Page 41 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

There was a rhythm to pain. A meter. A cadence.

Isabel knew this with the same visceral certainty as her own name. The ropes bit into her wrists with each shallow breath, keeping time like a metronome. Flay and soothe. Flay and soothe. Bright sparks of agony, followed by a duller throbbing that settled under her skin.

She let her head fall back against the headboard. The sensation grounded her. Reminded her that she was still here. Still breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

With each careful exhale, she forced down the fear, the revulsion, the phantom echo of Favreau’s hands on her. She took those feelings and locked them away in that dark place inside herself where she kept such things. Where she hid all the bits of herself she could not afford to feel.

Tears were a luxury, and luxuries were for the weak. Isabel had long since carved weakness from herself, learning young that it was a thing that got you caught. Got you killed.

Breathe. Feel the air in your lungs, your ribs expand with it. This is real. You are real.

Time became an endless stretch of shallow breaths and hurt – the pain in her shoulders, her arms, her wrists. She let it wash over her in waves. Let it carry her out of herself.

Favreau would return.

He would come, and there would be more agony. He would smile that slow, knowing smile, and it would be just like it had been before.

No. Never again.

She would not break.

Isabel shook off the daze with a shudder. She couldn’t drift now. She needed the clarity that had saved her in impossible situations.

Desperation had been her constant companion since she was old enough to grasp its shape. She knew how to take that gnawing dread and spin it into something that could cut. Panic was an indulgence. Icy logic, ruthless calculation – that was a weapon.

And right now, she needed a weapon.

She dragged her fingers over the whorls and ridges of the headboard at her back. Favreau had undoubtedly paid a fortune to a master woodworker to whittle a tree into submission.

There.

Her thumbnail snagged on a splinter marring the grain. Some flaw in the wood or a slip of the carving knife. She traced that little imperfection again, no wider than a shilling. It wasn’t too sharp, but it was enough.

And so Isabel began to saw at the ropes.

The angle wrenched at her shoulders and spine with every movement, but she welcomed it. Used it as fuel.

Flay, soothe. Flay, soothe.

The rope was thicker than she’d like – something meant to lash down cargo – and the fibres were rough against her skin as she moved back and forth, back and forth. Let the hurt flow through and over and out of her. Down in the vault of her mind it went.

She might have been sawing at the ropes for hours or days. All that remained was the need to be free. The determination that had seen her through the fetid alleys of Paris, the gilded drawing rooms of Vienna and St Petersburg, and the thousand hurts.

Isabel imagined the blood on her hands was Favreau’s.

She sawed and sawed and sawed until—

The rope snapped.

An exhale shuddered out of her. For a moment, she collapsed against the headboard.

Just a minute , she told herself.

Just a minute to let the relief wash through her. Then she straightened, carefully removed the ropes from her bleeding wrists, rolled her aching shoulders, and stood.

The floorboards creaked under Isabel’s boots as she crept to the door. She tilted her head, straining for some indication of what lay on the other side.

Two male voices. Of course, Favreau wouldn’t leave her alone.

Isabel cracked the door just enough to glimpse the hallway beyond. Two men stood with their backs to her, shoulders slumped against opposite walls. Big, armed, and bored.

Perfect.

She recognised their type immediately: hired muscle with small brains. She’d outmanoeuvred dozens just like them over the years. The tricky part would be keeping them quiet once she made her move.

If anyone downstairs heard the commotion . . .

No. When Favreau returned, she wanted him all to herself.

“Hate this sodding job,” the taller one complained, scratching at his beard. “Don’t see why we’re playing nursemaid to the boss’s bit of muslin. Not like she’s going anywhere.”

His companion rolled his eyes. “Pierce, I’ll pay you a sovereign to shut your gob for five minutes.”

“All I’m saying is—”

“No one cares what you’re saying. You don’t get paid to flap your gums.”

Isabel’s estimation of the chatty one dropped another notch. Not enough sense to take that opportunity to shut his fool mouth. No, he wanted to grouse, wanted to spread his discontent far and wide.

Idiot.

She retreated into the room, scanning for a weapon. The place was mostly bare, but her gaze landed on a pale green vase with a wide, heavy base perched on the dresser. Expensive and beautiful.

And soon to be bloody.

She hefted it in her hands and tested its weight. Not ideal, but it would do. Isabel pictured exactly how she’d swing it – right at the junction where the chatty one’s skull met his spine. The sort of impact that would either kill him or incapacitate him in seconds.

??She returned to the door with the vase clutched against her chest and her body humming with anticipation.

“She’s pretty, though,” Pierce was saying, lowering his voice. “You think the boss would mind if we had a peek? Just a quick look up her skirts?”

Time’s up.

Isabel exploded through the doorway. The guard’s eyes widened before the vase connected with his skull. The wet crack of porcelain against bone sent a familiar thrill down her spine. His knees buckled.

One down.

“What the fu—” The second guard’s hand scrambled for his weapon.

Her elbow slammed into his throat, crushing his windpipe. He choked, eyes bulging, and she followed with a swift kick between his legs.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

He raised his head, pain clouding his features. Isabel brought her knee up hard, feeling the satisfying crunch of his nose shattering. She grabbed his head between her palms and gave a quick, brutal twist.

Crack . She snapped his neck.

Isabel stood over the bodies, heart hammering against her ribs, breath coming in shallow bursts. Not from exertion. From something darker that lived in the hollow spaces between her ribs.

“That’s for calling me muslin,” she murmured, nudging the first guard with her toe. “And for thinking I was someone you could touch.”

She searched their pockets and took the sharpest knife she could, then hid another at her waist.

Killing was the easy part. Cleaning up was always messier.

Isabel grasped the first guard by his ankles and pulled. Her muscles screamed in protest as she dragged him towards a small storage room off the hallway. The second body was worse. Halfway to the room, she had to stop and lean against the wall to catch her breath.

“Should have killed you closer to the door,” she told the corpse.

Once the bodies were stowed, Isabel dabbed at the blood spatters on the wall with her sleeve, smearing them into rust-coloured streaks. Not perfect, but it would have to do. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking now that the killing was done. They always did this – steady during, trembling after.

She retreated to the bedroom and perched on the edge of the bed, arranging herself carefully. Legs crossed at the ankle. Hands folded in her lap, hiding the knife beneath her fingers.

The picture of submission.

The shaking in her hands subsided and the throbbing in her wrists faded to a dull ache. She imagined Favreau’s expression when he realised what she’d done. Imagined his blood spilling across the floorboards. He’d made her prey once. Never again.

The doorknob turned. Isabel tightened her grip on the knife.

And the monster with the angelic face stepped inside.

“Hello, my love. Did you miss me?”