Excerpt: Jane Austen: Secret Agent

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an island nation in possession of a great Empire must be in want of a secret service.
It is a truth widely refuted, but a truth nonetheless, that any earthly state faces perils far greater than the armies and agents of foreign powers. Worse things even than the French lurk in the dark, forgotten corners of the greenest and most pleasant land, in want only of some hobgoblin Bonaparte to lead them forth to conquest.

Once more, light flooded the graveyard, but of a different hue and quality than the lightning flash, and of considerably greater duration. It was of a reddish tint. The shadows it cast were soft; they danced as it flickered and swung wildly as the source of the light arced gracefully through the air, a burning brand as bright as the sun, which hissed and spat in the pouring rain, but never faltered in its illumination.
In the livid light the Creature stood a bay, clutching a hand to its shoulder. Dark blood, seeming black in the red glow, oozed between its fingers. A figure stepped from the shadow of a crypt, clad in a heavy greatcoat and broad-brimmed hat and levelled a long-barrelled pistol at the creature.
As the Creature’s attention was on the newcomer, the lady pushed herself to her feet before speaking. “Stand down, sir!” she called. “I am an agent of the King and this creature is my prisoner!”
“Pox on tha’!” the newcomer retorted in the high, harsh voice of a northerner, and of a northern girl at that. “I’m ‘ere as agent o’ justice an’ tha’ thing must die!” So saying she fired, loosing three shots in quick succession – although her weapon had but a single barrel – and drawing another roar of pain from the Creature.
Reeling from her assault, the Creature turned and bounded into the shadows, moving at an incredible speed. The girl sprang after it with the thoughtless agility of a mountain hare.
The lady fired a shot into the air and then took careful aim at the girl. “Stand down!” she repeated as the girl faltered. “I have a second barrel and at this range I shall not miss. Stand down, I say!”
The girl turned to face her, scowling. She swung up her pistol with surprising speed, but held her fire.
The lady surveyed the girl, paying especial note to her face and bearing and determined that there was no immediate threat in her. “I know you,” she observed. “From the London coach.” She lowered the small pistol to her side and waited for the girl to do the same before continuing: “What is your name, girl?”
“I’m Emily Brontë,” the girl replied. “Who the ‘ell are you?”
The lady smiled. “My name is Austen,” she said. “Miss Austen.”