Page 36 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Isabel surfaced from the depths of slumber, the last tendrils of a half-remembered nightmare still clinging to her.

Callahan slept on, his breaths deep and even. For a long moment, Isabel simply lay there, savouring every point of contact between her body and his – the heavy arm slung low across her abdomen, his thigh pressed to hers.

I love you , she wanted to tell him.

Her fingers drifted to the fresh bandages beneath her nightgown, tracing the phantom ache of newly carved letters.

R.L.C.

She loved them. Before he’d put the bandage into place, she’d marvelled at the careful way he shaped each letter. As if he intended to erase the memory of Favreau’s violence with his care.

“I can hear you thinking,” Callahan mumbled, the words gravelly with sleep. “It’s criminal at this hour.”

A reluctant smile tugged at one corner of Isabel’s mouth. “Someone’s surly before he’s had his tea.”

The arm at her waist tightened, hauling her back against him. “I’ll give you surly.” He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her neck. “How are you feeling? Any pain this morning?”

Yes , she wanted to say. I feel too raw.

Favreau would never stop hunting her. But Isabel was fast and clever and desperate, and desperation had always served her well. She could survive. She could—

“Isabel. Stay with me.”

But memories rose, phantom bruises blooming over her skin. Fingers digging deep, pain sparking along her nerve endings.

Ma belle. Ma petite sauvage.

“ Isabel . Come back to me.”

Slowly, she turned her head, pressing her lips to the centre of his palm. She wanted to crawl into his lap and lose herself in him. Let him fuck her until she shook apart. Callahan made her want impossible things.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Liar.”

“We have work to do.”

Callahan sighed. “That we do.”

With a last, lingering squeeze, he released her and rolled to his feet.

By unspoken accord, there were no indulgent touches or heated glances as they made themselves presentable, just the efficient choreography of two professionals with a mission to complete.

Isabel fixed a sunny smile on her face as they descended for breakfast, channelling Lydia Ashford with practised ease.

Callahan bantered with their fellow symposium attendees, Jamie Ashford’s boyish charm and flirtatious grins in place. But Isabel could feel the coiled tension thrumming through him. She sensed it in the way his fingers flexed against her back as they circulated the room.

It was almost a relief when she overheard a snippet from a cluster of men by the buffet.

“. . . still abed. Someone ought to check on the poor fellow.”

“What’s this?” She drifted closer, allowing curiosity to soften her features. “Is someone unwell?”

The oldest of the three men turned towards her. “Mr Ramsgate hasn’t come down yet. Most unlike him to miss the morning sessions.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Brandy’s likely the culprit. Biochemists and their delicate constitutions and all.”

“How dreadful.”

Her attention slid to Callahan, who was chatting with a group of women by the buffet. Their eyes met briefly, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

She turned back to her conversation, making appropriately vapid comments about the weather while tracking Callahan’s exit from the corner of her eye.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

When his fingers finally closed around her elbow, Isabel nearly jumped. The subtle pressure of his grip told her everything she needed to know.

“Excuse me,” she murmured to her companions. “My husband requires my attention.”

Callahan’s face was a mask as he steered her through the crowd.

“What is it?” she whispered once they were out of earshot. “Is he ill?”

“Come with me.”

Three words, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

He led her up the stairs and down a long corridor, stopping at a door halfway down. Without a word, he pushed it open.

The smell hit her first. Metallic. Thick. Familiar.

Ramsgate lay sprawled across the bed, the white sheets beneath him seeped in blood. The spatter on the walls told the story of a violent end.

“Favreau?” she asked, her voice steady. Her hands didn’t even tremble. “Did he follow me back?”

Callahan shook his head, his face grim. “Wentworth had men watching. No one came or went after we returned.” He moved closer to the bed, studying the body with professional detachment.

“This happened earlier. Probably right after the symposium adjourned yesterday evening and before Favreau moved on to Harrington at the club. It seems he was busy tying up loose ends last night.”

“He got what he wanted – me back in London. Ramsgate served his purpose.”

An icy feeling spread through her chest. If Favreau already had what he needed from Ramsgate, then the weapon was finished. Ready.

Her attention caught on a small leather-bound notebook clutched in the man’s fingers. She tugged it free, her breath catching as she flipped through pages covered in cramped writing and intricate diagrams. Something cold settled in her stomach.

“This one isn’t coded,” she said. “Which means Favreau left it here on purpose. One date matches Harrington’s letter.”

“We need to get this to Wentworth,” Callahan said. “Let’s find Ripon.”

The marquess was in the breakfast room with a cluster of scientists. When he saw Isabel and Callahan, he immediately paused the conversation. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid you must excuse me. Urgent matters, you understand.”

He didn’t wait for their response; he just steered Isabel and Callahan down the hall and into an empty sitting room.

“What now?” Ripon demanded, dropping all pretence of aristocratic niceties.

Callahan didn’t soften the blow. “You’ve got a corpse upstairs.”

“Bloody buggering fuck, not another dead guest.” Ripon’s shoulders slumped as he dragged a hand down his face. “Who is it this time?”

“Ramsgate,” Isabel supplied.

“Right. Of course.”

“We think he’s been dead since last night,” Callahan added. “Looks like Favreau spent the evening ridding himself of unneeded complications.”

“Christ. This keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”

“We’re leaving to brief Wentworth now. I assumed you’d want to be a part of that particular conversation,” Isabel said.

“Oh, yes, wouldn’t miss it for the world,” the marquess said. “Just let me go and inform my staff that if they value their positions, they’ll forget they ever clapped eyes on Ramsgate’s rooms. I’ll meet you out front directly.”

He strode off, already barking orders.

Callahan turned to Isabel. “This is all going rather spectacularly to shite, isn’t it?”

“You expected anything else?”

“Hope springs eternal.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

*

Wentworth looked up from behind his desk as they filed in. He took in their dour expressions and heaved a gusty sigh.

“Don’t tell me,” he drawled. “You’re about to ruin what was shaping up to be an altogether pleasant morning after last night’s mess.”

Callahan snorted. “Fine, I won’t tell you. Drink?”

“Make it a double.”

As Callahan busied himself at the sideboard, Isabel fished Ramsgate’s journal from the folds of her skirts and passed it to Wentworth.

“What fresh hell is this?” he asked.

“We need someone who can parse that scientific gibberish,” Callahan said, handing round the drinks. The whiskey burned a welcome trail down Isabel’s throat. “Ramsgate is . . . no longer available for clarification.”

Wentworth blew out a short, sharp breath through his nostrils.

“Marvellous.” He stood and walked to the door.

Yanking it open, he stuck his head out into the hallway beyond and called out to some unseen underling, “Fetch me Jones, will you? Soonest. And send some lads round to Ripon’s mansion.

I need a bit of sprucing up. The discreet sort. Unseen. Again .”

Isabel rather pitied the poor sod on the receiving end of that directive. Few things were more stomach-churning than a good, old-fashioned “sprucing up” in this line of work. Blood was damnably hard to get out of upholstery.

Minutes later, a man slipped into the room. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and a severe set to his brow. Not handsome, exactly. But interesting. His shoulders were rigid, his posture too perfect. Military training, perhaps?

“Gentlemen, Miss Dumont – this is Alaric Jones,” Wentworth said. “Expert in all manner of mysterious substances and attendant buggery. If anyone can parse Ramsgate’s scribblings, it’s him. Alaric, I need you to read this scientific blatherskite for me, if you would.”

He passed over the notebook. Alaric bent his head to study it, the furrow between his brows deepening.

“Well?” Callahan prompted. “What exactly are we dealing with?”

“An organophosphate, by the looks of it.” Alaric’s voice was lightly accented. German, perhaps. “Attacks the nervous system on contact. Asphyxiation would follow swiftly after.”

“And how quickly does it kill?” Wentworth asked what they were all thinking.

“Five minutes. Maybe less.” Jones closed the notebook. “It depends on how it’s delivered. Inhaled is quickest. Skin contact, slightly slower. I’ve only seen research like this in . . .” He hesitated. “Places where morals are flexible.”

Their gazes settled on Isabel. Of course. Who better to comment on the movements of a madman than the woman who’d once been his most prized possession?

She took a steadying breath. “The symposium’s closing ball is tomorrow.

And no one knows Ramsgate is dead yet. Favreau wants me.

He’ll make his move there and threaten me openly.

He wants me to feel trapped, to see returning to him as my only choice.

This entire situation – Ramsgate, the weapon, all of it – was orchestrated to bring me back to London. Back to him.”

“Are you suggesting we use my guests as bait, Miss Dumont?” Ripon asked.

“I’m the bait,” she replied. “Your guests are potential collateral damage.”

“That’s a cold way of looking at things.”

“I spent seven years at Favreau’s side. I watched him torture men for sport. I helped him destabilise governments.” Her nails dug crescents into her palms. “Cold is all I know. But I’ll go with him willingly if I see no other option.”

“No.” Callahan caught Isabel’s elbow. “We’re not dangling you in front of Favreau.”

“I’m not asking for your permission, Agent.” The formality was a shield between them, something to keep her from falling apart. She faced Ripon again. “The ball preparations need to continue as planned. No one can suspect anything’s wrong.”