Poor Little Crick, he is a penniless orphan cast upon the cruel world of 19th Century Kirkshire, with the face – no less – of a pretty girl. Yet he is cunning, he has a fire in his belly, and he has the wiles to become anyone he a swooning lady in a drawing room, a cheeky harlot in a brothel, a dashing highwayman upon the night road, or a strait-laced governess ready to crack the whip. When he stumbles across a plot to infiltrate the house of an ancient baronetcy, it is all too much for him and his gothic talents to resist.
But, lo – is that the shadow of a murderer upon the windswept moors? There may be more to the great house of Pottinger Hall than at first appears. Once Crick enters the fray, his mettle will be tested. But how? Will he bring the villain to justice? Or will he add to the body count? One can never be certain with him. Wherever the adventure takes him however, one can always be certain that he will be romancing somebody along the way – be it dame or swain – and he will always be the one who knows where the bones are buried.