A Private Duel with Agent Gunn by Jillian Stone

In the middle of his search for a physician, he had simply chosen to stop. Finn sighed and pushed his back deeper into the squabs of the plush upholstered coach seat. An inquiry into this new school of medicine had unearthed disturbing rumors, including the suspicion that this Freud character was a cocaine addict. Monty had studied under a very unorthodox Austrian physician by the name of Freud. Montague Twombly was even licensed-more of a quack phrenologist, as it turned out. In actuality, he wasn’t altogether sure Dr. The numbness and tingling were particularly bad. Chest pain, shortness of breath, precipitous heart rate. He was dying and there was no way to stop it.Īll his symptoms were present this evening. Finn knew very well he sat safely within the confines of his coach, yet every fiber of his body told him he was being chased down a dark alley by a raving murderer, poised to thrust a blade in his back. The shakes often came upon him without warning or obvious cause. He inhaled another deep breath and exhaled slowly, counting to ten. It seemed nothing he could think or do could distract from this sudden assault on his nerves. An intense wave of fear ripped through flesh and sinew-right down to his bones. Within the smothering confinement of the carriage, his heart rate accelerated. The lane was popping with customers, men whose single-minded aspiration was to gamble, drink, and fornicate the night away. Gazing out at the blur of street smut, it appeared the newspaper’s alarming calculation had proved to be nothing less than an effective advertisement. According to the Daily Telegraph, at half past twelve, any night of the week, there were five hundred prostitutes working London streets between Piccadilly Circus and the bottom of Waterloo Place. Up the street, a couple of randy bloods stopped to negotiate with the flashy procurer. The pimp hawked his bevy of spoiled doves to every man jack and Prince Arthur prowling the backstreets of Leicester Square.įinn gulped for air. Special this evening-two girls, three and six. Twirling a crystal-knobbed cane, the fancy man swept his walking stick behind bouncing bustles.

With bosoms near to bursting out of corsets, the rag-a-bed jewels of Princess Street posed enticingly for his attention.īugger off. The flesh peddler cocked his head with a wink. Take another gander, sir-you’ll find something comely that tickles the old Thomas. Phineas Gunn sat in the darkness and regarded the street pimp for the briefest of moments. Sure you won’t have a taste, sir? The dandy peacock tipped his hat and squinted to see inside the carriage.

Clean as a whistle, these young lovelies.

A Private Duel with Agent Gunn by Jillian Stone