Page 7 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Six months later

The pounding at Callahan’s door dragged him from a restless slumber.

He groaned and clamped the pillow over his ears. Hadn’t he snarled at his landlord that he was not to be disturbed unless the fires of hell were devouring the building?

The banging continued, an auditory assault worming its way through his whiskey-soaked brain.

“Mr Callahan!” The voice was female and infuriatingly familiar. “I know you’re lurking inside like some foul-tempered bear in winter hibernation. Answer the door at once, or I’ll break into song!”

Callahan’s eyes snapped open, horror mixing with the beginnings of a truly spectacular headache.

Lady Alexandra Grey. Sister of the Earl of Kent. The Almighty, in His twisted sense of humour, had seen fit to conjure the one woman in all the world capable of rousing him from his self-imposed exile.

Because that’s what this was. An exile. A chance to lick his wounds after Hong Kong in peace. He’d thought himself safe here, tucked in this shabby corner of Whitechapel. Thought he could while away the hours in a haze of cheap whiskey and regrets until the sting of humiliation faded.

More fool him.

Calling Alexandra a pebble in his boot would be a kindness. The woman was a thorn in his side on her best days, a pox on his entire existence on the bad ones. She possessed the tenacity of a barnacle and the survival instincts of a pheasant. If he ignored her, she’d simply break in.

Callahan hauled himself upright, the room tilting as he gained his feet.

A quick glance in the mirror made him grimace.

He looked like something that had crawled out of the Thames – rumpled, unshaven, and reeking of last night’s indulgences.

Good. Let Lady Alexandra see him in all his dissolute glory.

Perhaps it would disabuse her of whatever harebrained notion had brought her to darken his doorstep today.

He wrenched open the door with a snarl, fully prepared to unleash a tongue-lashing that would send her scurrying back to Mayfair.

Only to pull up short.

Alexandra beamed up at him. Not a flaxen curl was out of place, her hair swept up into an elegant coiffure. She wore a gown of lavender trimmed with lace, the very picture of a proper young lady. Until one noted the flash of mischief in her expression.

But it was her companion who grabbed his attention. Petite and delicate, she regarded him with wide green eyes and an uncertain smile. Honey-gold curls framed her heart-shaped face.

Something twisted in Callahan’s chest, a flicker of unnerving familiarity that vanished as swiftly as it came. Ever since that disastrous night in Hong Kong, he’d taken to seeing shades of Spectre in every woman who crossed his path. It was bloody inconvenient.

Not to mention pathetic.

“Mr Callahan! How lucky to find you at home,” Alexandra trilled, pointedly ignoring the black look he speared her with.

“God, what fresh hell have you brought me now?” He sighed.

Nothing good ever came from her surprise visits.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve a corpse to bury, and it wouldn’t be sporting to dump the poor bastard in the Thames unmarked?

Sorry to disappoint, but Monday is my day for dismemberment. ”

Alexandra’s grin never wavered. “Mr Callahan, while I always applaud preparedness, today’s errand is far more benign. A trifling matter requiring your specialised skills.”

Callahan’s scowl deepened. He knew better than to trust this woman’s assessment of any situation as benign or a trifle . She had a rare talent for understating the gravity of problems, usually right before they careened into catastrophe.

“I’m busy,” he said, pushing the door closed. He had no desire to be drawn into whatever mess Alexandra had stumbled into this time. “Don’t you have a list of hapless sods to torment? Puppies to kick? Men to set on fire?”

“You wound me. I would never mistreat an innocent puppy, and you’re my favourite hapless sod to torment. Setting men on fire is debatable, but that’s beside the point.”

Alexandra slapped her hand against the door to block it. She leaned in, that dangerous smile still firmly in place. “Let us into that flat.”

One of these days, he was going to strangle her with her own bustle.

“Go home,” he growled.

“Oh, certainly. But before I go, idle curiosity. What’s this I heard about a spy, name rhymes with Ballahan , being forced to run stark naked through Hong Kong after his clothes were thrown into Victoria Harbour? Would your superiors happen to know anything about that, by any chance?”

Humiliation rushed back – the shock of cold air on bare skin, the gawping stares, the jeers of the crowd. The memory of Spectre’s grin as she vanished into the throng with the last of his dignity.

No, he wasn’t going to think about that. Not now. Not ever again if he could help it. He’d sworn off women the moment he’d stumbled aboard the steamer back to England.

He was going to become celibate. Or something. Maybe. Thinking about her still got him hard, and that was the most wretched thing of all. His cock was confused. For the last six months, he’d been getting himself off every damn morning with angry climaxes.

Fucking pitiful.

Only a handful of people knew what had happened on the Praya.

And none of them were the sort to gossip idly about the Crown’s business, not if they valued their lives.

Which left only one possibility: Alexandra had bribed a colleague.

Or perhaps wheedled the story out of them with her wiles and charms. She collected secrets like a magpie hoarded shiny baubles – the darker and more scandalous, the better.

“How did you hear about that?” he demanded.

He’d spend the rest of the day plotting someone’s murder.

Alexandra’s grin widened. “You’re not my only source of information. Now let us in.”

Better to get it over with.

With a long-suffering sigh from the weary depths of his soul, Callahan opened the door just wide enough to admit them.

Alexandra made herself at home perched on the edge of his desk while her companion took in his flat with wide eyes.

He fought the urge to wince as her gaze settled on the detritus of his current existence – the empty bottles, the scattered papers, the piles of books.

He’d been drinking himself stupid since his return from Hong Kong.

“Now then, Mr Callahan,” Alexandra said. “What might you tell us about finding missing persons?”

“Depends on who you’re looking for, what information you have, and whether I’d get shanked for tracking them.”

Missing persons could mean any number of things in his line of work, from runaway heiresses to political dissidents in hiding. The people he was hired to find often didn’t want to be found.

Alexandra waved a hand dismissively. “We need to find my friend’s sister. Surely you can handle one missing woman without getting knifed.”

Callahan’s flat stare conveyed precisely what he thought of that assertion. In his experience, women could be just as deadly as men – often more so because people underestimated them. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

In fucking Hong Kong.

“It always depends on the woman,” he said, thinking of green eyes and a blade pressed to his throat.

The blonde spoke up. “Her name is Isabel Dumont. Last seen in Paris before she beat a rather hasty retreat. Presumably across the Channel here to London.”

Paris. He should have known. That blasted city brought him nothing but trouble. He decided to hate Paris.

“Have you considered the possibility that your sister isn’t interested in being found? Wherever she’s landed, chances are she’s started a tidy new life free of meddling siblings.”

“Pay that no heed,” Alexandra interrupted. “He’s incapable of grasping familial affection.”

Miss Dumont drew in a deep breath. There was a quiet determination in her eyes.

“Do you have siblings, Mr Callahan?” she asked. “Anyone whose safety concerns you?”

Memories flashed of the other lads in Whelan’s gang huddled together for warmth on cold nights. Not related by blood, but the closest thing he’d had to family after his mother died.

At his silence, she pressed on. “If you cared for someone, and they disappeared after sending what amounted to a farewell, are you telling me you wouldn’t move heaven and earth to ensure their safety?”

Something tightened in Callahan’s chest. “Sometimes the trouble isn’t that they don’t wish to be found. It’s the danger in finding them.”

He’d told himself that a thousand times over the years, late at night when the whiskey flowed a bit too freely and memories clawed at him. There was a reason he kept to himself these days.

“If my sister is in danger, I want to know,” Miss Dumont said quietly. “I won’t sit idle imagining her lost or dead without at least trying to learn the truth.”

Every instinct screamed at him to walk away, to wash his hands of this. Get back to drinking. But when he noticed the determined set of her jaw and the desperate hope in her eyes, he felt something splinter.

Damn it. Bugger. Shite.

With a sigh, Callahan dragged a hand through his hair. “What does she look like? What’s her occupation? What are her interests?”

Miss Dumont hesitated. “Darker hair. More petite. She has something of a knack for languages. And assuming identities.”

Callahan’s eyebrows rose at that last bit.

The woman cleared her throat, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “And employing legally ambiguous methods for acquiring funds.”

Ah. There it was.

“Oh, so she’s a criminal. Bit of an important thing to leave out, considering the circumstances. You prepared to face some uncomfortable realities if I turn up proof she’s alive and well?”

“I just need to know if my sister is safe. Can you help me or not?”

“I’ll ask around. Tap a few sources. Can’t make any promises.”

For a horrifying moment, Callahan thought she might hug him. He took a hasty step back, just in case, because the last thing he needed was an armful of emotional woman.

He turned his attention to Alexandra. “And you. Try anything to interfere with my work, and I’ll toss you straight into the bog out front.”

Alexandra placed a hand over her heart. “No tricks from me. Just compensation for services rendered. Fifty pounds.”

Miss Dumont’s jaw dropped. He could practically see the calculations running through her head, the realisation that such a sum was far beyond her means.

But right now, she wasn’t his mark. The lady was.

His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “Double it. I have expensive tastes.”

It was a lie, of course. Callahan lived simply, and most of his earnings supported the network of street children and informants he’d cultivated over the years. But Alexandra didn’t need to know that.

The noblewoman’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed his threadbare flat. “The evidence of it appears to be absent. Sixty, you extortionist.”

“This flat is a front, and I have mouths to feed. Seventy-five in advance.”

“Seventy,” Alexandra argued. “Half in advance, and no more arguing.”

Well. Seventy could fund plenty of whiskey for future brooding, at least.

“Wait.” Miss Dumont’s voice was tinged with panic. She grabbed Alexandra’s arm. “I can’t pay that much. Surely we can find someone less expensive—”

“Consider it a gift between friends. It’s nothing.” Alexandra turned back to Callahan. “Well? Do we have an accord?”

He rolled his eyes. “I suppose so.”

Alexandra propelled Miss Dumont towards the door. Finally.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Alexandra called over her shoulder. “Send word if you learn anything.”

She paused on the threshold, spearing Callahan with a look that could have stripped paint from walls. “And remember, if you even think of cheating my friend, I’ll tell your superiors about Hong Kong.”

Callahan’s jaw clenched. “I said I’d find her. Now get the hell out of my flat, you wretched harpy.”

Then he slammed the door in their faces.

Time for another drink.