Page 40 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Callahan hadn’t slept more than two hours. The safe house bed felt too big, too empty. And every minute Isabel spent with Favreau made his hands shake.

He trudged through Whitechapel. The rain had stopped, and puddles reflected the lamplight as he approached the Brimstone’s back entrance. Brock and Clive, Nick’s guards, huddled against the brick wall, sharing a pipe.

Brock pushed off the wall. “Well, fuck me. Look who decided to grace us with his presence. Thought you’d found yourself better company up in Whitehall.”

“Missed you too, Brock.” He nodded at the door. “Nicky in?”

“Aye. In his office.”

Callahan moved to pass, but Brock’s hand gripped his arm. “He’s busy. Important folk waiting.”

He looked down at the hand, then up at Brock’s face. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared until something in his expression made Brock shift uncomfortably.

The other man released him with a grunt. “Your funeral.”

“Keep up the good work,” Callahan muttered, shoving past. “Standing around. Looking pretty. Very difficult.”

Inside, men in expensive suits slumped at gaming tables and women in various states of undress collected empty glasses.

Tuesday night at the Brimstone. Business as usual.

He made for the grand staircase at the rear, climbing until he stood before the imposing oak door of Nick’s office. He rapped his knuckles.

“Enter.”

Nick Thorne’s office was nothing like the rest of the Brimstone. No gilt mirrors or red velvet, just dark wood walls, worn leather chairs, and a cosy fire. Callahan liked it better. It reminded him of who Nick had been before he’d become king of his little empire.

The other man didn’t look up right away. Just kept scribbling in his ledger like Callahan might disappear if he ignored him long enough.

“Must be serious,” he finally said, setting down his pen. “Five months of silence, and now you stumble in looking half-dead. Last I heard, you were hunting some Russian bastard after Montgomery’s wife. How did that turn out?”

“The Russian is enjoying a dirt nap, and Lady Montgomery is safe with her husband.”

“Nothing like a good rescue story.” He cocked his head. “So, what catastrophe brings you to my doorstep this time? Pirates? Traitors? The fucking Queen herself get kidnapped?”

Callahan opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get a word out, the office door swung open, and Lady Alexandra Grey swept in with a ledger tucked beneath one arm.

“Nick, have you seen the accounts from last Thursday? I wanted to check the numbers from the—” She broke off when she noticed Callahan. “ Mr Callahan? What the devil are you doing here?”

He blinked. Of all the people he’d expected to see in the Brimstone at this hour – or any hour, really – Alexandra bloody Grey was not one of them.

“I might ask you the same,” he said, recovering quickly. “Is your brother aware that you’re paying calls to gaming hells?”

Alexandra propped a hand on her hip. “ This gaming hell belongs to my reprobate husband. A fact of which James is well aware, I assure you.” Her glance flicked between them, and Callahan could all but hear the gears turning. “You two know each other.”

And you and your bastard husband reconciled? he didn’t say. Christ, this was shite timing.

He resisted the urge to squirm like a grubby urchin caught with a stolen apple. He’d faced down murderers, thieves, and corrupt politicians without breaking a sweat, but somehow, she made him feel about two inches tall and covered in coal dust.

“Our paths may have crossed,” he hedged. “On occasion. You know how it is in our line of work. All sorts of interesting people in dark alleys and smoky back rooms.”

Alexandra gave him a look that suggested she was seriously considering filleting him with the nearest sharp object. “Mmm. And for how long, exactly, have your . . . paths been crossing? Do enlighten me.”

Callahan shot Thorne a desperate look. Save me, you bastard.

But the traitor just sat back in his chair with a faint smile. He was enjoying this, the prick. Probably mentally composing poetry about Callahan’s impending demise at the hands of his vengeful wife.

Right . Coward’s way out it was, then. He’d faced worse odds. Probably. At some point. In the distant past.

Callahan cleared his throat, doing his best impression of a man who wasn’t about to be eviscerated. “A few years, give or take.”

“A few decades, more like,” Thorne put in, the sod. “We go back to our misspent youth, Ronan and I. Don’t we, bruv? Back before he decided chasing the straight and narrow was more his style than picking pockets.”

Thanks for nothing, you treacherous wanker.

He braced for the explosion. What he got instead was a calm, accessing sort of look, her head cocked to the side.

“I see.” Her voice was soft. Too soft. Like the silence before thunder. “And when Nicholas and I were married – five years ago now, wasn’t it? – you were aware of this fact, Mr Callahan?”

He looked at the door, calculating how many steps it would take to reach it.

Too many.

His mind scrambled for an explanation that wouldn’t end with him taking an impromptu swim in the Thames. Somehow, this calm interrogation was a thousand times worse than her railing at him. He’d have preferred shouting. Shouting, he could handle.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” she repeated.

Nick’s smile widened.

“Who do you think kept things running in the East End while I was busy courting your fortune in the country?” the bastard tossed in. “Callahan made a fine substitute. Knew which palms to grease, which throats to squeeze.”

Alexandra whirled on Callahan. “You helped Nick steal my money and never said anything?”

“I didn’t even know you back then,” Callahan protested, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

He had a sudden, visceral memory of facing down a bear during a mission in Russia.

This felt more dangerous. “You were the Earl of Kent’s sister, far removed from London, and certainly not the thorn in my backside you are now.

I was just doing a favour for an old friend.

You understand how it is. One minute, you’re sharing a pint; the next, you’re making plans with your mate to fleece an unsuspecting noblewoman. These things happen.”

This time, Alexandra rounded on Thorne. “Did you put him up to it? Planting himself in my path, playing helpful citizen so he could report my movements back to you?”

Nick’s brows shot up. “No. Actually, I nearly broke his teeth when I found out he was spending time with you. Thought he was trying to steal you away for himself.”

“Nick didn’t put me up to anything.” Callahan could feel a headache building behind his eyes.

“He didn’t even know we were in contact until a few months ago.

The likelihood of you both reconciling seemed a distant possibility at best. About as likely as the Queen taking up juggling or Parliament accomplishing something useful. ”

Alexandra’s lips twitched, but she schooled her features back into a stern frown. “I haven’t forgiven you, Mr Callahan. I ought to have you horsewhipped. Or something worse. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I’ll accept the punishment for eternity, I’m sure.”

“We’ll discuss your betrayal later. There will be consequences. Lengthy, uncomfortable ones.” She took in his appearance. “You look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”

Callahan ran a hand through his hair, acutely aware of how he looked. Like something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and then regurgitated onto the carpet.

“I need to find two people in the East End. First one’s a man. Tall. Blond hair, blue eyes. Speaks with a local accent to outsiders, but French to his inner circle.” His throat tightened. “Second is Isabel Dumont.”

Nick looked exasperated. “The Frenchie? Again?” He reached for the whiskey decanter, poured a glass, and slid it across his desk. “If she’s been warming another man’s bed, there are less destructive ways to handle it. Drink. Fuck someone else. Move on.”

“She didn’t leave me for another man. She disappeared to protect me. Favreau has her.”

“Louis Favreau? Syndicate leader?” Nick’s playful demeanour vanished. “Damn.”

But Alexandra grinned. “Mr Callahan, are you suggesting you and Emma’s sister are involved? How delicious. Do tell me more. Spare no detail, no matter how sordid.”

“Do you ever feel tempted to gag her?” he asked Thorne. “Or is that just me?”

Nick ignored that. “Alex, get O’Sullivan,” he ordered, all business now.

“We’ll need everyone. Check with your contacts in the brothels – see if any Syndicate men have been talking after they’ve had their fun.

But keep it quiet. This one will take a delicate hand.

And possibly a few well-placed bribes. Maybe a kidnapping or two. You know, the usual.”

“I’m aware of the protocol,” she said. “I was there when Syndicate assassins came for Isabel and Emma five months ago. Cracked one’s skull with a fireplace poker before helping to smuggle them away to a steamer. It was all very exciting. Much more interesting than garden parties, I must say.”

Nick muttered something that sounded like “bloodthirsty little savage” under his breath, but wisely refrained from further comment.

Alexandra returned her attention to Callahan, her earlier amusement fading into genuine concern. “Is Emma in any danger? Should I send word to James?”

“No.” The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. At least one of the Dumont sisters was safe. “She’s protected as the Countess of Kent. Isabel cut all ties with her. She won’t reach out until Favreau is in the ground.”

The lady exhaled and nodded. “All right. I’ll go see if the doxies have heard anything.”

As soon as she was gone, Thorne’s attention shifted back to Callahan. “I wasn’t aware your missing Frenchie got herself caught up in the Syndicate. Give me something to work with, or I’ll just start arming every man I’ve got.”

Callahan winced. “Isabel Dumont’s alias was Spectre.”

“Well, bugger me.” Thorne gave a low whistle. “You always did have particular tastes. What is it about women who could slit your throat that gets you so riled up? The danger? The thrill?”

“Says the man who married a woman capable of taking down trained assassins with a fireplace poker. I’d say we’re about even when it comes to dangerously competent women.”

Thorne chuckled. “Fair enough. But are you certain she’s not playing you? Running back to Favreau now that she got what she needed? I’m not trying to be cruel. But we need to consider it.”

“Would you go back to Whelan? Ever?” Callahan asked quietly. “For any reason that didn’t involve Alexandra’s life hanging in the balance?”

The answering silence was heavy with shared history. Nick had been the one to get them out of that nightmare. He’d taken the East End from Whelan and drove out his enforcers. They’d both spilled blood over it.

Thorne’s expression softened. “Understood. But when we do find her, keep her close, yeah? I don’t fancy tearing apart the East End every few months because you can’t hold on to your woman.”

“I’ll do my best. Though I warn you, she’s slippery. Makes eels look stationary by comparison.”

“All the best ones are,” Thorne said sagely. “That’s how you know they’re worth the trouble.”