11:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

AND SO, with myself armed and dangerously handsome, Miss Felicity Boondoggles, my man-servant Botter and I left the headquarters of the CTUN, and scrambled onto the bustling streets of the capital, eager to get to Buckingham Palace to save the Queen from having her noble noggin blown apart by a booby-trapped crown.

“I just hope we are not too late,” Felicity said as she tried to flag down one of the many hansom cabs trundling past, by lifting her dress ever-so slightly to allow the red-blooded cabbies a tantalising glimpse of her shapely ankle.

“I very much doubt it, m’dear.” I opined, trying in vain not to become terribly aroused by the slither of naked flesh on display. “We in the ruling elite rarely rise before ten-thirty, and are never usually dressed before lunch-time. I think we’ve got until midday, at least.”

“Less than an hour,” Felicity mused, consulting a small, wrist-mounted clock on her arm. “Time is of the essence.”

I nodded in an agreement, and left Felicity to continue her seductive efforts in securing us transport to the palace. As I waited, I noticed a smartly-dressed gentleman sporting a fine topper walking my way. As is the way of polite gentlefolk in the city, he smiled amiably as he acknowledged me, and went to tip his hat, as I went to tip mine.

And then, before I knew quite what was happening, I was thrown to the floor by Felicity, just as the man fully tipped his hat and his entire head EXPLODED before my very eyes.

“What in the name of mater-pumping millinery is going on?” I spluttered, as I plucked an eyeball from my breast-pocket.

“It’s as we’d feared,” Felicity replied grimly. “The Anti-Hat League have managed to get some of their bomb-laden hats into the public domain. Who knows how many there are out here now?”

A distant explosion and the sound of screams quickly confirmed that it was most definitely more than one, at least.

“How dashed unsporting,” I said. “By the way, do not think I did not notice how quick you were to get me on my back, my dear!” I beamed, as Felicity lifted herself off of my splendid form.

“Don’t get used to it,” she curtly replied.

“My lord, I’ve found us a cab!” Botter interjected.

“How…how did YOU manage where dear Felicity failed, you cretin?” I exclaimed. Botter shrugged and turned to present the cab behind him as evidence. The cab-driver peered out from his position at the reigns, and gave Botter a coy little wave. “Oh!” I exclaimed again, as the light dawned upon me. “Well, there is no accounting for taste, I suppose. Come on, TO THE PALACE!”

*****

MOMENTS LATER we were inside said cab, speeding down the cobbled streets as if propelled by rocket-powered engine. As we sped through the city, I watched through the window with dismay as innocent gents found their day irreversibly inconvenienced by their heads suddenly becoming separated from their bodies after they’d doffed their hats to passers-by.

“Damn that Ben-London!” I spat, cursing the wretched ring-leader of the Anti-Hat League. “He has turned our nation’s great civility against us! Why, at this rate people shall refuse to sport any head-wear in the future, and we shall become nothing more than a country of hatless barbarians. Damn him again! Damn him all the way to Lowestoft!”

“That is why we must not let him win,” Felicity said sternly. “We cannot let him make Great Britain less great through his terrible acts of terror! We MUST stand firm!”

There was a brief pause. “Well, I am certainly sitting firm,” I grinned. “How about a quick spot of ‘how’s-your-father’ before we seek audience with Her Majesty, eh?”

Felicity rolled her beautiful eyes. “Do try and focus,” she sighed. “Besides which, look – we are here!”

I peered out of the carriage’s window to see we had indeed arrived at the palace, the great building looking as mightily impressive as ever, the Union Jack flying proudly atop it. Such a sight did little to quell my rather tumescent state; if anything, it only compounded it.

“Right, let us save the entire ruddy Empire, then!” I barked, disembarking from the cab and helping Felicity down. “Thank you cabby,” I nodded to the driver. “You may take your fee out of my man-servant’s sphinctoral passage if you so desire!”

“Much obliged, sir!” the cab-driver beamed, reaching for the brim of his hat…

“NO!” I cried, and everything seemed to slow to a crawl as I stepped forward to prevent the inevitable hat-tip. But it was too late – the hat was well and truly doffed. The last thing I recall was the look of surprise in the cabby’s eyes as they flew from their sockets due to the force of the ensuing explosion, and then everything went black.

- Lord Likely.

* Follow his lordship on Twitter and/or Facebook to keep up-to-date with the latest developments in his lordship’s latest EPIC adventure!

10:30am, 29th of January, 1891.

IT WAS clear from the Anti-Hat League’s latest threat that their forthcoming ‘crowning achievement’ was going to be an audacious attempt on the most powerful hat in the Empire – the crown of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria…an attempt I would thwart if it was the last thing I ever did.

Miss Felicity Boondoggles and I wound our way through the headquarters of the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team (or CTUN for short, to prevent people passing out in shock at the actual acronym), until we turned a corner into another dull corridor, at which point Felicity suddenly stopped short, and quickly pulled me into a nearby room.

It was pitch-black in the room, and I felt Felicity’s hand leave my arm. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll go and turn the lighting on.”

There was a momentary silence, save for the gentle click-click sound of a gas-lamp being lit, and then the room was bathed in a warm glow.

“Right, ”tis time we made sure you were properly equipped…oh!” Felicity said, tailing off as she turned to face me, only to find me standing in the doorway with my trousers and underpants around my ankles, my Lord Palmerston hanging freely betwixt my legs.

“As you can clearly see, my dear, I am very well equipped indeed!” I smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Gracious! Cover yourself up, sir! What on earth do you think you are doing?” she gasped.

“Well, when you dragged me in here I naturally assumed it was to ravish me senseless, m’dear!” I protested.

“No! NO! I wanted to collect some items from here – the CTUN control room!” she said with a flourish, affording me the first proper look at my surroundings. The room was full of large, imposing machines, replete with a multitude of buttons and levers, their cogs churning, pistons pumping, and steam issuing forth from pipes hither and thither. ‘Twas rather akin to stumbling into a clockwork orgy, or something.

“Egad! What in the name of mechanized arse is all this?” I spluttered.

“This is our central computation device. We keep files on all of the Empire’s most-wanted felons in here.” Felicity explained, tapping the side of one of the contraptions with almost maternal pride.

“Oh, really?” I sighed, my distinct lack of interest permeating my voice like a cannon-ball tearing through a giant, wet tissue. “Do please show me!”

“Fine! I shall!” snapped Felicity, pulling a lever beside her. The machine creaked into action; wheels turned, gears crunched, sparks fizzed, a horn blew, steam gushed forth and then…a little drawer slid open before me, filled with brown-coloured files. Felicity smiled, rifled through them and then drew one out triumphantly. “See? Rather impressive, yes?”

“It strikes me as nothing more than a rather elaborate filing cabinet,” I observed haughtily.

Felicity shot me an angry glare, and opened the file in her hands. “Here, look,” she said, thrusting a photographic print into my hands. “This is the ring-leader of the Anti-Hat League – Samuel Ben-London. I think if we can put him out of action, the entire group will swiftly tumble behind him.”

I gave the picture a cursory glance, and noted that the fellow in question was the same thin-moustached miscreant who had been masquerading as a waiter at Muddick’s gala ball. I had despised him then, but now I knew he was the mastermind behind a despicable plot to explode the monarch’s crown, I LOATHED him and wanted his HEAD on a very, very sharp SPIKE. ABLAZE.

“Right, let us dilly-dally no more!” I resolved, straightening my tie, and adjusting my trousers. “We must put a stop to this terrible plan IMMEDIATELY! Now, where did you put my possessions, m’dear? I cannot help but note that I am lighter to the tune of one pistol, one cane, my top-hat and my hip-flask of whisky. Oh, and my man-servant, Botter.”

“All your belongings have been stored away safely since we bought you here, your lordship.” Felicity stated, turning another lever. Machinery jolted into action once more, and then a cupboard door swung open next to me, with my personal effects located within.

“Ah, good,” I nodded. “And Botter?”

“‘Tis as I said, all your belongings have been stored safely away,” Felicity replied, flicking a switch. Another cupboard door fell open, to reveal Botter stashed inside, like a rather unsightly item of luggage.

“Good mornin, your lordship!” he smiled, as he struggled out of the cupboard.

“Well, marvellous, I have everything I need, so -” I began.

“Not quite,” Felicity interrupted, spinning a dial on another wretched contraption. Another drawer noisily slid out a recess within a wall, laden with various items and objects. “You shall need some extra fire-power, your lordship.”

“This,” I said, picking up an umbrella from the drawer. “This is an umbrella, my dear.”

“Not quite,” said Felicity, grabbing the brolly from my hands. She held it out at arm’s length, pressed a button on the handle, and a jet of fire blazed out from the umbrella’s tip.

“Heavens!” I exclaimed. “This shall prove extremely useful for flambéing. I dare say I could toast a beggar in SECONDS with this thing!”

“Then there is this,” Felicity continued, taking a fob-watch from the drawer. “While it looks like an ordinary fob-watch, it actually is not…” Felicity turned the dial on the watch, causing some rather sharp spikes to pop out around the outside of the base. Then, holding onto the chain, Felicity spun the watch out across the room, until it embedded itself in a wall.

“Impressive,” I noted. “And let me hazard a guess,” I said, picking up what appeared to be a large dildo from within the drawer. “I suppose this contains some sort of compact cannon within it, which can blast holes through walls, hmm?”

“No,” Felicity answered, taking the dildo from my hands. “It brings me to a screaming orgasm whene’er I thrust it deeply and repeatedly within my aching mimsy. Now, choose your weapon, your lordship, and let us go and save Her Majesty!”

I watched Felicity leave, my mouth positively AGOG.

- Lord Likely.

* VOTE NOW! Which weapon should Likely take with him on his mission to save the Queen? The flame-throwing brolly, the razor-spiked fob-watch, or the…um…dildo? Leave a comment below, or vote on Twitter (using the #1score4 tag) or on Facebook! Be fast, dear readers – TIME is RUNNING OUT!

ALSO! Lord Likely himself has granted an EXCLUSIVE interview with the lovely ladies at ErgoFiction magazine! The resulting spectacle may be perused by clicking right here! HUZZAH!

10:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

DESPITE HIS complete and utter twattery, Ms. Felicity Boondoggles and I decided to let Inspector Spunkleford in nonetheless.

“My word, what is this place?” enquired Spunkleford as he entered the rather sparse room we had been holed up in.

“This is the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team headquarters,” Felicity replied.

“The criminal what now?” Spunkleford blustered. “I’ve never heard of it! Surely I should know of any other departments in the Yard?”

“We operate outside of Scotland Yard, inspector,” Felicity said coolly.

“I can see that,” Spunkleford nodded. “Scotland Yard is across the street, there.”

“Hmmm…well enough of this illuminating chit-chat,” I interjected, before the inspector had further opportunity to make his inherent buffonery more apparent. “What brings you here, inspector?”

“Well, the -”

“And if you say ‘the cab’, I shall twot you.”

“Oh. Well, as you know, Likely, I took some officers down to Mr. Cockduster’s Millinery earlier. We managed to catch some of those Anti-Hat League bounders in the act of rigging some of the hats with their damned explosive devices. Jolly successful operation, all in all. Anyhow, we took these cads back to the station, and managed to get some information out of one of them via some intense interrogation!”

“You thrashed them with sticks?” I suggested.

“Precisely. Worked a treat! One of them gave us a hint as to what the League are planning next…just bear with me a moment, I jotted it down somewhere…” said Spunkleford, opening up his coat to reveal several pigeons, a few of which fluttered out from within his pockets and flew around the room. “Ah, yes, here we go,” Spunkleford exclaimed, pulling a pigeon from an interior pocket and scrutinizing it carefully. “I’m sure I left the message around here somewhere! Ah-ha!” he cried triumphantly, pulling a rolled-up piece of paper from the poor pigeon’s posterior.

“Oh, charming,” I grimaced as Spunkleford passed me the roll. “I see you stored it in your pigeon-hole.”

Spunkleford nodded blankly, while I gingerly unfurled the paper and read the message contained within:

Re-Tweet, Mr. Terrorist Fellow: ‘You think you’ve stopped us copper, but we ain’t even started. You all wait ’til you see our crownin’ achievement!’

“‘Re-tweet‘, Spunkleford?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, you have lost your cocking marbles.”

“Shut up both of you and give me that!” snapped Felicity, grabbing the paper from my hand and scanning the two lines of text again. “Hmmm…are you thinking what I’m thinking, Likely?”

“I hope so. And if so, the answer is ‘yes’ and ‘on all fours’.”

“No! The message from the Anti-Hat League, you lecherous fop! ‘Crowning achievement‘, it says…”

“Egad! You mean – ?” I began.

“I think so,” Felicity concluded.

“Buggeration! Then we have not a moment to lose!” I declared, as Felicity and I dashed out of the door with due haste.

“I’m not sure I understand what the devil is going on, Mr. Speckles,” said Spunkleford, stroking his pigeon’s feathers gently.

- Lord Likely.

* Be back here in the WEEK, for the FINAL two chapters of ‘One Score and Four’, chums!

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7:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

I AWOKE in a place that was, I am fairly certain, completely different to the place I had been in mere moments ago. Furthermore, I was quite sure that I had been in a conscious state the last time I had checked, so what in the name of cockery was I doing waking up now? When had I gone to sleep?

“WHAT THE TOSS IS GOING ON?” I bellowed to the ceiling. “WHERE AM I?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” came a woman’s voice from behind me.

“Apparently so,” I replied. “But I don’t recall having gone to bed, and there’s the problem.”

“Mmm,” the voice replied, quite disinterestedly, I felt.

“Look, who are you and where the hel -” I raised myself off of the couch upon which I’d been lying, and turned to face the lady in question. “- lo, my dear!” I finished.

Oh! How my heart skipped a beat, while my proud Lord Palmerston stood solidly to attention.

The lady was a completely ravishing creature,  dressed in a rather luxuriant, crimson-coloured ball-gown, which seemed to be completely at odds with the rather austere and sterile surroundings we were currently in.

“Hello,” the lady replied, pushing a curl of red hair back behind her ear, while busying herself with reading a stack of papers in her hand.

“So,” I said, getting myself unsteadily to my feet. “What is a fine creature like you doing in a hole like this?” I raised an eyebrow. “Of course, that is what the ladies usually say to me, but in this instance I’ll – ”

“What the fuck were you thinking, Likely?” snapped the lady, slamming her batch of papers onto a nearby desk. “You nearly blew the entire operation for us, you lousy SHIT!”

I stepped back, quite literally taken aback by this sudden, extremely unladylike outburst from such a distinctly ladylike form.

“I…I beg your pardon?” I stuttered.

“Boondoggles,” the woman said abruptly.

“I…I’m sorry to hear that, m’dear. Maybe you should get some talcum and – ”

“That’s my name, you idiot,” the lady sighed. “Felicity Boondoggles. I work for the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team.”

“Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team? You mean CUN – ”

“No!” Felicity cried, putting up a hand to stop me. “Our official acronym is CTUN. We can’t use our actual acronym any more. When we used to have our initials in large letters on the wall outside, we were nearly charged with ‘dwelling inside an obscene publication.’ So…it had to be changed, for decency’s sake.”

“Oh. Pity. I rather liked the old name, rather rolled off the tongue…”

“Look, Likely. I’ve got no time for your small talk,” Felicity barked at me. “Let me just explain to you how you got here, what happened to the last few hours of your day, and how you almost COMPLETELY ballsed this all up…”

- Lord Likely.

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