In front of me was a most extraordinary vision. I was staring not only at the barrel of what appeared to be a dainty pearl-handled pistol, but at the stunningly beautiful young lady holding it. Her dark hair hung in loose ringlets about her delicate porcelain neck. I felt a slight stir of embarrassment as I realised she was in some state of undress.
“Ah, you must be Papa’s scribbler,” she quipped cheekily.
Surely this was no assassin and there was some alternative explanation? From her blunt statement I took her to be part of the household. I would have been frightfully annoyed with her for making me run up a flight of stairs had I not been so taken with her beauty.
“Indeed I am, and who pray are you?” I stammered, slightly angrily. My question was answered not by the beauty in front of me, but by a severely dressed and well starched member of the house staff who was standing behind me. I took her to be an ageing governess or housekeeper of some kind.
“Miss Louisa!” she shrieked. “How many times do I have to tell you not to fire that infernal thing indoors? If your father hears you we’ll both be done for. And you, sir, the cheek of you, bursting in on a lady, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Herrick, I’m sure our writer friend here had no dishonourable intentions,” said the young lady recently identified as Louisa, flashing me just a hint of a wry smile. After checking the barrel of the delicate pistol was sufficiently cool she slipped it into the front of her bodice, before fastening her dress back into place.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said. “But with a father such as mine one can never be too careful, it pays to undertake a little pistol practice from time to time; unfortunately, it does unnerve our housekeeper Mrs Herrick so.”
At this she slammed the door in our faces. Seconds later it reopened.
“How rude of me,” she said smiling ravishingly and stretching out her hand. “Miss Louisa Clayton.”
“Peregrine Harker,” I replied, completely entranced by the mystifying creature.
“Lovely to meet you Mr Harker, good day.”
Again the door slammed shut, but this time I heard the turn of a key in the lock. And with that the stern Mrs Herrick bundled me down a flight of stairs and booted me unceremoniously on to the street. For the third time in as many minutes I had a door slammed in my face. I needed answers, and I needed them fast. Who was this man Clayton? Could I trust him? And more importantly was I really about to become his spy? There was only one man who could answer these questions.