Lord Day and Lady Night

42. The Gorgons' Glare

Their wheels crunching on the gravel path, the carriages rolled out through the wrought iron gate and off the duke's castle grounds. None of them spoke much on the way back. Only when the rattling of the coach decreased in pace, and Patrick seemed to realize how slowly they were moving, did he break the silence.

"What is the matter?" He frowned. "Why are we going so slow?"

Amy raised an eyebrow.

"Jo, Flo, Leona, Grace and Aggy are at the manor," she deigned to point out. "And so is Aggy's knife. I'm sure dey'll all be very interested ta 'ear where we went off to and why we left dem be'ind. Would ye rather arrive while dey're still awake, or after dey're asleep?"

Patrick's back stiffened, his expression reminding Amy of what a street thug might look like after receiving a dinner invitation from a serial killer and gourmet cannibal. "Ah. I see. Slower it is, then."

Right then, Amy seriously considered ordering the coachman to drive the horses into a gallop. From underneath her horrific excuse for a headdress, Amy glared up at him.

His clear blue eyes, that looked as if he'd never done anything wrong in his life!

His proud, noble profile.

His tall figure that just had to bloody tower over her!

Wouldn't it be just peachy having him explain all the pesky details to those ruthless little rugrats? By the time the girls were finished with him, what was left of His Lordship would probably fit in a matchbox, and Flo could even lend her one.

Ha! That would teach him to waste all his time on women...! That would teach him to—

***

Lord Patrick Day was not entirely sure what was going on. To all intents and purposes, they had just successfully escaped the villain's lair and were now heading to their temporary home. From any reasonable perspective, they were now safely out of danger, and on their way to a delicious meal and a comfortable bed. So...why, by George, did he feel as if he had just entered the den of a wounded lioness and his life was in peril like never before?

Peril that appeared to be coming from the corner of the carriage, from where a rather murderous aura seemed to be radiating.

Removing his gaze from the dark, nocturnal countryside rushing past outside, he turned towards Miss Amy Weston, who was currently trying to incinerate him with her gaze.

"It may possibly be simply my imagination, but..."

"Aye?"

"You seem rather...out of sorts. Did I perchance do something to earn your ire?"

"Out of sorts?" She showed him her teeth in what would only be called a "smile" by a psychopathic clown with homicidal tendencies. "Why would I be out of sorts? After all, all ye did da whole night was dance. And dance. And dance!"

"Um...yes?" His Lordship answered, wondering whether, in the time since last he had checked, "dance" had been classified as a curse by the linguistics department at Oxford University. By the way she pronounced the word, it certainly should have.

"With lots of different women. Lots. And lots. And lots!"

"Yes?"

A slight frown marring his brow, he inspected her face, trying to figure out what she was saying. Was she...was she trying to compliment him on his excellent intelligence-gathering?

Yes, that was probably it!

"No need to praise me," he told her, sending her his most charming, magnanimous smile. "I only did what was right and proper,"