Page 22 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Five months later

Isabel’s fingers tapped restlessly against the window as the carriage navigated London’s streets.

Five months away, and nothing had changed.

She’d hated Boston at the beginning. Hated feeling like she was trapped and couldn’t run.

But somewhere between her morning briefings with Vale and the evening teas, she’d found a rhythm.

A peace. A sense of safety that she hadn’t felt since she was a child still ignorant of the ways the world broke girls.

It had been nice.

“You’re quiet,” Vale said, not looking up from her book.

“Just admiring the scenery.”

That earned her a snort. Portia Vale wasn’t a woman who bothered with pleasantries or lies.

It was what she’d come to appreciate most about her handler – the brutal honesty between them.

She never looked at Isabel like she was damaged goods.

They weren’t friends, but they’d become colleagues, of a sort.

Vale, after all, had heard every deep, dark secret by now.

Every job, every name, every drop of blood spilled.

She knew about where Isabel’s scars came from. About Favreau’s knife games.

Things she hadn’t even told Callahan.

“He’ll be there,” Vale said, as if she read Isabel’s mind.

Her face went hot. “Who?”

Vale just looked at her.

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

Yes, she did.

The carriage hit a rut, jostling them both. Isabel braced herself against the wall, her heart giving a stupid, foolish lurch at the thought of seeing Callahan again.

Somewhere in this city, he was going about his day, unaware she’d returned.

For months, she’d waited for him to appear at Vale’s door with some excuse, some pretence.

For him to show up on one of her walks with some bumbling American accent.

To climb through her window, maybe. But he never did.

Because she was a captured asset now rather than a target, and she gave him no excuse to hunt her down.

After years, Ronan Callahan had finally brought the notorious Spectre to heel – and then washed his hands of her.

“You never answered my question on the steamer,” Isabel said. “Did Wentworth give any actual reason for dragging me back here? You told him I wanted to stay in America?”

Vale flipped a page. “I told him. He said no.”

“Of course,” Isabel muttered. “And the information I gave you? Has he done anything with it?”

“We wouldn’t be in this miserable city if he hadn’t.”

*

Isabel shifted her suitcase in her hands as she followed Vale into the nondescript government building. Their boots clicked against the marble floor as they proceeded down the hall to a door labelled MATTIAS WENTWORTH.

Vale rapped twice.

“Enter.” The voice from inside was deep, clipped.

The office was smaller than she expected. No grandeur, no display of wealth or power. Nothing to say, Look how important I am . Just functionality – a desk, three chairs, some bookshelves against one wall.

And him.

Mattias Wentworth wasn’t what she’d pictured.

Not some severe, grey-bearded official with liver spots, but a handsome, rugged man sprawled almost insolently in his chair.

He was younger than she’d anticipated, perhaps only a handful of years past thirty.

He had keen blue eyes and close-cropped brown hair.

When he reached for a file, his forearm muscles flexed beneath his pushed-up sleeves.

Those weren’t the arms of someone who shuffled papers for a living. He looked like he’d learned to fight before he learned to read; this was a man who broke things.

“That will be all, Vale,” he said without taking his eyes off Isabel. “You can go.”

“Sir—” Portia started.

“The return steamer leaves Friday.” His tone left no room for argument. “Get some rest before then.”

Isabel felt a flicker of panic as Vale’s footsteps retreated and her last ally disappeared through the door.

Wentworth studied her. “So you’re Spectre.”

“And you’re the one who’s been reading about all my sins for the past five months.”

His mouth twitched – not quite a smile. “Sit, Miss Dumont. Put down the suitcase.”

She hesitated, then sank into the chair in front of his desk, her back straight like a lady. Like someone who hadn’t killed men with hairpins.

“I trust you’ve settled well enough with Agent Vale these past months?”

“Well enough. Is my sister Emma all right?”

“ Lady Kent has just returned to England. The Syndicate lost her scent months ago, her alias as an American heiress is holding up, and as long as there’s no connection to her past, she remains safe.”

The warning was clear – Emma’s safety hung on the tenuous thread of her false identity. But she was alive and well with her new husband, and that was what mattered.

“I understand,” Isabel said. “She’ll hear nothing from me.”

“See that she doesn’t. Now. To—”

The door swung open without a knock.

Isabel’s head jerked up.

Ronan Callahan filled the doorway, every bit as beautiful as she remembered. His black hair was damp from the rain, messy, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Faint stubble coloured his jawline. When his grey eyes met hers, they went as dark as storm clouds over the sea.

Her heart kicked against her ribs. Even after months apart, her body still reacted to him as if he owned it.

“You summoned me, Wentworth?” His gaze never left Isabel.

That voice. Every time they were apart, she’d forget it a little – how deep it was, the way it seemed to brush over her skin like fingertips.

“Have a seat, Callahan.”

She kept her attention on Wentworth as her personal plague dropped into the chair beside her. Her senses filled with him. The heat of his body, the scent of rain and leather, the edge of his boot touching hers.

It was torture.

Wentworth pulled papers from a drawer. “The information Miss Dumont provided about the Syndicate’s operations has been useful. We intercepted communications about a man named Edmund Ramsgate.”

The name meant nothing to Isabel. “Who is he?”

“A biochemist of some repute. Brilliant, reclusive. Lives in some decrepit country house most of the year, except when he emerges for scientific events. But we’ve had a look at his finances, and while there’s no direct connection to Favreau, he’s certainly quite flush for an academic hermit.

” He pushed a paper across the desk. “My men copied Ramsgate’s research notes, and they’re working on decoding them.

But his sudden influx of capital coincides neatly with Miss Dumont’s reports of expanded Syndicate activities on English soil.

Look here.” Wentworth tapped a row of figures.

“Until a year ago, Ramsgate was up to his neck in gambling debts. He owed sums he had no way of repaying through legitimate means. Favreau wouldn’t waste resources on a mere scientist unless he had something of value to offer. ”

“What’s the play, then?” Callahan asked.

“The Marquess of Ripon hosts an annual symposium at Basil House for leading minds in the scientific community. Thanks to the Office’s cordial relationship with Ripon, Ramsgate has received an invitation.

I need you both to attend and find out what he’s doing for Favreau without alerting the Syndicate or anyone else to our interest.”

Callahan grimaced. “You want us to go to some posh scientific salon and make nice with the nobs?”

“As husband and wife,” Wentworth said.

Isabel’s stomach dropped.

No. No. No. Zut alors .

Husband and wife meant sharing quarters. It meant touching, pretending, acting like they belonged to each other.

Her gaze flicked to Callahan. He’d gone rigid, jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He was probably used to getting orders he didn’t like.

Isabel spoke first. “Surely there’s some other way—”

“There isn’t,” Wentworth interrupted. “Ripon’s gathering begins in two days. You’ll be reporting to Basil House tomorrow afternoon. A dossier with your cover identities and a wardrobe befitting your roles will be delivered to your flat in the morning before you depart, Callahan.”

“Mr Wentworth, I really must . . .”

She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Her chest felt too tight, her skin too small, and the world tilted around her.

She gripped her chair, trying to anchor herself against the rising surge of panic.

Five months in America, and she’d almost forgotten what it felt like – this drowning feeling when the walls closed in, and she had no control over what happened to her.

“Miss Dumont.”

Wentworth’s clipped voice cut through the static. She lifted her head to meet his piercing stare.

“This is not a request. You come to me absent any leverage. If I have even an inkling that you intend to betray me to Favreau, there is nowhere on this earth that I won’t find you.

I will make the very short duration of your days agony.

If you wish to continue drawing breath, you will adopt some humility. Swiftly.”

Icy fingers trailed down her spine. She forced her lungs to work, to pull in air. “That won’t be necessary. I understand what you require.”

“Good. Callahan, I leave the rest to you. Don’t disappoint me.” Wentworth turned back to the papers on his desk in dismissal.

Isabel and Callahan left the office.

“Well,” she said, slumping against the wall in the corridor. She tapped her fingers against her suitcase. “That went about as well as a jump from a burning building.”

Callahan snorted. “Of course, you find this amusing.”

“Not in the slightest. But I hardly see what choice we have in the matter.”

“This’ll end badly.”

“No question. I’ll probably stab you again.”

“Good to know your smart mouth survived Boston intact.”

He scrutinised her, attention moving from her face down to her shoes and back up again. Slow. Deliberate. After five months, she wasn’t any more inured to that look, to the way it stripped her bare. Ronan Callahan had a stare like a rapier.

When she could take it no longer, she snapped, “You’re staring.”