Lord Day and Lady Night

34. Take them Down

"You," Lord Patrick Day informed them, "have obviously forgotten to whom you are speaking. I am Lord Patrick Day, Peer of the Empire and Knight of the Order of the Garter."

Amy cocked her head. "So...dat means ye've got pantyhose, too?"

His Most Noblistic Lordship sent her a cool look. "That means," he said, "that there is little to nothing about the British aristocracy I do not know or cannot discover."

Rising to his feet, he marched over to one of the elegant bookshelves that lined the wall and pulled out a leather-bound volume, the cover of which proclaimed in golden lettering Who's Who. Amy watched intently as he sat down on the chaise longue once more and, flipping open the book, started to scan the page.

"H...H..."

"Which one are you looking for?" Karim asked.

Amy wanted to know that, too. Of course, she'd rather choke to death on chicken feathers than admit it out loud, but still...She watched keenly as Patrick slowly looked up from the book.

"Duke RH."

Amy leaned forward, frowning. "Why 'im?"

"There are hundreds of lords in Great Britain, and tens of thousands of knights. Yet dukes are different. Including the royal family, who I hope to God aren't involved in this, there are only thirty-one dukedoms in the entirety of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. That narrows down the list of suspects quite significantly, wouldn't you agree? Moreover, dukes are wealthy." His eyes narrowed. "If they're so inclined, they have much more funding to...indulge in their proclivities."

"So...da worst one is da first one?"

His Lordship inclined his head. "Setting aside your atrocious mispronunciation of the definite article—well put."

Amy grinned. "I like da way ye think. Now..." Cracking her knuckles, she leaned forward. "Of da thirty-one, which bloody bugger is Duke RH?"

"A moment please."

Holding up a finger, he once more bent to study the book his hands. Never in her life would Amy have thought she'd be eager to hear the contents of the book that was essentially Britain's Top 1000 Snobbish Nobs and Arseholes. Her foot tapping on the floor quickly, she waited. And waited.

"H...H..." His finger wandered down the page—then abruptly stopped. "Harrington, Ronald, Duke of Arrendyle."

His gaze slid up, meeting Amy's.

"RH," she said.

He nodded. "RH."

"Who is dis man?" Amy almost felt her eyes burn. "Or, more importantly, where is 'e?"

Patrick stroked his chin. "Hm...he has a house in town, of course. But seeing how risky it would be to keep a significant number of captives in the city, he most likely spends a great deal of his time in the country, at his manor near Collundale."

At the sound of that word, Amy froze. Her eyes flicked to Karim, who was frozen in place just like her. Or at least he was for the moment. Any second now, however, Amy knew, the message would register, and the explosion would erupt.

"His. Manor. Near. Where?" The Mohammedan enquired, each word landing like a heavy hammer.

Patrick frowned. "Collundale. It says here in the book it's a small village, just a few miles away from Ambrose Manor. Why? Do you know the place?"

"Aye." Amy felt sparks erupting from her eyes. "Ye could say dat."

An animalistic growl issued from Karim's throat. He looked as if, at any moment, he'd jump up and start attacking the porcelain shepherdess on the mantelpiece. Fists clenched, he rose to his feet.