Page 23 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

“Just thinking that you look . . . different.” He cleared his throat. “Better.”

Different how? Better than what? But she knew what he meant, didn’t she? She weighed more. Her skin had colour, the hollows beneath her cheekbones had filled in, and she’d finally had full nights of rest. She looked less like the half-starved creature he’d found in the abandoned distillery.

“Fascinating what happens when you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder,” she said. “Regular meals. Regular sleep. Regular . . .”

The word “life” died on her tongue.

Callahan’s expression softened. “Where are you staying?”

The question caught her off guard. She hadn’t thought past the meeting with Wentworth.

“I—” She hesitated, lifting her suitcase. “I came straight from the docks in Liverpool.”

“Jesus, Trouble. What was your plan? Sleep in the street?”

“I didn’t have a plan. Vale took care of everything in Boston.”

“Fine. My place.”

Isabel blinked. “Your flat? With you?”

“No, with the bloody Queen.” He glowered at her. “Yes, with me. It’s not Claridge’s, but it’s got a roof. And walls. A bed with a mattress. Unless you’d prefer I track down Vale and beg her to delay her departure?”

“No.” Isabel had encroached on Portia’s kindness enough. “No, that’s not necessary. Lead on.”

*

Callahan lived in Whitechapel.

The building leaned slightly to the left. Soot-stained bricks crumbled at the corners, and the front door hung crooked, its paint flaking off, with a knocker so rusted it probably hadn’t moved in years.

As they stepped into the building’s foyer, the smell hit her first. Not filth exactly, but the particular odour of sweat and ale and coal smoke. Isabel said nothing, just followed Callahan up the stairs. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t slept in worse while on the run from Favreau.

Two floors up, Callahan fumbled with the lock at a door that looked like someone had tried to kick it in at least once.

The key stuck, and he jiggled it roughly. “Damn thing.”

“Let me.” She set down her suitcase and nudged him aside, feeling the way the lock caught. A delicate touch, a slight lift upward, and it clicked open. “There.”

He stared at her, then pushed the door wide without a word.

Isabel trailed him inside. His home wasn’t as unkempt as the rest of the building. Small, yes. Cluttered, definitely. But it was clean and cosy and she rather loved the piles of books and the worn furniture. The windows were spotless, catching what little grey light London had to offer.

“Well? What’s the verdict?” he asked, taking her suitcase from her and setting it beside his couch. “Does my modest abode meet with mademoiselle’s approval?”

“I expected rats. And more whiskey bottles.”

“The rats are on holiday, and I finished my bottles in the aftermath of Hong Kong.”

She bit back a laugh. “Well. It’s very atmospheric. I thought being in the government’s employ paid better, though.”

“It pays fine. But I like being surrounded by reminders of where I came from. Keeps me humble.”

“Now you’ve ruined my imaginings of the tortured agent in his lair with cyphers on the desk and villainous plots foiled in the dark of night. But I bet you brood magnificently by that window,” she said with a nod to one by his bookshelves.

“You spend a lot of time thinking about me in my flat, Trouble?” His voice dropped lower. “Should I be worried? Or just pleased?”

She ignored the heat crawling up her neck and wandered deeper into the room, running a fingertip over the spines of the books stacked haphazardly on a rickety shelf.

Most were political tracts and histories, dense tomes with cracked leather bindings.

Nothing to indicate the flat’s occupant was anything more than a scholar with middling means.

“Neither. Your predilections don’t intere—” The retort faded as she caught sight of a curio on the mantelpiece.

It was a skull. A human skull with a jaunty top hat perched on its brow. Sitting there like some macabre conversation piece.

“Friend of yours?” she asked dryly.

Callahan glanced up from shrugging out of his greatcoat. “Freddie Figgs, Mad Freddie to his friends. He always did fancy himself a proper gent.”

Of course. Of course , he’d display human remains like fashionable baubles. Because why wouldn’t this beautiful, infuriating creature flout the most fundamental tenets of sanity and good taste?

“You,” she announced, “are a madman. And to think, Wentworth expects me to fake marry you.”

“And you, sweetheart, are a menace. And yet, here we both are. It must be kismet.” He nodded toward a door across the small sitting room. “Come on, fake wife. Bed’s in there.”

Isabel followed his gesture, then froze.

The bed.

A narrow, sorry excuse for a bed that couldn’t fit two adults unless they slept practically on top of each other. Her throat went dry. Images flashed through her mind – his weight pressing her down, him inside her, kissing her neck—

Callahan, the wretched beast, merely smirked. “Lose your nerve?”

“You should know by now that I never do.”

“That’s a lie.” He stepped into her space, forcing her to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. “Do you know, I’ve been imagining our reunion since the moment you flounced away from me.”

“I didn’t flounce,” she argued. “You kissed me, dumped me with Portia, and then never returned.”

His smirk widened into a smile. “That your way of saying you missed me?”

“You have a habit of blundering into my life. It was an expectation.”

“That sounds like you missed me.” He touched her, a gentle swipe of palm down her arm. “You know what I’ve been thinking about? How to make you pay for avoiding me after our little encounter on the steamer. After I gave such devoted attention to that sweet cunt of yours.”

Isabel sputtered. He was unbelievable, honestly. Deranged, half-mad, and too attractive by far. Just the memory of him between her thighs sent heat pooling through her core.

“You shackled me to a bed and tried to force me to apologise,” she managed.

“I deserved the apology. You earned the restraints. And just think, if you had given me those two words instead of losing your nerve , you little liar, I would have fucked you for days. Instead, you’ve spent months alone and wanting.”

“Who says I’ve been wanting? Boston is full of handsome men.”

“Oh, Trouble,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s not start this fake marriage with lies. I think we both know I’m the only man who can satisfy you.”

She seized his wrist, squeezing hard. “Are we going to be able to pull this off?” she asked softly. “Or will we slaughter each other before the week is out?”

“I imagine you and I will find some measure of agreement. Whether through our mutual performance or the fact that we can’t exist in the same room without wanting each other.”

“A handful of days, and I’ll be strangling you. Mark my words.”

“Not if I throttle you first.” He tugged his hand out of her grasp. “I’m going to sleep. It’s been a damnably long day, and I’m knackered. I’m sure you’d like a rest after the steamer.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just bent to work at his bootlaces. She shucked her own boots, stripped to her combination, and stretched out on the bed. The mattress dipped as he snuffed out the light and lay beside her.

“Just so you know,” Callahan murmured into the darkness, “if you’re plotting my murder, strangulation’s a bore. Poison’s more your style. Tasteless. Effective. One drop in my morning tea and I’d never see it coming.”

Isabel bit back a grin. “I’ve always favoured an ice pick. Clean, elegant. And if you position it properly, nearly painless.”

“Christ, Dumont. Are you seducing me with murder tactics?”

“Would it work if I were?”

Their breathing synced in the quiet room. He reached out, knuckles grazing her cheek.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

The confession knocked the air from her lungs. Three words that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow cracked her open and made her confess what she’d been too much of a coward to say earlier.

“I waited,” she admitted. “Every day in Boston, I thought you might show up.”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t build up walls or go cold. His smile softened, and he tapped her nose. “Next time, don’t wait. Just ask for what you want.”

Before she could respond, his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him. His heart thumped steadily in a rhythm she could have picked out blindfolded from a thousand others.