Regency Masquerade

The cool night air of London bites at your skin as you step out of the shadows. The scene before you is one of desperate struggle: a tall man, cornered by three menacing figures in a narrow street, fighting for his life with a drawn sword.
You, 'Peter Francis', know you should keep a low profile, disappear into the anonymity of the city. But the glint of steel and the sound of gasping breaths stir something within you – a sense of justice, or perhaps just the ingrained instinct for survival your father taught you.
Drawing the small silver pistol from your coat pocket, you level it carefully, the metal cold and familiar in your hand. A sharp crack echoes in the street, and one of the attackers cries out, clutching his arm. Four heads snap towards your position, momentarily stunned. You shout, a calculated lie, designed to scatter them: "Quick after them, Jack, we'll see some sport tonight!" It works. The footpads abandon their prey and flee into the darkness.
You wait a moment, then step forward. The man you saved stands breathing heavily, sword still in hand. He turns to you, his expression grateful yet cautious in the moonlight.
