Page 16 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Callahan stood before the hearth in the safe house with his hands braced on the mantelpiece.

Behind him, hushed voices sounded – Emma and Kent sat beside each other with their heads bent together in some private conference. Isabel perched on a chair to the left of her sister, looking like she might bolt at any second. She hadn’t spoken a single fucking word to him since they’d arrived.

When Lady Alexandra’s messenger had shown up at his flat with news of Isabel’s surrender, he’d laughed. Actually fucking laughed. The same woman who’d looked him dead in the eye in Belgravia and said—

You were a pleasant diversion in Hong Kong. A nice big cock to ride and a purse to lighten.

His fingers dug into the mantelpiece.

But your utility, like your charm, has reached its limit.

She hadn’t come for him. That much was clear.

She was here because the Syndicate wanted her head on a spike, and he was her last resort.

When the doctor examined her knife wounds, she’d stared at the floor like he wasn’t even in the room.

Hell, she’d looked everywhere but at him when he showed her where she’d sleep for the night.

Like he was poison.

Just put her on a fucking boat and get rid of her.

Callahan turned, his face carefully blank. “We’ll have new identities sorted for both of you. Complete with travel papers. Then it’s a nice trip across the Atlantic to throw off the Syndicate’s trail.”

“Oh yes, a holiday is just perfect,” Isabel said, examining her nails. “I do so hope you plan to travel with us, Mr Callahan. Just imagine the stimulating conversation over newspapers and weak tea each morning. The excitement is mounting already.”

She was pushing him away with both hands, throwing up walls of jagged glass and metal.

He understood. It was what they did, people like them. The walking wounded, the ones who’d learned early and often that caring was weakness.

But that didn’t make her rejection sting any less.

“I won’t be staying,” he said. “After we disembark, I’ll be handing your arse off to another poor sod. I’m allergic to attempted murder at close quarters. But I assure you the arrangements will be most comfortable, given that I’d rather leave you bleeding out in a ditch.”

Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “Comfortable,” she repeated. “I hope that includes booking us passage on separate ships since I’m allergic to overbearing jailers with delusions of control.”

How does it feel, Agent Callahan? To have the Home Office’s collar so tight around your throat, you can barely breathe?

“I’m certain you’ll find the quarters perfectly adequate,” he said.

“Her Majesty’s government does occasionally spare expenses for ungrateful but useful harpies.

After which, you will haul yourself back to England to do your job.

And if you even attempt to flee, I’ll find you and put a noose around your neck myself. ”

Isabel surged up with a snarl. Emma’s hand shot out, grabbing her sister’s shoulder before she could launch herself at Callahan. He made a mental note to thank the younger Dumont later, preferably when Isabel wasn’t within earshot or throwing distance.

“I said I’d work for you,” Isabel growled. “But it will be on my terms. No chains and no nooses. And tell your superiors that I want another handler. Not you.”

“The preference is mutual. What about you?” he asked Emma, his tone softening. This sister was easier. She was sane, for one thing. “Any name in mind for your alias, Miss Dumont?”

Emma gave a wan smile. “I suppose I’ll leave that to you. Choose whichever name you think is best.”

Before Callahan could respond, Kent cleared his throat. “Whatever name and identity you assign her, make it fit for the future Countess of Kent.”

Emma’s head whipped towards Kent, her expression slack with shock. Even Isabel seemed momentarily thrown.

“Christ.” Callahan pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a damn headache. “Of course, you both had to go and needlessly complicate things.” He loosed a sigh. “I’ll send word when it’s time to depart for the steamer.”

He stalked out of the parlour, leaving the Dumonts and Kent to sort themselves out. The boards creaked beneath his boots as he navigated the narrow halls of the safe house for the cramped study that served as his makeshift headquarters.

Damn Kent and his romantic declaration. The earl had just doubled Callahan’s workload. Creating a false identity for a thief was difficult enough. Creating one for the future Countess of Kent? That required craftsmanship and time, which was in short supply.

He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the back of his chair. Dropping into the seat, he tugged a sheaf of papers close and unscrewed the cap of the inkwell. He couldn’t have said how long he sat there with his head bent over his work before a pointed cough broke his concentration.

Isabel against the doorframe. “Plotting my demise? Or doodling little hearts around my name?”

“What do you want, Trouble?”

“Just making sure you’re not saddling me with some ghastly nom de plume . No Scarlett O’Harlots, if you please. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“And what a sterling reputation it is. Tell me, do you prefer ‘infamous thief’ or ‘traitor to international crime syndicates’ on your calling cards?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘peerless acquisitions specialist.’ It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. Then memory crashed in – her mocking voice in Belgravia.

Nothing wrong with being a whore, but call it what it is.

The almost-smile died. “I’ll take it under advisement. Was there something else, or did you come to make my life more difficult than it already is? Because there’s no need. You’re doing an exceptional job of that by existing.”

Her chest expanded on a breath. Something flickered in her eyes – an emotion that might have been hurt – and then she shook her head.

“Good,” he said, standing and reaching for his coat. The room suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Too filled with her. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Arranging aliases and safe passage for ungrateful thieves is surprisingly time-consuming.”

Callahan moved to exit, but Isabel stepped into his path. Close enough to touch. To take.

“Move,” he growled.

“Why?”

“Why what?” He sidestepped; she matched him. “You’ll have to be more specific. My list of questionable life choices is extensive.”

His list started with her.

Hell, it ended with her, too.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked. “After everything I said in Belgravia? After Hong Kong?”

Callahan fixed Isabel with a look. He was struck by how young she looked beneath the bravado and the scars. Young, and very, very tired.

“You’re an asset. A valuable one when you’re not actively trying to be a liability. And I’m in the business of acquiring and maintaining assets.”

Her lips thinned, but she said nothing.

Let her think what she wanted. Being a cold-hearted bastard suited him fine. Better than the truth – that he couldn’t get her voice out of his head even when he slept.

“And your sister is innocent in all this,” he continued. “I’m many things. A bastard with the Home Office’s boot on my neck, as you so kindly pointed out. But I’m not in the habit of letting innocents suffer for the sins of their degenerate siblings, Miss Dumont.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, her hands curling into fists.

“What?” Callahan knew he was pushing too far, but God help him, he couldn’t stop. “ Miss Dumont? Oh, I’m sorry, what would you prefer? Allison Marks? Mary Griffin? The esteemed Gr?fin von Hohenstein? Or perhaps Ekaterina Mikhailovna—”

“That’s enough .” Her chest heaved, colour high on her cheeks.

“Why?” He gripped her wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, just to hold her in place. “Tell me why I shouldn’t use the only real damn thing I know about you.”

She trembled. Heat radiated between them like it always did when they got too close. Like striking flint against steel.

Christ. What was it about her? Years of this back and forth, years of her getting under his skin. And here he was, still losing his damn mind over her and wanting things he had no business wanting.

“Tell me one real thing,” he whispered. “Just one, and I’ll call you whatever you want.”

There was something so vulnerable about the way her body seemed to curl into him. The way her forehead nearly touched his. A soft exhale left her.

But then she said, “There’s not a single thing about me that’s real. Not in New York or Athens. Not in Hong Kong. That’s the truth.”

Cold swept through him. Stupid, stupid bastard. He’d asked for this, hadn’t he? She had one talent in abundance.

Spectre was a fucking liar.

Callahan released her wrist and stepped back. “I’ll bring you clothes and new travel papers tonight. We leave for the steamer after dark.” He straightened his coat. “I’m sure you’ll be eager to be rid of me, since you’ve just been performing this whole time.”

He walked around her and out into the grey London morning.

*

Whitehall loomed ahead, the pale stone edifices stark against the sky. Callahan shouldered his way through the doors for the Home Office, walked up the staircase lined with columns, and down several dark hallways and corridors.

He ignored the clerks and aides scurrying about their business and didn’t slow until he stood outside his superior’s office.

MATTIAS WENTWORTH, read the plate affixed to the door.

Squaring his shoulders, Callahan rapped and pushed open the door.

Wentworth sat behind his desk with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his dark hair spilled across his forehead.

Despite being born to an aristocratic family, the spymaster was anything but soft.

His forearms were corded with muscle, and his shirt strained over his shoulders.

When his blue eyes rose to meet Callahan’s, they were sharp. Flat.

“Out with it,” Wentworth snapped, tossing aside his pen. Ah, pleasant as ever. “What’ve you fucked up?”

“Good afternoon to you, too, sir. I appreciate your faith in me. It’s a balm to my soul.”

Wentworth snorted. Stabbed a finger at the papers fanned across his desk. “Five minutes. That’s what you’ve got before I ship you to the coldest corner of hell I can find. Start talking.”

Well. Straight to it, then.

“I assume you’re referring to my acquisition of a certain asset?”

“If by ‘asset’ you mean the thief we’ve been after since 1868, then yes. Imagine my surprise when I received a courier this morning informing me that not only had you secured her cooperation, but you intend to ferry her across the Atlantic without my authorisation.”

Callahan shrugged. “There wasn’t time to go through the formal channels.

Favreau’s men had already made an attempt on her life.

I couldn’t risk them succeeding. She’s the most dangerous thief in Europe, has inside intelligence on the French arm of the Syndicate, and now she’s ours.

Forgive me if I thought that warranted expediency on my part. ”

“The only reason I don’t have your bollocks in a vice right now,” Wentworth said with a glare, “is because I know Spectre in the custody of the Home Office is better than her helping Favreau.”

“Just so.”

“I heard something about another woman involved.”

“Our asset’s sister. Targeted as leverage.” Callahan ran a hand through his hair. “The Earl of Kent wants to marry her.”

Wentworth let out an aggrieved sigh. “Christ. Nobody informed me Kent had taken up thinking with his prick.”

“Didn’t realise the depth of his affections, truth be told. She was his sister’s maid, and you know how aristos are.”

The spymaster gave a mocking smile. He was, after all, the second son of a viscount. “So I suppose I’m crafting some hidden heiress from Boston. How’s her ear for accents?”

“If she’s anything like her sister, decent.”

“Let us hope so. Inform Kent that he needs to take a long honeymoon. Keep up the pretence of unfathomably falling in love with some American chit. The Syndicate can have no inkling of who she really is.” He tapped a slim folder to his left.

“I have three tickets for the Liverpool Express tomorrow morning. I’ll put someone on the identities.

Should be delivered to the safe house by nightfall.

” His stare sharpened with a look that absolutely, unequivocally communicated that he wouldn’t hesitate to skin Callahan alive if this all went tits up. “I’m trusting your instincts on this.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Spectre will need a handler in Boston. Someone to keep her controlled and low profile. No reason you shouldn’t take the position.”

“She wants another handler,” Callahan said, his expression a careful mask of indifference. “I think it best to grant the request.”

One of Wentworth’s dark brows winged upwards. “Oh? And why is that?”

“I believe our interpersonal friction could become a liability if allowed to continue long term.”

His superior studied him. Callahan resisted the urge to fidget beneath that scalpel-edged scrutiny.

“You’ve fucked her, haven’t you?”

Callahan couldn’t quite suppress his flinch. There was no point in denying it. “Six months ago. In Hong Kong.”

With a curse, Wentworth ran his hands down his face. “I’d ask what the hell you were thinking, but that would presume you were thinking at all. Christ, man, we’ve been trying to bring her to heel for years, and you tumbled the chit into bed?”

“Momentary lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right, it won’t. I’ll have the lads upstairs send a cable to Portia Vale and have her meet you both in Boston to take over guardianship.

You are going to be the consummate professional, Agent.

” He jabbed his finger onto the desk to emphasise his words.

“You’ll keep your head down and your cock in your trousers, and you’ll deliver Spectre into Vale’s hands without any further complications. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Callahan bit out.

He could picture Isabel’s sneer, could almost hear the mocking lilt of her voice whispering in his ear. Such a good little lapdog.