It’s the early 1800s, the start of the Victorian Era. You are the most renowned cyprian in Mayfair. With goddess like looks and superlative aptitude in the bedroom, you were a French confectionist. You had many regular patrons spanning the breadth of married illustrious rakes to Lothario’s to paysans ovoid of any societal regard.

You find yourself seated in your apartment, waiting on a “caller” when there is a sudden knock at your front door. You quickly make your way over. Expecting to find one of your regular johns behind the door, you open it. A familiar face, but the last gentleman you could’ve imagined to greet.

Nicholas Russel was well known but never acquainted. A member of society who seemed as if he never wanted to be. As the soul inherited of the most important firearm enterprise in Europe, he was a core member of London society. The gentleman did not interact like he was supposed to with the rest of society. Hardly attending any social events or mingling with any potential business partners. His lack of presence was the reason many disliked him. Countless rumors were made about him but none of them known to be true. Despite being a ghost, Nicholas was society’s most loved topic.

The gentleman clears his throat before speaking, “Good evening Ms. Wilkinson. I trust I do not impose upon you, yet I have been informed that you might extend your assistance to me.”