Page 44 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

The thing about ghosts was that they never really left you. Even with their bones salted and burned, their spirits consigned to the aether, some small, gibbering part of you still expected to find them lurking around the corner. Waiting. Watching with hungry eyes.

Louis Favreau was dead – a fact Isabel had witnessed firsthand.

And yet.

Three days. Seventy-two hours since that confrontation, and Isabel still found herself tensing at unexpected sounds, still jolted awake in the night, the ghost of Favreau’s fingers wrapped around her throat. He’d left his marks on her.

Wherever you run, I’ll find you. I’ll always find you. Even in death.

And it killed her to admit he’d been right. He was there in every shadow and noise, spreading through her like a poison. Like a hidden knife waiting to slice her open when she least expected it.

She shook off the thoughts as she mounted the steps of the British Museum. This wasn’t a heist. She wasn’t casing the place or planning which treasures to steal; she was here to see Emma.

Simple. Normal.

So why did her heart pound as if she were about to steal from someone?

Her sister waited by a marble bust, looking every inch the countess she now was. Her pale blonde hair caught what little light filtered through the high windows. Too perfect. Too far removed from the girl who’d once shared a pallet with Isabel in the worst parts of Paris.

Emma turned at Isabel’s approach and smiled. “There you are. I was beginning to fear you’d been embroiled in some new nefarious plot.”

“Just traffic,” Isabel said with a laugh. “Nothing so exciting.”

“Shame. You know how I love a thrilling tale.”

The easy banter soothed some of the jagged edges of Isabel’s nerves. She’d missed it.

Emma tilted her head. “Are you going to stand there all day, or will you give me a proper hello?”

She hesitated, torn between the desperate urge to fling herself into her sister’s arms and the certainty that she couldn’t be seen embracing the Countess of Kent. That phantom itch between her shoulder blades persisted – the skin-crawling conviction of being watched.

“I can’t.” She hated the pain that flashed across Emma’s face.

“Favreau might be dead, but I won’t risk anyone connecting us if they find out who I am.

” She swallowed, the words sticking in her throat.

“Emma and Isabel Dumont are dead. The Countess of Kent is a stranger to me, here to admire the art. Nothing more.”

Emma flinched. “I understand,” she said, but the hurt lingered in her expression. She smoothed her skirts. “How are you? Really?”

Isabel didn’t know how to answer. She’d spent so long running from Favreau and sleeping with one eye open. Now he was gone, and she should have felt relieved. Free.

Instead, she was . . . hollow. As though someone had scooped out everything inside her and left nothing behind. There was only a void where her rage and fear had burned. Without Favreau, she felt off-kilter.

“It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for years,” she said. “And now I can breathe, but it’s like I’ve forgotten how.”

“Oh, Isabel. He was your monster for so long, it’s only natural to feel a bit lost.”

Tears blurred her vision. Her attention caught on a nearby statue – a woman with her arms gone, yet there was a stubbornness to the set of her jaw. A quiet strength.

“Do you know what I find oddly comforting about these old relics?” Emma asked, following Isabel’s stare.

“Despite everything, they endure. Fragmented and imperfect, but there’s so much beauty in the tenacity of their existence.

Those statues have survived deluges and disasters.

All the things that tried to destroy them.

” Her gaze found Isabel’s. “Just like you. The parts he tried to break don’t make you less. ”

That hit like a punch to the sternum. An ache in her chest spreading until it encompassed her heart – a thing still so fragile.

“I don’t know how to be me without him,” she whispered.

“You were Isabel before him. And you’re still Isabel.” Emma reached for her and stopped halfway. Even that small restraint hurt. “I know we need to be careful. I know you can’t visit. But I think it bears saying plainly: I’ve missed you more than I have breath in my body to tell.”

“I’ve missed you, too. Painfully. Every day.”

Emma fished a handkerchief from her reticule. “Look at us,” she said, blotting at her damp eyes, “weeping like a pair of tragic widows. We’ll have tongues wagging among the exhibits at this rate.” Something over Isabel’s shoulder snared Emma’s attention. “Well, now. It appears we have a shadow.”

Isabel looked. And there, at the far end of the gallery, stood Callahan. His hands were in his pockets, hair pushed back as if he’d been running his fingers through it. When their eyes met, his went soft and tender.

He told her a thousand secrets with that look.

The air was suddenly too thick to breathe. In that instant, there was no one else in the world. Only him and her and the electric thrum of connection.

“He lights you up, even from across the room,” Emma said. “I know this can’t be easy for you. Letting someone close after Favreau. Trusting him not to break you all over again. But Mr Callahan’s eyes put the sun itself to shame when they’re on you. Like he’s witnessing a miracle.”

“I love him,” Isabel whispered. “I love him so much, and it terrifies me. I’m afraid that if I look away, he’ll disappear. Or see everything I am and decide I’m not worth it.”

“The heart’s a resilient beast, but even it needs a spell to heal. Give yourself time to let yourself be loved the way you’ve always deserved by someone who knows every shattered piece of you. Like these statues: we all find beauty in broken things.”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all anyone can ask.” Emma squeezed her arm. “In the meantime, I ought to dash. James will be wondering where I am. If you can’t visit me, send letters. Go through official channels if you must, but write . You’ll be an aunt by Michaelmas.”

Isabel’s lips parted. “You mean you’re—”

Emma smiled. “Not showing yet, but yes.”

“I—” She dabbed at a traitorous tear that threatened to fall. “Tell me everything. When I write.”

“Of course,” Emma said, features softening. “I love you, Izzy. Please take care of yourself.”

Isabel watched her sister melt into the crowd, then dragged her gaze back to Callahan. He hadn’t moved.

She inclined her head. Come here , that gesture said. Come and let me look at you properly.

He came, closing the distance between them until he stood near enough to touch.

“Have you taken to following me again, Agent?”

The formal address sat strangely on her tongue. Ironic, that. As if something in the bedrock of the world hadn’t shifted when she’d stood over Favreau’s cooling corpse. As if the man watching her now wasn’t at least half the reason her moorings had been cut so cleanly away.

Callahan’s lips twitched. “You know me, Trouble. I’ve always been enamoured of shiny things behind glass.”

“And here I thought time might have cured you of your criminal predilections.”

“Oh, I remain a man of questionable morals,” Callahan said, his voice dropping to that low rumble that made her skin tingle. “In fact, right now, I’m thinking about dragging you behind that exhibit and reminding myself how you taste.”

Heat rose in Isabel’s cheeks. She glanced around to see if anyone had heard. A woman in a high-necked gown gave them a suspicious look.

“Behave,” she hissed. “This is a place of academic inquiry, not a den of iniquity. Did you want something specific, or are you just here to torment me?”

He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell him – whiskey and soap and him .

“When a woman tells a man she loves him and then vanishes for three days, it raises questions.” Another step.

“I had to see you. Make sure you hadn’t run off to Paris or wherever the hell you go when you’re avoiding things that scare you. ”

Isabel fought the urge to back up. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not scared.”

No, she was terrified. There was a difference.

“Trouble. I know exactly what’s happening in that head of yours. You want to bolt like a scared rabbit.” His thumb brushed her wrist, finding her racing pulse. “But you also want to kiss me until neither of us can breathe. Which is it going to be?”

Isabel went still.

He was right. Some wild, panicked part of her was calculating escape routes. The nearest exit. The crowd she could lose herself in. How quickly she could disappear into London’s maze of streets.

“Running’s the only thing that’s kept me breathing.”

“I know, love.” His fingers slid between hers. “And you’ve protected yourself so well. But you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

She thought of Favreau’s eyes going glassy. The pool of blood spreading beneath him. She’d spent the last three days afraid she’d imagined it. Afraid to settle, to let herself be happy.

“What if I went?” Her voice was barely a breath. “What would you do? Would you let me?”

Callahan’s expression was so tender it cracked her heart wide open.

“Yes. And then I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, because where you go, I go.

But I’d love it very much if you came home with me.

” He dipped his head, his lips skimming her cheek.

“Let me show you all the reasons to stay, little thief.”

Heat unfurled low in Isabel’s belly. She could picture it – his flat, his bed, his body over hers. Under hers. His hands everywhere.

“You make it sound so simple,” she whispered.

“Simple? No. Worth it? Absolutely.” His breath was hot against her skin. “My flat, sweetheart. Come on. Let me worship you.”

“Ronan,” she said, swallowing hard. “People are staring.”

His mouth stayed where it was. “I don’t care. Say it, Isabel. Say you’ll come home with me.”

She studied him. The freckle at the corner of his mouth. The stubble darkening his jaw. This man had seen the darkest parts of her – the thief, the liar, the killer – and still looked at her like she was something precious.

And there was a hunger in his eyes that matched her own.

“Take me home, Ronan.”