspaper, not a Marquis de Sade Novel! Out! Get your butt out of my office, and take that dirty mind of yours with you!"

"I assure you," Lord Patrick stated, his voice somewhat frosty, "it is all true. I have seen it with my own eyes."

"Oh, you assure me? Well now, how could I doubt it if you assure me! After all, when the owner of the warehouse sues me for bloody libel, your assurance will help me a great deal!"

Lord Patrick frowned. He had known Hendrickson would be opposed to the matter. He was opposed to pretty much anything out of principle. But...

He narrowed his eyes. There had to be something more to this.

"Mr Hendrickson!" Face calm, back straight, Lord Patrick took a step forward. "I suggest you reconsider! We should continue this investigation. If my suspicions are correct—"

Hendrickson's fist slammed down onto the table with a thunderous crash, making his brandy bottle wobble precariously. "If being the operative word, Day! If! Besides, what did you even see? A couple of brats in a warehouse? They were probably just playing hide-and-seek!"

"With their hands tied?" His Lordship raised an aristocratic eyebrow.

Hendrickson evaded his eyes. "Then thieves and robbers! What do I care?"

"I don't think—"

"Think? Think? I don't pay you to think!"

"You do not pay me at all. I pay you."

Mr Hendrickson did not seem to particularly appreciate the reminder. Growling, he glanced down at the picture on his desk—the picture of a smiling little girl with pigtails, held by a middle-aged woman.

Instantly, Lord Patrick leapt at the sign of weakness!

"I am not asking for much. Just lend me a number of talented young men to investigate this matter, and reserve a space for the story. Surely, it would put the paper into a positive light, and—"

"You idealistic young fool!" Hendrickson grumbled. "Haven't you even stopped to think for a moment about whose toes you'd be stepping on?"

"Pardon?"

Hendrickson's head jerked up to stare at him. "You really haven't, have you? Idiot! Think about it! If, which I think is very likely, what you say is a product of your overactive imagination, then the worst that'll happen is I'll be sued for every penny I own. If, on the other hand, what you say is true..."

The big man paused for a moment, the muscles in his jaw working hard.

"If it is all true, do you think keeping something like this hidden from the world is easy? Do you think slaves on the black market come cheap? Oh no. Whoever is behind this, they have money. Money and power."

"As," Lord Patrick said, meeting the chief editor's gaze head-on, "have I."

"Ha!"

"Mr Hendrickson...!" Lord Patrick took a step forward, his voice smooth and persuasive, like a well-aged brandy. The other man's massive, waxed moustache quivered in warning. His Lordship idly wondered how many innocent interns Hendrickson had so far skewered on its sharp, gleaming tips. But he was a Day. There was no danger he would not face! "I would advise you to reconsider! If my suspicions are correct...young girls in captivity, being sold off like meat at the market... As men of honour, we cannot stand idly by. We have to take action, or—"

"No!"

Thud!

"No!"

Thud!

"Did you get it yet?"

Thud!

Hendrickson glared up at him, doing his very, very best not to look at the photograph on his desk. "Do you think I'm running a bloody charity, Day? No! No, no, and once again no! This is too risky. Especially if all it's based on is a single eyewitness report. I deal in facts. Cold, hard facts, not unsubstantiated rumours!"

"Is that your last word?" Lord Patrick demanded, leaning forward over the desk and accidentally brushing against the picture frame so the face of Hendrickson's sweet little daughter was now right in his field of vision. Instinctively, the chief editor looked away. "Your very last word?"

Hendrickson sat up straight, and his fist landed on the desk with a crash. "I'm a journalist of integrity, Day! I won't believe in your wild tales! Not unless you bring one of those supposed 'poor captured girls' right here into my office and have her tell her story to my face!"

Lord Patrick opened his mouth to object—then closed it again. Slowly but surely, a glint came to life in his eyes.

"You don't say... Do you really mean that?"

Hendrickson blinked. It took him a moment to realize what he'd just said—and how it could be interpreted.

"Hey! Now, wait a moment, Day! I didn't bloody mean..."

"Thank you." Lord Patrick swept a bow. "Most obliging of you to accommodate me, Mr Hendrickson! I shall be back with the required evidence right away!"

And, with that, he slipped out of the office and slammed the door shut before the red-faced rhinoceros could shout a countermanding order.

"Day! Don't you dare just leave! Come back here and—"

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

An extra-long chapter, just for you! Just at the right time to celebrate my 900,000th follower on Wattpad! Yay! Thank you all so much for your fabulous support. At one million, I think I'll throw a virtual party.

And now you all know how his Lordship's brilliant plan of becoming a villainous kidnapper came about. What do you think of the scene with Mr Hendrickson? ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob