Page 1 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Trouble had a way of finding Ronan Callahan. Usually, it came in the form of a fist aimed at his jaw or an informant with an itch to turn on him. But tonight, it was a blonde woman wearing emerald silk.

They were in some uptown mansion he couldn’t be arsed to remember the name of, some railway tycoon’s ostentatious monument to his wealth.

She moved through the crush of Manhattan’s elite, pretending to be just another debutante.

But Callahan saw beyond the practised smiles.

He’d made a career out of seeing what others missed.

She called herself Abigail Smith.

It was, by Callahan’s meticulous accounting, her thirteenth name in two years.

The newspapers dubbed her the Spectre. The Fant?me .

A ghost drifting through the lives of the rich to steal anything shiny and valuable.

He’d tracked her exploits for months, a bemused admiration in the dispatches he sent winging back to Whitehall.

Hard not to marvel at the fucking audacity of her grift.

And the cleverness, if he was being honest. She treated it like a game.

Oh, they had that in common, the pair of them. That understanding that the world was a board, and they had pieces to be played. Toffs and street thieves, Quality and guttersnipes – all people wanted the same things. Wealth. Status. Power.

The only difference was that he went for the straighter way of taking it.

He’d beat it out of someone if he had to.

Callahan had been born in the rookery, made in the image of dockside taverns and narrow alleys.

Forced to make his way with fists and cunning when Whitechapel finally spat him out.

He’d tried going straight once – clerk work, factory labour. His hands itched the whole time.

Too wild for honest work.

Too impatient for business.

Too damn mean for the church.

Left one path: government-paid thief. Spy, they called it, like the word made it cleaner.

But her ? She worked the room like she knew this world well.

Made men fall in love before she vanished with their fortunes.

Never left bruises, just broken hearts. She bent her head as she laughed at some young swell’s tepid wit.

Fluttered her fingers against another’s bejewelled lapel with a blush colouring her cheeks.

Every movement was calculated.

There was a certain art to her cons. A poetry that only someone versed in the same could appreciate.

Her methods were prettier than his, to be sure, but a mark was a mark, whether you rolled them with a kiss or a fist. And Callahan made a study of her light-fingered exploits.

He’d followed her across countries, lost her trail, and thought he’d never find it again.

Now, here they were, in the same Manhattan residence.

Kismet , Callahan might’ve called it, if he believed in that sort of thing.

He waited for his moment. Spectre drifted towards the ballroom’s perimeter, pausing to admire the view outside the open terrace doors.

Callahan abandoned his whiskey on a footman’s tray and intercepted her path.

There was something almost fated about it.

The inexorable tug of two bodies locked in opposing orbits, destined to collide.

“Lovely evening,” he said. “Seems a shame to waste it on dancing and small talk.”

Up close, she resembled a figure out of a Rossetti painting, with irises the colour of absinthe and hair like molten gold. An elegant nose. A mouth made for sin and secrets. Her skin looked soft enough to bruise under his fingertips.

Her attention didn’t waver from the immaculate gardens beyond the terrace, but he’d wager she’d clocked his every feature and stored it away in her clever brain.

“I find these gatherings quite entertaining. Perhaps you’d find a gaming table more to your taste?” A smile, faintly mocking.

Christ, but she was a cool piece of work.

“Ah, see, I make it a policy never to gamble if I can help it. With cards or dice, at least. I prefer more unorthodox contests of chance.”

“Such as?”

“Seeing how long you can keep this up before that accent slips.” He leaned in, letting his voice drop low.

“I’d lay odds that fetching little voice is meant to mark you as a new money debutante, possibly visiting New York from Philadelphia for a match.

But the Seine still shows through when you say certain words.

A bit sloppy for someone with your reputation. ”

That earned him a swift, startled look. Her eyes flicked over him, cataloguing the austere lines of his evening kit, the hair he’d slicked into submission.

“You’ve a discerning ear,” she allowed. “Mr . . . ?”

“Ronan Callahan, at your service.” He swept her a bow. “And I’ve an ear for many things, Miss Abigail Smith. Tell me, did you come up with that all on your own, or did you borrow it from a headstone?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” She turned to face him fully.

“I’d say we can do away with the pretence. We’re neither of us much suited for it.” He caught her fingers on the pretext of brushing a kiss across her knuckles. Her hand tensed in his grip. “I know you’re no more an American heiress than I am the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

She tilted her head. The smile she gave him was practised. “My goodness. Do you approach all innocent women with such outlandish claims? Or am I special?”

“Come now, darling. There’s not an innocent stitch on you.” He glanced at her neck. “That’s quite the rock weighing down your décolletage. Shame it doesn’t match the ones dripping from your ears.”

A hitch in her breath, quickly suppressed.

“A small inconsistency,” she said. “My maid has been distracted lately.”

“Funny thing about that diamond. The Duchess of Westchester’s been missing it since last spring. Clashes dreadfully with the Countess of Harrington’s diamonds dangling from your lobes. A lady of your discerning tastes should know better than to mix stolen goods from different heists.”

He had the pleasure of watching that placid expression ripple.

“You’re quite free with your accusations.”

“Am I? I call it being observant. Comes with the territory in my line of work.”

“And what work might that be? Professional ballroom lurker? Defender of the idle rich?” She raked him with a look.

“But no. You’ve the appearance of a man accustomed to more utilitarian dress.

And no taste for the useless chatter of the Quality.

I suspected someone might be following me when I boarded that steamer to New York. ”

Clever minx. But he’d expected nothing less. “What do you say to a turn about the floor, Miss Smith? I promise I’m lighter on my feet than I appear.”

“I promised the next set to Mr Avery.”

“He’s losing at the card table and won’t notice if you’ve run off to Paris by morning.” Callahan offered his arm. “One dance. I won’t bite unless you ask nicely.”

“How gentlemanly.” But she laid her hand on him. “I suppose one dance couldn’t hurt.”

He had her now. Tension thrummed through her, that stillness of a creature poised to flee or fight. But there was curiosity there, too, and the faintest edge of excitement. The thrill of the game.

He knew it well. Lived for it, in fact.

The orchestra struck up a waltz, and he splayed his palm over the small of her back.

“Lovely form,” he said, leading her through the turns. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. Thieves need good footwork, don’t they?”

Her nails dug into his shoulder briefly. If he hadn’t been paying attention, he would’ve missed it.

“And spies don’t?” she countered. “Crown agent, I assume? You’re a long way from London.”

He led her in a graceful turn, using the movement to study her face. “What makes you so certain of my loyalties? I could be Prussian.” The words came out in flawless German.

“ Ihre anzug kommt aus London ,” she replied, her German as perfect as his.

“Narrow cut on the lapels, higher buttons.” Her nail traced the line of a button, and his lungs forgot how to work.

“That subtle curve here” – her touch skimmed his chest – “only comes from Savile Row. Fine hand stitching emphasised by a country that values delicacy over durability. And English wool has a unique feel under my fingers. The weaving technique, you see. Softer. Lighter.”

Good God.

“Well spotted.”

She patted his shoulder. “Your accent’s slipping. Did I hear an Irish lilt just now?”

“Maybe.” Callahan dipped his head, his lips grazing her ear. “How’s my accent now, darling? Idle curiosity.”

“American,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “Manhattan born and bred. There aren’t many men who can slip into different skins so seamlessly. Tell me your background.”

“Dublin by birth, London by way of a misspent youth.”

She smiled. “And what is your fine talent for observation telling you about me?”

“You walked in exactly forty-three minutes after the dancing started. Late enough to make an entrance, but not so late to be remembered as rude. You danced with Henderson first – old money. Then Parkington, whose wife is conveniently visiting her mother. Both men who wouldn’t notice if you took their wallets, their watches, and their dignity all at once. ”

He skated his hand down to settle at the base of her spine.

“But that back of yours,” he continued, “it never relaxes. Not even when you laugh. I’d wager you’ve practised that delicate blush in the mirror for hours.

Three times tonight, same downward glance.

” He lifted a brow. “How close am I to the mark?”

Surprise flickered in her face. She huffed a little laugh as they swayed. “You have been watching closely.”

“I don’t suppose you’d do me the very great honour of sharing something real? A name, a favourite flower, your preferred nom de guerre . Let’s have a proper introduction.”

“Names are just sounds people make to get your attention. Mine have all served their purpose.”

“That so, Miss D’Aramitz?”

Her eyes flared. “You have me confused with someone else. Flattered as I am by your attentions.”

“The thing about lies is that they multiply. First there’s one, then three, then twenty.

Soon, you need a ledger to keep track of them all.

But I can always list them for you, if you’d like.

The diamonds in Barcelona. The pearls in Vienna.

We could talk about the heiress in Rome or the countess in Prague.

Every few months, there’s been a new woman with a new story.

Different names, different hair colours, different languages.

It’s a remarkable collection of faces you’ve acquired. ”

A muscle ticced in her jaw. “Do you have a point to make, or do you just enjoy the sound of your voice?”

“My point is that I know you better than anyone else in this room. I’ve been following your trail across two continents. We’re old friends by now.”

Her expression was cold and assessing. “You do have a way with words.”

“So I’ve been told. Most people mention it right before they try to knock my teeth out.”

“You don’t need to worry about violence from me. Unless that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. You haven’t answered my question.”

“Which one? You’ve made so many baseless insinuations that I’m afraid I’ve quite lost track.” She slanted a look at the open terrace doors. “Best if we resume this tête-à-tête somewhere more private, hmm?”

Callahan gave a nod. “After you.”

The glass-paned doors clicked shut, and he backed her against the ivy-covered wall, both hands braced on either side of her head. She met his stare, back straight. As regal as a queen.

“Well?” she asked mockingly.

“Your name.” He lowered his head until their faces were inches apart. “The real one.”

She smiled slowly. “Spectre.”

“And I’m the fucking Prince of Wales.”

“You’re not nearly blue-blooded enough to reach that high. What do you want from me?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? See, I’ve got a bit of a quandary on my hands. There’s a rather princely sum being offered for information leading to your capture. Enough to keep me in tailored suits and passable whiskey for years to come.”

She didn’t flinch from the threat. “Then why haven’t you clapped me in irons already?”

He reached out to wind one of her curls around his finger. “We’re having such a fine time, I thought I’d savour it.”

He didn’t see it coming. One second, he was looming over her, the next, his back slammed against the wall. She pressed a knife to his throat. Where had she even hidden that thing?

Her cheeks were flushed, chest heaving. He’d never seen anything so terrifyingly beautiful.

“Problem, Agent?” She grinned. “Not quite how you imagined the evening progressing? What will you do now, I wonder?”

The blade bit deeper.

Callahan kept very still. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Don’t play games you can’t win, Ronan Callahan,” she whispered, lips brushing his.

“Who says I’m losing?” His voice came out rougher than he’d meant it to.

A heartbeat passed. Two. The orchestra hit a crescendo behind the glass.

The blade scraped over his skin in an idle caress.

“I applaud your dedication, truly. As charming as this has been, I really must dash. Places to be, people to scandalise; you know how it is. It’s been a rare pleasure, Agent Callahan.

But what fun would it be if you caught me so easily?

I’d be disappointed if we never danced again. ”

Then she eased the knife away and slipped into the ballroom, vanishing into the crowd.