Charles Shapland stood at his office window, looking over the crowded shipping in the river. He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed delicately and frowned when somebody tapped at his door.
“Come in,” he shouted and turned around, tucking away his ivory snuff box.
“My apologies for disturbing you, sir.” A middle-aged clerk stood at the door. “A woman is asking to see you.”
“Is she a young woman?” Shapland asked. He knew by his clerk’s choice of words and attitude that his visitor was not from the upper echelons of society. If the visitor had been important, the clerk would have called her a lady rather than a woman.
“Not very young, sir.” The clerk knew his master’s tastes. “Middling young. I’d say around thirty.”
Shapland pursed his lips. “Is she presentable?”
“Reasonably presentable, sir
