13. A little pistol practice
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 answere
