Disclaimer: The characters and plot belong to Stephen Sondheim and Thomas Harris, while the individual event is solely mine.

Author's note: This Lovett is more or less a cross of Angela Lansbury's and Patti LuPone's revival.

Eleanor Lovett was not typically a woman who found herself bored, but today boredom seemed to be plaguing her like the French flu plagued London's gutters. Yesterday there had been next to no gentlemen to visit Todd's shop, and he had only done in one of them – a Scot trying to make his way as a sailor, not to be missed here in England. He was easy enough to clean – nearly all skin and bones, she had grumbled to Todd while he watched her de-flesh the body with the dexterity of a butcher.

She had sent Toby out only an hour earlier, but it felt as if that had been ages ago. He had been having nightmares again about the Italian, but for some peculiar reason, they seemed to only encourage him to search for the man's whereabouts with even more determination. It was a mystery to her why he was so intent on finding his master; perhaps he was still afraid the man would come back and beat him, poor scrawny thing. It was indeed an understandable fear, but fortunately, entirely unnecessary due to Pirelli's…early disposal. She had handed Toby two meat pies, patted his head, and watched him limp off down the street with his usual gait. He had looked back at her, like he always did, with that silly worried expression on his face, as if he didn't want to leave her there while he was gone. Yet another thing about him she feared she would never be able to grasp.

Presently, she let a small smile tug at her lips while recalling his concern for her, as unnecessary as it was. She was not much of a mother for him, but she had an enduring affection for the boy all the same, and did her best to provide for the lad and made sure that he was well enough along. It was a shame he was so… Cracked in the head, bless his soul. How old, she had wondered lately, is he really?

Quite suddenly, a brief ringing sound brought her wandering thoughts to an abrupt end, and her head snapped up, her eyes at the door. She smiled at the gentleman who had entered, sitting up somewhat straighter. He looked a true English gentleman with his smart black jacket, and though he was certainly out of his element in this part of London, he retained the sangfroid of one completely at ease in her shop.

"Good evening. You are Madame Lovett, I presume?" he asked, flashing a smile of perfectly white, straight teeth. She hesitated for a moment, feeling his eyes – a strange crimson color – burning into her, as if he was asking something else, something less simplistic.

"Y-yes, sir. Quite right about that. Would you care for a pie?"

He nodded slowly, watching her curiously as she took his coat and hat, hanging them safely on one of the pegs next to the door. She glanced nervously back at him and hurried to the bakehouse, unnerved. She had seen something in those eyes, something she had seen many times before in her life. She had seen perception – like when Lucy had realized that everything respectable about her was gone the moment she went with the beadle; like when Albert had stared straight into the eyes of his maker.

It was almost as if this one – this man – knew about the meat – which was impossible, of course. The only person who would be missed, she was certain, was the Italian, and he was long gone by now. The talk about his mysterious disappearance had secretly pleased her, but it had made her particularly jumpy lately, was all. This man knows nothin', you're just bein' silly again, she told herself.

For instance, later last week, she had fallen asleep in a chair in the parlor while she was counting the days' pence. She had gotten to seven shilling when she decided to shut her eyes for a moment – one wouldn't believe how much work it was to count all that, especially when a woman never had proper schooling – besides, it was beginning to give her a headache something bad. Toby had shaken her shoulder to wake her, and she had nearly killed the boy, she jerked up so hard. The poor thing was still shaking even after she explained she had just hurt her shoulder pulling the oven door, he was so upset. She had been lying, of course, but he didn't need to know what it was that was actually worrying her.

This stranger made her no less nervous than the bluebottle that had come in earlier. She'd send this one upstairs to Todd after he ate – she was, admittedly, too frightened to provoke his suspicions any by encouraging him to go upstairs at the moment, although she wanted to badly.

The pie was on the table, and she had returned to her perch behind the counter, feeling his eyes burning into her back as she walked back and sat down. She stared at her book of figures, pretending to calculate them while he ate. Occasionally she would steal a quick glance at him, watching as he picked up the pie, his fingers holding it in a tasteful fashion she wasn't used to seeing; he was too good to be eating in this kind of establishment, no matter how much pride she took in it.

The third time she looked back over to him, he was ready – his maroon eyes caught hers in a deadlock, and she couldn't look away. The red was rising on her face, and she opened her mouth, desperately searching for words she couldn't find, which was almost unfathomable, seeing as she was the chattiest businesswoman on Fleet Street.

He broke the silence first. "Madame, they certainly do not call them 'famous' meat pies for any a disgraceful reason." A smile flashed across his face in compliment, but he continued before she could thank him. "But what is your secret for that particular flavor of meat filling? It's.. not typical, shall we say?" He sounded smug, as if he knew that she was feeling trapped, and he knew it.

The nervous shade of red disappeared instantly from her face, replaced by pale horror. Oh, he knows! I've got t'get him upstairs. Bloody hell…bloody hell…

She could barely recover herself enough to speak, she was in such a panic. "I…well, it wouldn't be a secret if I told you, now would it?" A nervous laugh escaped her throat before she could suppress it.

The man laughed in return. "If I guessed correctly, would you tell me?"

"That depends on wot y'pay me, mister," she retorted quickly.

Now his chuckle was low and dark. "Oh, quite clever," he said as he rose, pulling out his purse. It jangled loudly; it was undoubtedly full of coins – how many quid?

A few, goodness – it's a wonder he hasn't been mugged yet.

She wondered if the man always carried around such a huge amount – he had handed her three quid, dropping it into her hand as if it meant nothing. She stared at the money for a moment, unable to force herself to look back up into this gentleman's eyes.

At last she did, depositing the coins in her pocket carefully. It was certainly a lot of money, even for a gentleman like himself. He wasn't smiling any longer. "A splash of bay rum, perhaps?"

"Mr. Todd is upstairs, sir, if that's what you're wanting."

A pause. "I wasn't referring to myself, madame."

Now she was just confused. What on earth could he be talking about? She wasn't about to go prancing about in a man's cologne, and no one else was in the shop at the moment. She couldn't smell any in the air either.

He leaned over the counter, his eyes locked onto hers, and placed his hands on the edges. "Mrs. Lovett, I do declare that my pie tasted as if it had a splash of bay rum in it. I should certainly hope that your butcher isn't soaking his meat in perfumes before he sends it to you."

Her eyes widened, and she leaned backwards, away from him. She gulped, audibly, and let out her breath. "I don't think so, mister," she said calmly. "Perhaps I ought t'get these floors redone, wot with Mr. Todd's business making its way down into my shop." She smiled at him now, pleased with her own joke.

There was no response from the man across the counter, and her smile fell off her face.

"You might want t'go upstairs and see for yourself, sir. Mr. Todd is the finest barber in all of London, y'know." Suggesting it was pointless, she knew, since the gentleman was impeccably shaved. "You might like t'try some new cologne – he's got anything you'd like."

He shook his head and removed his hands from the counter's edge, turning to take his hat and coat from the pegs on the wall next to the door, still wordless. She watched him as he slid his arm in one sleeve, then the other. He turned back to face her, his hat in his hands. "Thank you for an interesting meal, Madame Lovett. I don't believe I have ever had that sort of meat in such a charmingly simple way."

She opened her mouth as if to reply, then shut it again when she realized how idiotic she must look. By the time she managed to recover herself, he had already placed his hat on his head and opened the door, the bell jingling.

"Wait!" she hollered, and he turned, his eyebrows raised. "I… I…"

"Yes?"

"You… you really must go upstairs to see Mr. Todd. I'd simply die if such a fine gentleman as yourself didn't at least go meet him, sir." She sounded like she was pleading, she knew it, but it was her only chance, with the door open now.

The man looked curiously at her for a moment, and she longed to know exactly what he was thinking. It was, she was certain, something that would bring about her downfall – he'd have the beadle there in a moment to have a look at the bakehouse.

"No, thank you, madame. I have business to attend to presently." And with that, the door was shut before she could even open her mouth again. The bell jingled, the noise resonating off the cracked stone walls and back into her ears. She could feel it filling up her head as she ran to the window, black spots appearing in front of her eyes. She grasped the window ledge, her knuckles turning white as she tried to focus, to find him in the crowd on the street.

"Mrs. Lovett, are you alright?"

She jumped slightly. "Oh, Mr. T – there was a man here, and I've lost sight of him now – a real genuine gentleman – and I could've sworn that he knew!"

As she spoke, Mr. Todd frowned. "Knew? You mean about the pies?" He was peering out the window as well now, scanning the crowd for this "gentleman." He saw no one that appeared to be even the slightest bit a gentleman, which was not surprising to him in the least. At this time of day, whilst the judges were judging and the lawyers lawyering, gentlemen did their best to avoid the courthouse. It was only if the Old Bailey was having a hanging that they could be found around this hour, escorting their lady friends to the entertainment of watching a man's neck snap like a twig.. "That's impossible."

"I know, but I could'a sworn! He made some sly comment about it, and – oh, wot'll we do? Wot if he gets Bamford?" She was pale now and leaned on Todd, who shrugged her off per usual. Determined, she tried again, and this time he didn't move.

"Mrs. Lovett, you've been a bit skittish as of late. Perhaps you'd best have a lie down." He led her to the parlor and watched as she sprawled herself in a chair, ungraceful and ineloquent as ever. He almost smirked at the sight, but the sharp contrast to Lucy only brought a pained scowl to his face.

She raised an eyebrow at him, reading his thoughts. "Don't get all worked up, love," she warned, rubbing her eyes. "And if 'e comes back, that man – you take 'im right upstairs, no risks."

To this, he couldn't help but suppress a smirk of satisfaction. She wasn't, he had decided at her plan, as dull-witted as he had first thought. He often wondered if her mind had worked in that same simple, horrendous way when he and Lucy lived above her shop. Most likely not, with Albert to worry herself over.

The wooden sign that read "closed" clanked on the door, and he took one last glance down the street.