They’d agreed to meet by the creek at dusk, but Florence wasn’t sure she would make it in time. She couldn’t see more than a few yards in front of her and had already toppled over several roots and shrubs that sprouted at her feet. Brambles snagged at her clothes and skin, and trees loomed ominously out of the fog and gloom. What little vision she had was clouded by her breath forming clouds before her. The mist was all-encompassing. As claustrophobia set in, her pace quickened; she had to reach him.

She considered going back, but the dirt trodden path behind looked no more familiar than the road ahead, and turning around would only disorientate her further. She could end up even more lost, possibly even stranded in the wilderness all night. That would not do. She just had to keep moving forward.

After what felt like an age of walking, she could just make out the distant rushing sound of water. Their rendezvous point. Breath catching, she set off at a light jog, hitching up her muslin skirts as she went. Her eyes kept to the ground, watching for protruding roots and mole holes. It wouldn’t do her any good to twist her ankle. Not with everything at stake.

At an upwards glance, she caught a glimpse of red amid the endless grey fog. Florence stopped in her tracks, squinting into the murky distance. It was hard to make out, for the mist played with her perception, appearing both far and near, burrowing into her eyes. Then one red glow flickered in the air, never getting nearer or further away. As she moved closely, now more hesitantly, the light grew brighter and illuminated the hand that held it. A cigarette. Florence heaved a sigh of relief, causing clouds of icy breath to billow out. It was him, it was Gregory Knowles. Just where they’d agreed to meet.

Now she knew he was near, she had to act with more stealth. Setting off again, she took up a light tread, keeping to the denser clumps of trees and greenery as she wound her way towards him. Eventually she found the path that led along the side of the creek. Florence could barely make it out, but the sound of steady water rushing by her left ear was a good indicator. He seemed none the wiser to her approach: still smoking his cigarette, standing at a slight angle, with his back to the stream.

Perfect.

His sloping frame came into view as she stepped closer. Now was the time, before he noticed her presence.

“Hey you.” Florence whispered in a sultry tone. He tensed, she felt the shift in his demeanor, heard his breath catch. But he did not look round.

“You’re late.” He sighed, “I see no need for preamble, we should discuss the matter at hand.” He spoke with much formality, similar to any conversation of business with other men at the clubs. He put out his cigarette, driving his heel into the dirt to ensure it was extinguished, before turning to face her. The man’s face was pale and slim, somewhat cast in shadow from the lack of light permeating the mist. He wore a slight smirk on his face. Annoying, yes. Handsome? Definitely.

“And what business might that be?” She whispered, licking her lips. Florence loved incensing him, seeing the flash of irritation in his eyes. He did not respond. She stepped closer.

“Mr Knowles…” She lent closer, and in turn his posture straightened, strained and unamused.

For a moment they stayed that way. Until his neck bent, lowering his mouth to her ear. “Lady Dawson.” George’s eyes flicked to her lips then back up.

“You’re biding your time.”

At that she smiled, and tilted her head slightly. There they remained, their lips mere inches from one another.

“I suppose so. Shall we begin?”

A slight nod was enough. From beneath the folds of her skirt she pulled the metal double-barrelled monstrosity she’d snuck from her brothers study ealier that evening. She pulled it up quickly to point the pistol at his chin. He stood as still as carved marble, but his face showed no fear.

“I thought arms a bit improper for a lady. Even you, Miss Dawson. And a tad outside you skillset, I believe.” His mocking expression was unmistakable, even in the dying light, and it made Florence’s ears burn.

“Just hand over the money, George. I don’t have time for this.” Her fingers were numb from the cold. The biting of a chilled breeze didn’t help matters. Even with her heaviest cloak, her ankles were freezing, as well as her bare sternum. Still he did not move.

“Scared senseless?” She jeered, cocking the gun for good measure, and smiled with satisfaction at the flinch it brought out of him.

“God knows you’ll be.”

She caught only the flash of silver as it reflected the waters rippling surface before the pistol fired and all turned white.

The flash of light as the bullet left its chamber left stars in Florence’s vision. Not to mention the boom of the shot, which she deemed equivalent to a cannon fire, made her her ears ring. With her senses off-kilter, all she could do was run.

Heels had been a mistake. She’d worn them to add to her height, make up for her short stature. Certainly, she could run in heels, but the uneven terrain made it a challenge. The mist only disoriented her further. Without a moon or stars to light her path, the dim road was practically invisible.

Another shot fired, from his gun or hers she didn’t know. All sound seemed muffled and distant. As was George, hopefully. She knew her own blame: confronting him with arms when they’d agreed on a formal exchange of goods. Not that she had the papers he’d requested. But how low could he stoop to pull a gun on a lady! An entirely different situation, she reasoned.

The fading day was almost consumed by night. With the closely packed trees, the walk ahead was winding and hard to follow. She felt annoyed, infuriated that he’d gotten the upper hand, when she’d so meticulously planned to catch him off guard. Flirt, tease, throw off his rhythm. He’d done the same to her countless times before. As the night took hold, any outline she had of the surroundings melted away. With a gunman hot on her heels, and no light to guide her footing, and all this dratted mist-

She just prayed she’d be able to keep to the path.