Page 28 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

The late afternoon sun dappled the manicured garden. Parasols twirled and coattails flapped in the breeze. The air hummed with a dozen conversations and the clinking of champagne glasses.

Isabel took a slow sip of champagne as she scanned the crowd.

There . Ramsgate was near the rose trellis, hands gesticulating as he spoke. She’d scarcely taken a step when Callahan’s fingers clamped around her elbow.

“Why are you swooping in like an overgrown bat?” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth, smiling at a curious matron who glided past.

“You were about to be painfully obvious. Honestly, Trouble, what part of ‘we need to blend in’ continues to elude you?”

She bristled. “I’m perfectly subtle at all times.”

“Says the woman who once burgled the Portuguese crown jewels.”

That particular escapade had been the toast of the Continent for a week, the stuff of crowing headlines and scandalous ballroom whispers.

It wasn’t every day a thief absconded with the gems of a sovereign state while the Queen’s Guard made a shambles of the palace, laid low by cascading hysterics and a suspicious swarm of angry bees.

The bees had been her proudest moment. A flash of brilliance, really.

Narrowing her eyes, she asked, “How do you even know about that?”

“I make it my business to know things, Mrs Ashford. Especially where you’re concerned. Now smile. We’re happy newlyweds, remember?”

“How could I forget?” she muttered. “You’ve only reminded me a dozen times today.”

“Only because you seem determined to scowl at everyone who so much as glances our way. I’m aware you’d rather be elbow-deep in Ramsgate’s viscera, but do try to recall that infiltration requires at least a veneer of sociality.”

“ Darling ,” she cooed, “have I told you what an absolute joy it is to be shackled to you in holy matrimony? I can’t fathom how I managed a single day without your delightful commentary on my every move!

” She lowered her voice. “Now, be a love and go mingle. Preferably far away from me, before all of England thinks I’ve been surgically grafted to your side.

You’re meant to be playing the idiot, but men have been known to let things slip around their own.

Things they’d never dream of uttering where a woman might overhear. ”

“Fine. Don’t do anything rash,” he warned as he departed.

Isabel focused on tracking her prey’s circuit through the garden. Ramsgate now stood locked in intent conversation with a taller man, dark heads inclined together. He gestured sharply, and his companion scowled. Were they quarrelling? Or debating some obscure scientific point?

She angled closer, steps slowing, straining to catch the words on the warm breeze.

“I understand your concerns, but . . .” Ramsgate was saying.

The other man’s reply was a harsh mutter, too indistinct to parse. But the thunderous cast to his features spoke volumes. Whatever Ramsgate had said, it clearly hadn’t pleased him.

As she took another step, a gaggle of matrons descended on Isabel.

“Mrs Ashford, you absolute darling! You must tell us how you met that delicious husband of yours. A love match, was it?”

Oh, this was too perfect an opportunity to pass up. Especially with Callahan looking over, probably summoned by a sixth sense for impending mischief.

“It’s the most thrilling story!” She made a dreamy expression. “There I was, minding my business at the Metropolitan Museum, when a dashing stranger came careening around the corner and nearly knocked me clean off my feet!”

The ladies gasped, delicate hands fluttering to throats in scandalised amusement. Across the lawn, Callahan froze mid-step. Good. She had his full attention.

“Turns out, he was fleeing from an angry father. Something about compromising the virtue of the man’s daughter, or perhaps his wife.

” She waved a hand in dismissal. Callahan started walking faster, expression thunderous.

“Well, naturally, as soon as he clapped eyes on me, he realised he’d found his one true love.

His saviour from all his rakish misdeeds!

The next thing I knew, he seized me about the waist and .

. .” A meaningful pause, a slow grin curving her lips.

“We’re on the terrace. Alone. In the dark. ”

The ladies dissolved into a fresh flurry of gasps and fluttered fans.

“Alone . . . with a strange man. But how thrilling!” one of them tittered.

“You wicked girl!” said another. “How positively . . .”

“American?” Isabel supplied, playing up her adopted persona.

“Just so!”

Isabel had to commend Callahan. When he finally reached them, he almost managed to look like a man in love and not someone contemplating murder. The matrons, of course, mistook his fixed smile for one of adoration. Bless their hearts.

Pressing herself to his side, Isabel cooed, “ Darling , I was just regaling everyone with the riveting story of our first meeting. How you spirited me away in the heat of passion!”

Behind their backs, he gripped her dress hard.

“Quite the tale, my radiant diamond. Perhaps we should let the ladies catch their breath. I’d hate to overwhelm them with the intensity of our passion.

Come, let me introduce you to Professor Ainsworth.

He has the most fascinating theories about the mating habits of butterflies. ”

And with that, he swept her away behind a tree.

“Do me a favour?” he said through clenched teeth.

“The next time you feel compelled to add lurid details to our cover story, kindly refrain from sullying my reputation. That story had me out as some kind of rutting beast with the morals of an alley cat. It’s a wonder you didn’t send the whole garden into fits of apoplexy. ”

“I was blending,” she said, pasting on a bright smile for the benefit of their onlookers. “In case you’re unaware, scandalised hens make for far more cooperative witnesses than suspicious dowagers. It’s called establishing trust. For intelligence purposes.”

“Be that as it may, I’d prefer it if you refrained from casting doubt on my moral character in public.”

“Oh? Was it not to your liking?” She fluttered her lashes at him.

“And here I thought you’d be flattered to add debauching virgins to your list of fictional accomplishments.

Or was it the bit about fleeing angry husbands that stretched credulity?

But let’s not pretend I was so far from the truth.

Our meeting in New York wasn’t exactly proper, was it?

You cornered me. Pushed me against a wall. Looked like you were going to kiss me.”

His eyes flashed. For an instant, she was back on that New York terrace with his body caging hers.

“And as I seem to recall,” he said, his voice deceptively soft, “you had a knife at my jugular not a moment later.”

“And what a pity. We were having such a nice time until then.”

The air between them crackled. They were close – too close. Isabel could see the faint stubble darkening Callahan’s jaw, smell the subtle notes of his cologne. She forced herself to take a slow breath.

“Ramsgate,” she murmured, dragging them both back to the task at hand. “He was having words with a man earlier. It seemed tense.”

Callahan’s demeanour shifted, sharpened. She watched the shrewd intellect take over. “You catch what about?” he asked, all business now.

She pressed her lips together. “Not enough before the interruption.”

“I’ll see if our host is of a mind to gossip.”

He steered them towards the marquess, who stood in a group at the far end of the garden.

“Ripon, old boy!” Callahan’s voice boomed out as they approached, his manner shifting into that of the affable, slightly dim-witted American. He clapped the marquess on the shoulder. “Wondrous party, simply wondrous. I’d love to talk to you about those delicious canapés!”

Ripon lifted a brow but made no other comment as he detached from his coterie. Isabel had to admire the man’s composure – clearly, he’d had other clandestine dealings at social gatherings.

Callahan let the exuberant mask fall away the moment they were out of earshot of the other guests. “I need a name.”

If Ripon was thrown by the abrupt shift, he didn’t show it. “I’m listening.”

Isabel jerked her chin toward the men clustered near the fountain. “The tall one. Dark hair. He and Ramsgate seemed to be in quite a heated discussion earlier before he went storming off.”

Ripon scanned the crowd, nodding to a duchess across the lawn. “That would be Viscount Harrington. The man’s insufferable. You’d think Queen Victoria herself was visiting, the way he carries on.”

“How so?” Callahan asked.

“Demanded the largest suite in the east wing. Had my staff rearranging furniture half the night. Something about needing quiet for his” – Ripon’s fingers sketched quotation marks in the air – “important work.”

“He’s a scientist?” Isabel asked.

“Biochemist.” Ripon took a sip of his drink. “As for the argument, I wouldn’t trouble yourself. These academic types bicker over comma placement in journals nobody reads.”

“Still,” Callahan said. “Nothing loosens tongues like a receptive ear attached to a sympathetic nod.”

“Tread carefully, Agent. Nervous boffins make for dreadful company. And do please be a bit less irritating with that accent.”

With that, Ripon returned to his group of admirers.

“Do you think Harrington knows about Ramsgate’s research?” Isabel asked Callahan.

“Maybe,” he said, his brow furrowed in thought. “I’ll see what I can extract in conversation.”

She nodded, an idea taking shape. It was risky, but then again, when had that stopped her? “Then I’m to the withdrawing room,” she said, patting his arm. “It’s quite warm out here. I need a rest.”

Callahan narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious of her sudden desire for propriety. But he said nothing as she strode away.

As soon as she was out of sight, Isabel slipped inside and went down the corridor, past oils of stern-faced ancestors and tables worth more than most London homes. A footman’s voice echoed from somewhere nearby. She froze, counting heartbeats until the sound faded.

Three doors down on the left – that would be Harrington’s room, if Ripon’s casual mention of the east wing was accurate. She pressed her ear to the wood. No movement inside.

One hairpin. Five seconds. Child’s play.

The lock yielded with a muted click, and Isabel eased the door shut behind her.

She began to search, carefully replacing everything exactly as she found it.

Most of the papers scattered across the desk were indecipherable to her – complex chemical formulae and dense scientific jargon that might as well have been written in a foreign language.

But then, near the bottom of a stack of correspondence, a familiar name caught her eye.

Ramsgate.

She was so engrossed in her discovery that she almost missed the telltale creak of a floorboard outside. Almost.

Isabel’s head snapped up. Silently cursing, she folded the letter and tucked it into her bodice. There was no time to return it without risking detection.

The door handle turned. Isabel’s mind raced; she could try to claim she’d gotten lost looking for the powder room. Or she could go for a more direct approach – incapacitate whoever was about to walk through that door and escape.

But before she could decide on a course of action, a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.

“Somehow,” Callahan drawled, “I had a feeling I’d find you here. For someone who considers herself synonymous with subtlety, you rather tipped your hand today.”