As a gambler's daughter, Frances was resigned to spending her life masquerading as a boy, learning how to shoot a pistol and fight with a sword. Constantly moving from town to town, it was far safer than being a girl. But when her father dies sudd...
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CHAPTER ONE
Cool grey eyes summed up the situation ahead in one glance. A tall man in black evening dress stood in the narrow street fending off what looked like two – no three, footpads. His drawn sword was keeping them at bay for the present, but for how much longer? Even as he stood there, two of the footpads started working together to engage the sword with their sticks while the third angled in to strike a blow at their victim. The watcher could hear the tall man gasping for air as his sword flashed furiously trying to defend himself from three sides at once.
Rather reluctantly, the watcher realised he would have to go to the aid of the man under attack. Moving quickly once he had reached that decision, he drew a small silver pistol from his right hand coat pocket and levelled it carefully at the nearest assailant. The sudden explosion startled all four men and the nearest footpad clapped a hand to his arm, blood spurting between his fingers. Four heads swivelled wildly seeking to discover the source of the attack and he shouted excitedly, "Quick after them, Jack, we'll see some sport tonight!" In a flash, the would-be robbers deserted their prey and fled down the street.
The watcher waited a minute then stepped out of the shadows and towards the other man who stood still, holding his sword and breathing heavily.
"My thanks to you, sir, whoever you are, and to your friend. That was a good shot in poor light." The only light in fact came from the moon and all that he could see of his rescuer was a dark slight shape of medium height. His dress however seemed that of a gentleman and his voice confirmed it.
"T'was my pleasure, sir," He bowed slightly, "Although as you see, I'm afraid I invented my friend for the occasion!"
"My house is nearby. Perhaps you would permit me to offer you a drink? My name is Carleton by the way, Richard Carleton," the man in evening dress introduced himself. He held out a hand and his rescuer shook it.
"Peter Francis," he offered, a little hesitantly it seemed.
"You'll join me for a drink then?"
"Well ..."
"Just for a few minutes," Carleton interrupted, heading off a refusal. "Or would it not be convenient?" This last was said rather coolly and the younger man realised that to decline the invitation would appear churlish.
"Thank you, that would be very pleasant," he gave in gracefully.
He fell into step beside the other man and seemed to be concentrating on keeping his footing amongst the cobblestones. After several minutes silence, Carleton inquired pleasantly, "Have you been in London long, Francis?"
