Page 31 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Callahan stood at the edges of the crowd, nursing a glass of champagne.

Isabel was speaking with Harrington. She’d woken up that morning more determined to finish this mission than ever. Maybe because of everything she told him last night about her and Favreau.

Pregnant. She’d been pregnant in Hong Kong.

He’d held her when she finally settled in to sleep, considering this piece of information that reframed her actions. She’d been terrified in that gaming hell; he’d recognised that much. But now he felt foolish for not understanding that she had what amounted to a ticking clock in her mind.

Stop talking like you know me , she’d said then.

And he thought he had. Because he’d followed her aliases and heists, but he didn’t truly understand the woman herself or what she went back to after every time they met.

It made him want to put a fist through a wall.

He downed his champagne, focusing on the other guests. To his left, a cluster of men were engaged in animated discussions about the latest advancements in steam engine technology.

“I tell you, gentlemen, the future lies in compressed air!” declared an older gent. “Mark my words, in a decade, we’ll have engines running on nothing but the air we breathe!”

His companion scoffed. “Nonsense, Higgins. It’s all about hydraulics, my good man. Water power is the way forward. Why, I’ve been working on a design that could revolutionise—”

Callahan’s focus drifted to another group nearby. This one seemed to be embroiled in a heated debate about the merits of various preservation techniques for biological specimens.

“Formaldehyde is all well and good for soft tissues,” a woman with an impressive plume of feathers in her hat was saying, “but for delicate structures like insect wings, nothing beats an ethanol solution.”

A dour-faced man with a monocle nodded. “Quite right, quite right. Though I’ve had some success with glycerine for plants. Keeps the colours remarkably vivid, you know.”

Christ, was there no end to the prattle?

“You look like you’re moments from tossing someone out the window.”

He turned to watch Isabel approach. She was resplendent in a gown of deep emerald silk that made her eyes shine like cut gems. Everything in him softened. What he wouldn’t give to have her alone right now.

“Trouble,” he murmured. “I see you’ve decided to save me from the tedium at last.”

Her lips twitched. “Poor Callahan. Subjected to the horrors of intellectually stimulating discourse. However will you survive the trauma?”

Callahan opened his mouth to assure her that his continued well-being amid the symposium from hell was very much in question, when some sod took that opportunity to interrupt.

“I say, old chap, you wouldn’t happen to know the proposed ideal ratio of a copper-zinc alloy for the plating process, would you? I have it on good authority that 1.1 recurring is the golden mean, but can’t for the life of me recall whether that refers to tensile strength or conductivity.”

Callahan turned slowly. He fixed the interloper with a gaze that had quelled charging brigands. The man’s babbling cut off, and he swallowed audibly.

“Ah. I see you’re otherwise engaged. Terribly rude of me to intrude. I’ll just . . . go and . . . that is to say— Right! Cheerio!”

The man departed with such haste that he nearly bumped into a servant bearing a tray of champagne.

“Making friends, I see.” Isabel’s voice shook with laughter.

“I don’t have friends here,” Callahan said, clamping his fingers around her elbow. “I have you.”

With that, he tugged Isabel across the room and into a shadowed alcove. The velvet drapes swished shut, concealing them from view.

Callahan crowded her against the wall, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was all heat and hunger. He still couldn’t get enough. He pressed his thigh between hers, gratified by the hitch in her breath. The way her eyes went soft and hazy with want.

“Well,” she breathed, “hello to you, too.”

“How’s your arse today, little thief?”

“Sore,” she said, even as her hips met his in a slow grind.

He chuckled. “Good. I want you to feel the ache of me for days. Every time you sit, every time you move. A reminder of what I can do to this beautiful body.”

She snorted. “Degenerate.”

“You like it. Now, tell me: any luck extracting intelligence from our esteemed Viscount Harrington? Or was he too busy staring at your tits to string two words together?”

She made a face. “I might as well be a decorative piece of furniture. He considers my intellect roughly on par with a concussed badger.”

“So you didn’t manage to extract anything relevant? Nothing about his work or what Ramsgate wanted from him?”

“He’s proving a surprisingly tough nut, loath as I am to admit it,” she said. Her lips pursed in irritation. “While I excel at subterfuge, you may protest my usual methods of extracting information.”

“Rob the blighter blind?”

“Getting him drunk and seducing him while lending a sympathetic ear. Ale and climaxes are truth serums to the over-indulged and under-cautious, and I excel at telling men exactly what they want to hear.”

Callahan’s hand tightened on her waist. “ Isabel —”

“I was strictly professional with Harrington,” she reassured him. “Not even a hint of flirtation. My fake husband is the jealous sort, you see.”

“Yes, he is. He’s very jealous, and he doesn’t share.” He dipped his head, lips ghosting over her neck. “I have an idea. One that removes the viscount from the influence of polite society. Men speak more freely over drink and cards. I’ll invite him out tonight.”

“And what am I meant to do in the meantime?”

“Keep an eye on Ramsgate. Be your charming self. Dazzle the masses with your wit and beauty. Perhaps liberate a few possessions for old times’ sake.”

She heaved a sigh. “Fine. Go on, then. Work your masculine wiles on Viscount Harrington. I’m sure he’ll be helpless to resist your charm.”

“Your faith in me is truly touching, Mrs Ashford,” he said, dipping his fingers beneath the neckline of her gown to graze the swell of her breasts.

She gave a soft groan. “You need to go before we scandalise the symposium, Mr Ashford.”

“What’s the concern, little thief? That I’ll fuck you behind this curtain where everyone can hear?” he asked, his teeth scraping over her pulse point. “Or that you don’t think you can be quiet if I do?”

“ Ronan .”

“Saying my name in that breathy voice of yours isn’t helping the situation.”

She put a hand on his chest. “Business first. Go deal with Harrington.”

With a groan of regret, he stepped away, putting distance between them before he succumbed to the temptation to hike her skirts up and take her there against the wall.

“Fine. Be right back.”

He departed the alcove, scanning the milling aristos until he spotted the viscount, who was locked in conversation with three other men. Callahan pasted on his most vacuous grin and ambled over.

“I say, what’s the topic of the hour?”

Harrington turned. “Ah, Ashford. I’m afraid it’s all rather more specialised than garden parties and shooting weekends.”

Translation: don’t strain your liquor-addled brain.

Callahan only smiled wider. “Oh, I do enjoy expanding my horizons. The wonders of science and all that. Though” – he leaned in, lowering his voice – “I’ll confess, all this technical talk leaves me parched.

I don’t suppose you fine gentlemen might fancy an excursion to more, ah . . . stimulating environs this evening?”

He caught the glimmer of interest in Harrington’s expression. “Did you have something particular in mind?”

Callahan shrugged. “Whatever passes for a den of revelry in these parts. Strong spirits, pretty company, a few hands of cards to pass the hours. You know, gentlemanly pursuits.”

The viscount clapped him on the shoulder. “Splendid idea, Ashford! There’s an establishment I frequent nearby. Crimson Veil. You’ll be our guest, of course.”

Ah, there we go.

After a few more meaningless pleasantries, Callahan made his escape and rejoined Isabel in the alcove.

“Well?” she asked.

“He took the bait. We’ll be going to the Crimson Veil.”

“Nothing risky, Agent. And I had better not smell a doxy on you when you return.”

Grinning, he skimmed his knuckles along the back of her hand. Callahan heard her breath catch.

“If you’re a very good girl while I’m away,” he said, watching her pupils dilate, “I’ll lay you out on the bed and bury my tongue in your pussy.”

A ragged groan escaped her. Callahan grinned, slow and filthy.

“And if you’re good, Mr Ashford,” she replied. “I may let you play with one of my knives.”

“Tease.”

“Boor.”

*

The clashing scents of perfume and tobacco assaulted Callahan’s nostrils as he entered the Crimson Veil. He tipped his hat to the doorman, and the brute barely spared him a glance before waving him through.

Callahan’s gaze swept the main floor, taking in the groups of men clustered around gaming tables with doxies sprawled on their laps.

The club was decadent. Everything was gilded and gleaming, the sort of place that made his skin itch.

Thick cigar smoke hung in a haze. Murmurs of conversation and feminine laughter threaded through the air.

It took only a moment to locate his quarry.

Viscount Harrington held court near the back of the room. Cut crystal tumblers of amber liquid and a scatter of playing cards littered the polished surface before him.

“Harrington, old boy!” Callahan called, his voice loud and jovial, like a man deep in his cups. He swayed slightly as he wove through the crowd.

The viscount glanced up at his approach. “Ashford. I was beginning to think you’d reconsidered.”

“Perish the thought!” Callahan collapsed into the empty chair at the table. “Whiskey, neat,” he said to a passing server. “None of that watered-down piss.”

Harrington’s moustache twitched in what might have been amusement. “Making allowances for your American tastes, I see.”