Lord Day and Lady Night

11. Shearing the Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

Of course.

Of course, she would ask him to meet her here. That woman was...!

Lord Patrick would have liked to finish the sentence, but, unfortunately, his Oxford education had not supplied him with sufficiently bad words. A definite gap in the syllabus. He'd have to write to the dean.

Unfolding the piece of paper in his hand, he glanced down at it, just to be sure he was at the right place.

He was.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his eyes again and stared daggers up at the sign above him, which, in bright, curly letters proclaimed "The Pussycat Palace—A Gentleman's Paradise."

Oh yes. I'll definitely write to the dean. And maybe I'll ask him to lend me his duelling pistols while I'm at it.

Once more, he glanced down at the piece of paper. Under the address, in scraggly handwriting that looked as if it came from a drunken spider, stood:

Go inside, and ask for Amy. Tell them you're the gentleman with "special needs". They'll understand.

;-)

A smiley face.

She had left him a darn smiley face.

For a moment, he saw that wench's cheeky smile flash in front of his inner eye again. A bright, daring smile, under an impish nose and eyes as bright as emeralds. Eyes that challenged him.

How dare she!

Duelling pistols would be too merciful. I shall have to find a more painful method of homicide!

Squaring his shoulders, he screwed his courage to the sticking place, locked it in a chastity belt, and threw the key away. Then he started towards the front door. When he pushed it open, he heard an alluring little tingle that no self-respecting doorbell would ever dare to make.

Inside, warm, golden half-light illuminated the extravagantly decorated lobby. Lord Patrick Day let his eyes sweep across the room. Among all the feathers, lace and gilded frippery, a lone young woman was lounging on a chaise-longue. Rising so fluidly Lord Patrick wondered if she had water for bones, she sidled towards him.

"Well, 'ello there, 'andsome." The woman batted her big eyelashes up at him. His Lordship took a precautionary step backwards. "What can I do for ye?"

Lord Patrick cleared his throat. The moment had come.

"I, um, am here to see Miss Amy." Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it. "I, err...am the gentleman with 'special needs'."

It was decided. He was going to kill that woman with his bare hands.

"Oh, yes!" The face of the female in front of him flashed with sympathy for a moment before she beamed at him. "Amy told us ye was comin', love. Now, don't ye worry." She glanced towards his lumbar region. "Problems like yers are perfectly normal for a man at a certain age."

Patrick's eyes narrowed. "A man of a certain age?"

"Although ye do look rather young for dat sort of trouble. Well, never mind." She clapped her hands. "Our Amy is especially good with da weird ones! She'll fix ye right up again!"

"I," Lord Patrick Day said, needing all his resolve not to throttle the woman, "am so relieved."

"Great! Just wait 'ere, love! I'll go fetch Amy and be right back, so she can take care of yer little problem."

"I tremble with anticipation."

Taking care not to touch a single surface in the entire place, Lord Patrick positioned himself in the centre of the room and waited. Above him, he heard a rhythmic squeaking.