Page 37 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Isabel fumbled with the buttons at the small of her back. Each one was a battle she was ill-equipped to win after the long day behind her.

The door swung open, and Callahan entered the room wearing his evening attire.

No man had a right to look that beautiful while she stood there still half-dressed and frustrated.

She took her time looking at him. The width of his shoulders, the perfect fit across his chest, the way his hands hung relaxed at his sides.

Everything about him was precise. Deadly.

“Don’t just stand there,” she said, turning to show him her back. “Make yourself useful.”

He closed the distance between them without a word. His fingers were warm against her skin as they worked each button. When he reached the middle of her back, he paused.

“Here . . .” His touch lingered over the bandages he’d re-wrapped that morning. “Does it pain you?”

“No more than the rest.”

She’d had worse. She’d survived worse.

Callahan’s arms slid around her waist from behind, drawing her against his chest. She stiffened instinctively, braced for . . . something.

But he only held her more firmly and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Nervous?”

“Cautious,” she corrected. Nervous was what normal women felt before balls. Cautious was what kept you alive when someone wanted to carve into you. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there? Given what happened with Favreau—”

“Don’t.” She made her face blank, wiped away every trace of emotion like she’d been taught. Like she’d taught herself. “We have work to do. Nothing else signifies. My feelings are irrelevant.”

Callahan said nothing. His palm glided over her shoulder. Those fingers grazed down, down, catching on the edge of her bodice. He pushed the fabric aside, exposing the bandage covering his initials carved into her skin.

“Your feelings are never irrelevant,” Callahan said softly. “Not to me.”

Something broke inside her chest. It felt like hunger, like thirst – like wanting something so badly it made you stupid. She’d spent years running from this feeling, this need to belong to someone who might throw her away. It was the oldest hurt, this wanting.

She’d built her walls so high, and somehow he kept finding ways over them, under them, through them. The gravity between them terrified her. It was like standing at the precipice of a cliff with the wind at her back.

She could see the bottom. Could see exactly how far she’d fall if she let herself love this man.

How much it would destroy her when it all went wrong.

“There are perhaps a dozen highly trained operatives in this building,” he continued. “All of them are dedicated to keeping you safe. More to the point, I would cut down a hundred men before I let them lay a finger on you.”

Isabel squeezed her eyes shut, allowing herself a final, selfish instant of weakness. She let herself imagine, just for a moment, what it might feel like to let his hands peel away the thorns and armour. To be held and cherished and remade into some soft new shape.

But armour was all she had. Without it, there would be nothing left.

She stepped away, the air between them suddenly too thin.

“Shall we go?” She tugged her bodice back into place, hiding the bandages. Hiding his mark on her. “Wouldn’t want to keep our adoring public waiting.”

Something flickered across his features. Regret, perhaps. Or resignation. But he merely inclined his head.

“After you, Mrs Ashford.”

*

Candlelight bathed the parquet in an amber glow. Liveried footmen wove through the crowd with trays of champagne and tiny savouries. The air was thick with the mingled scents of flowers, tobacco and spirits, and too many bodies crushed together.

“Shall we dance?” Callahan murmured. “It would give us a better view of the room.”

She didn’t answer, just let him lead her to the floor. Callahan’s arm slid around her, drawing her in close. They moved in circles. One-two-three, one-two-three. Isabel kept her eyes on the crowd, scanning every face. Favreau could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting.

“You look like I’m torturing you,” Callahan chided. “This is supposed to be a loving marriage, remember? Pretend I’ve just paid you a compliment.”

“Like this?” She bared her teeth in what felt more like a grimace.

“Maybe don’t look like you’re about to bite me.” He paused. “Unless that’s on offer later.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the proper Mrs Ashford.”

“You’re supposed to be besotted with your husband. Not plotting his murder on the dance floor.”

She let him spin her, using the movement to scan another section of the room. “I’m choosing to be selective with my wit tonight. Saving it for worthier targets.”

“How judicious of you. And here I thought scandalising these fine people was your favourite pastime.”

“I’ve found I prefer more intimate audiences these days.”

Something dark and hungry flashed in his eyes. His fingers dug into her waist, just hard enough to make her breath catch. Isabel almost missed the flash of emerald green that caught her eye across the room.

She frowned. Lady Camberley stood surrounded by a cluster of admirers, a small crystal vial in her gloved hand.

“What’s happening over there?” She nodded toward the group.

Callahan glanced over his shoulder. “Ripon said something about a perfume demonstration. A new type of bottle. The idle rich and their silly baubles.”

Lady Camberley pressed something on the vial. A fine mist sprayed across her neck and chest.

Aerosolised. Asphyxiation in minutes.

Isabel’s grip tightened on Callahan. “ Ronan . The perfume—”

The woman clawed at her throat and collapsed to the floor.

Then another. Someone shrieked as a third guest dropped, gasping for air.

Isabel’s stomach lurched. She’d seen death before, but this was different.

This was a slaughter. Bodies hit the floor while the orchestra kept playing, oblivious to the chaos for three more seconds before the music died.

Champagne glasses shattered. Women screamed. Men shouted.

But she barely heard any of it.

Because Favreau was here. He wouldn’t miss his moment of theatre, his chance to see her squirm. To watch her realise how completely he controlled the situation.

Men in dark suits materialised from the crowd – Wentworth’s agents, moving to control the chaos and usher out the other guests.

“Trouble, look at me,” Callahan commanded. “Wentworth’s men will handle the civilians. We need to find Favreau.”

His eyes were steady. Grounding. But she didn’t have time to let him anchor her.

“Remember what I told you about how he looks. Like an angel. Blond hair. Blue eyes. You’ll know him when you see him.”

Before Callahan could stop her, she shoved into the throng. The ballroom had descended into chaos – ladies screaming, gentlemen shouting orders, staff cowering. Isabel shoved past them all. The crush of bodies made it hard to move.

Isabel fought her way outside the ballroom and into the corridor. Trying to think. Where would he go? Where would he wait for her?

Something caught her peripheral vision – a flash of movement at the end of the hall.

She didn’t get three steps before a hand shot out from a doorway and jerked her inside a bedroom. She reached for her blade, but Favreau was faster.

Her knife clattered to the floor as her back hit the door.

“ Ma petite .” Favreau loomed over her, ice-blue eyes alight with hunger. “Have you reconsidered your choices now that you see the consequences? There’s so much innocent blood on your hands, Isabel. And for what? For your precious freedom? For your Irishman?”

“Get off me,” she hissed, twisting to break his hold.

But he knew all her moves. He’d created them, refined them, beaten them into her over the years. His hand tightened until her bones ground together.

“You’ve forgotten who made you,” he hissed. “Who trained you.”

“Go to hell.”

He wrenched her arm behind her back.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” he snarled.

“You will come to me by eight tomorrow morning. The plain brick house in Spital Square. Alone. No tearful farewells to your Irishman. No warnings. Just you, returning home where you belong. If you don’t, I’m using Ramsgate’s weapon on more people. How many have to die, Isabel?”

“This place is full of agents,” she gasped. “You won’t make it out alive.”

His laugh was soft against her ear. “My men have this place surrounded. One signal from me, and your precious Callahan’s brains paint these walls. I wonder – would you recognise him without that handsome face? Would you still want him then?”

The image made her knees weak. Ronan’s blood, his eyes empty, his mouth slack. She couldn’t breathe.

“Eight o’clock,” Favreau whispered, kissing her on the lips. “Or I’ll keep killing until you come. Don’t disappoint me.”

Then he crossed to the window and disappeared into the darkness beyond. Isabel slumped against the door, her legs barely holding her weight.

One. Two. Three. Inhale.

Four. Five. Exhale.

That was all she allowed herself – five breaths to feel the fear. Five seconds to be human.

Isabel swiped her hand across her mouth, adjusted her dress, brushed her hair back from her face, and checked the hall.

Clear.

Then she straightened and stepped into the ballroom.

Wentworth’s men had taken control, barking orders as they cordoned off sections of the room. Medics knelt beside bodies on the floor. Isabel counted six victims – six people who wouldn’t be dying if she’d just gone with Favreau months ago.

She scanned the room for Ronan, blinking hard against the burning in her eyes.

The moment he spotted her, Callahan strode towards her.

“Jesus, Trouble.” His grey eyes raked over her as if searching for any signs of harm. “You disappeared on me. Did you find him?”

The lie rose to her lips, easy as breathing. “No. It was absolute chaos. I got swept up.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. He looked like he wanted to say more, but Wentworth appeared at his shoulder.

“Callahan,” the other man said, his voice low.

“Get Miss Dumont to the safe house immediately. I’ve had clothes and necessities delivered.

A carriage is waiting at the servants’ entrance.

” He glanced around the room. “This is a bloody disaster, and I need you both gone before anyone thinks to start asking questions.”

Ronan’s expression hardened. “Sir, with respect, there are wounded. I should—”

“No longer your concern. You have your orders. Be quick about it. I’ll expect your report in the morning.”

*

The safe house was exactly as she remembered it from five months ago – the same worn furniture, the same faded drapes, even the same chip on the mantelpiece.

Isabel watched Ronan move through his security routine. Lock the door. Check the windows. Test the back exit. She’d seen him do this before, but tonight it made her throat ache.

Tomorrow morning, she’d be gone.

He kept stealing glances at her between tasks. Not subtle ones, either. Long, searching looks that made her skin heat.

He was worried about her. The realisation twisted something in her chest. The same man who’d carved his name where Favreau had tried to claim her. The man who’d wrapped her wounds and held her when the nightmares came. He could break her if she let him. Ruin her.

“You’re looking at me like you’re about to bolt,” Ronan said suddenly, straightening from where he’d been checking under a table. His voice was rough. “Don’t. Please.”

Isabel swallowed hard.

Tell him.

If she told him about Favreau’s threat, he’d put himself between them. He’d die trying to protect her, and she couldn’t bear it.

The yearning swelled beneath her ribs. She crossed the space between them in three quick strides and pulled his mouth down to hers.

Take me, undo me, break me.

If this was destruction, she wanted all of it.