Page 33 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Callahan bit out a curse. “Well, this complicates things.”

Isabel slanted him a withering glare. “Your penchant for stating the obvious never fails to astound.”

Already, alarm was beginning to spread through the club. Murder, it seemed, was the only thing scandalous enough to disrupt the Veil’s debauchery.

Isabel turned to Lily, whose screams had faded into hiccuping sobs. “Tell me what happened.”

Lily’s gaze snapped to her. “I—I don’t know, miss. One moment, his lordship was whispering in my ear, making free with his hands, you know.” A shaky swallow. “And the next . . .”

“The killer,” Callahan pressed, losing his American accent. “Which way did he go?”

“Out the back.” A choked sound, halfway between a sob and retch.

“What did he look like?”

Lily shook her head. “Didn’t get a proper look, did I? Tall bloke. Broad in the shoulders. Wearing a long, dark coat.”

Isabel gave Lily’s shoulder a quick squeeze, then turned to Callahan. “I’m going after him.”

Callahan opened his mouth to argue, but Isabel was already moving towards the rear entrance.

“ Isabel . Wait—”

She whirled on him. “Our lead was just murdered for a reason. I want to find the murderer and question him. At knifepoint.”

Callahan made a frustrated sound. “And naturally, you’ve elected yourself for the task.”

“I can handle the Syndicate’s bully boys.

Fetch Wentworth and make sure he’s apprised of the situation.

We’ve a dead nob to contend with now, and if word gets out to the symposium, Ramsgate will bolt.

We’ll need the Office’s resources to contain this mess.

” Every instinct screamed against splitting up, but the rational, calculating part of her knew one of them had to manage the scene.

“Don’t worry, I’ll only engage if I have a clean shot at death or capture. ”

Callahan looked like he wanted to argue, but he stepped back.

“One hour, Trouble. Whether you catch the bastard or not, get that pretty arse back to Basil House, or I’m coming after you.”

“See you in an hour, then.”

She slipped out the rear entrance, emerging into a narrow alleyway. The night air was cool and damp, the cobblestones slick.

And there, disappearing into the gloom – a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette in a dark coat.

Isabel ran after him.

One hand hiked up her skirts, the other seeking the blade strapped to her thigh. She took a corner hard. Another turn, another. Blood roared in her ears. One more corner and—

She skidded to a halt when the alley terminated into a brick wall. She pivoted. Nothing. No sound, no movement. Just the harsh rasp of her breathing and the distant clatter of carriage wheels.

“Come out, you bastard. I know you’re here.”

A mocking chuckle came from the shadows to her left. She knew that laugh.

Favreau.

“Still so spirited. It’s part of your charm.”

“So you’re fond of telling me.”

She gripped the blade hard as he stepped out of the dark.

Even now, the sight of him struck like a blow behind her ribs. Silver-blond hair, winter-pale eyes, a mouth made for cruelty. To think she once found that smile charming. There was no warmth in this man, only the pitiless cold of a winter midnight.

Animal instinct screamed at her to flee. To make herself small and unobtrusive. After everything, he still reached deep, hooked talons into the most fragile parts of her and pulled .

“You must be wondering why I’ve summoned you to London.” His tone was conversational, almost pleasant.

She glared at him. “You didn’t summon me anywhere.”

A smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Is that what you think? That you being here is happenstance? That the intelligence the Office so deftly snared, the trail of intrigue you’ve followed to this very moment, is anything but a lure?”

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She tasted copper on her tongue. She’d bitten her cheek. “Ramsgate? His research—”

“Oh, his research is genuine. He served as bait, you see. A novel little puzzle meant to whet the Home Office’s appetite and draw out their latest asset.

And here you stand. Did you think you could flee so easily?

That there wouldn’t be a reckoning?” He moved towards her, slow and relentless.

“You know better, Isabel. You know me better.”

“Is this where you take me by force? Send your men after me like you did five months ago?”

“No. I’ve sacrificed enough loyal soldiers on the altar of your spite. You’ll return to me of your own free will. Kneel at my feet and beg for the privilege.”

Isabel swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. “The only one of us who will kneel is you. You don’t own me, you arrogant prick.”

“Don’t I? Have you forgotten so quickly, mon c?ur ?

” He lifted a hand and trailed his fingers down her cheek.

She just managed not to flinch. “The things I taught you? The way I made you sing ? No matter how far you run or how desperately you try to carve me out, my marks are all over you. You’re mine. ”

No. No, no, no.

Nausea churned in her belly. She wanted to cringe from that touch, from the scouring memory of a hundred other touches. His hands on her, that low, rumbling laughter as she lay still beneath him, the knife gliding over her skin—

“Is that why Harrington had to die? Because he touched what you consider yours?”

A muscle jumped in Favreau’s jaw. “Harrington knew too much about the particulars of Ramsgate’s project. Disposing of him was good business.” His gaze flicked back to her face. “The fact that he dared lay a finger on my most prized possession expedited matters.”

Then his hand lashed out, catching her wrist.

Her dagger clattered to the cobblestones. His palm cracked across her cheek, snapping her head to the side. Pain bloomed, sharp and bright.

“I indulge you.” Favreau’s voice caressed her ear, a dark croon. “Your rebellions, your flights of childish pique. The delusions of freedom. But my patience has limits, Isabel.”

She spat in his face.

He dashed away the gob of saliva, his mouth pursed in distaste. “So wilful, mon c?ur . Why do you make me hurt you?”

In a blink, Favreau slammed her to the ground. He was on her in an instant, knees bracketing her hips, palm splayed between her breasts. Keeping her pinned. He tugged at her bodice and yanked . Tearing fabric, baring skin.

Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a small knife. Isabel knew that blade. Knew the edge of it, the cruel bite. It had mapped her in searing strokes a hundred times before.

And now it pressed into the hollow of her throat.

“A more permanent reminder is in order,” Favreau mused.

“A declaration of ownership.” He trailed the blade along her neck.

“I should carve my initials here, I think.” A considering tap between her breasts.

“So the next time that filthy Irish dog touches what’s mine, he’s reminded who you belong to. ”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. “Don’t. Favreau, don’t .”

He went still. She could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“It pains me to repeat myself, but you know the rules. Only two phrases should fall from your lips in moments such as this. ‘Yes’ and ‘please’, Isabel.”

Then he started cutting.

A choked sound escaped her throat. Favreau tightened his grip, bruising fingerprints into her arms. Holding her still. She remembered this ritual all too well, knew what struggling would do. So she lay very, very still.

And she let him carve.

Callahan’s voice rose from her memories, calming. We endure in the only ways we can, Trouble. We adapt and overcome because the alternative is to let the world grind us to dust.

She wasn’t in her body. It was all right because she was outside of it. There were only ocean waves. Isabel had long since memorised the cadence of different seas, the way the waves struck a particular rhythm unique to each place. Each wave was a breath. A reminder.

Alive alive alive.

And she went into that drowning deep in her mind that he couldn’t touch. It was soft there. It was quiet. The waves surrounded her, and she floated above her body.

And she was all right. He didn’t touch her here.

Not even when he finished, and she saw what he’d carved.

The two ugly letters.

L. F.

Louis Favreau.

A shudder went through her, violent enough to clack her teeth together. He gentled her through it, the hand on her nape almost a caress now.

“Shh, shh . It’s done, chérie . No more confusion. No more doubt.” His mouth brushed her temple, tender now. Gentle in the way he used to be before he ever showed her ugliness. “You know where you belong. With me. Beneath me.”

His fingers flexed on her neck, a warning. A noose, tightening by degrees.

“Surrender, and I’ll be merciful.” His lips pressed to hers. Tasting her. “I’ll even let your Irishman live.”

Everything stopped. Her heart, her lungs, the frantic whirl of her thoughts. In that silence, the only sound was his rasping breaths as he kissed her again.

The world shattered. She felt it like a fissure opening up in her chest.

Ronan.

It was the cruellest cut. Threatening the one thing she’d carved out in the wretched landscape of her life.

“You know what I’ll do,” he said, very soft. Almost gentle. “The ruin I’ll make of him if you refuse me. Is that what you want? Because I promise you, I’ll draw it out until you’ll beg me for the mercy of a clean kill. I’ll make it hurt, Isabel.”

She wanted to be strong, to snarl. To be stone. Steel. A creature of jagged edges and frost, like him.

But she wasn’t, was she? Not really. Not where it counted.

“End this.” His nails sank into her flesh. “Offer yourself for his worthless life, and I may spare him.”

“No.” Her voice shook.

“You’ll change your mind. But I’m feeling generous, so I’ll allow you a reprieve for tonight. Savour your freedom while you’re able and consider my offer.” He kissed her forehead. “ à bient?t, ma petite .”

Then he was gone, leaving her bleeding and alone.