Page 8 of A Lady’s Handbook of Espionage

Callahan wove through the tangle of Whitechapel’s night-dark streets.

Light spilled from the taverns and brothels crammed on either side of the narrow lanes. The chill air hung heavy with soot and stale ale – scents as familiar as breathing.

This was the only place he’d ever felt at home.

Faces peered at him from darkened doorways and alleys, looking for any hint of weakness. Any opening to lighten his purse by a few coins.

But he’d grown tall and strong and vicious in this festering corner of the city. Earned his scars in these streets. Bled and bartered for the right to stride through hell’s antechamber unmolested. The wolves knew better than to nip at his heels.

The Brimstone loomed ahead, its doors gleaming in the glow of the gas lamps along its facade. This was no ordinary gentleman’s club. Here, the aristos brushed shoulders with the dregs of the underworld – secrets to ruin lords if the price was right.

Callahan slipped around the back and rapped sharply on the delivery door. A moment later, the door opened.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Leo O’Sullivan propped a shoulder against the doorframe. A grin curved his mouth as he surveyed Callahan, gilded curls tousled around a face that belonged on a Renaissance painting.

“Thought maybe you’d finally found a ditch to die in,” O’Sullivan drawled. “Be still my heart. Our lad is home. And here I assumed you’d be too busy these days licking the Home Secretary’s boots to cavort with us common folk.”

Callahan’s history with Nicholas Thorne and O’Sullivan was a battered, bloody thing forged in the cutthroat crucible of the streets. No matter his job or how far he travelled, he’d always end up right back here.

He shouldered past O’Sullivan into the Brimstone’s staff quarters. “I need your contacts. Missing person.”

O’Sullivan clapped him on the shoulder, steering him deeper into the club. “I’d offer my services without trouble, but Thorne’s been asking after you. Might want to brace yourself.”

Callahan envisioned the variety of rusty implements Thorne would probably threaten to shove into his most delicate crevices.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to give me a hint as to what sort of garrotte I’m walking into?”

“Not a chance. I’m just the messenger.”

Sound and scent crashed over him as they traversed the main floor. Expensive perfume twined with cigar smoke. The discordant melody of laughter, clinking glasses, and lilting strains of music from the pianoforte all blended into a wall of noise.

This was the dark, pulsing heartbeat of London’s seedy centre. For all that the Brimstone dripped with luxe trappings – gilded mirrors, mahogany panelling, plush velvet upholstery – at its core, it remained a place for society’s every desire to run rampant.

O’Sullivan manoeuvred them through the crush until they reached a set of double doors. In there were the true power players. The men who came to the Brimstone to make deals and broker secrets.

“Cheer up, mate,” O’Sullivan said. “You look like you’re being dragged to your own hanging.”

“Feels apt enough. Dealing with Nick always puts me in the mind to pen my will.”

“Need a minute to ready your bollocks?”

“I doubt my bollocks are safe either way.”

With a chuckle, O’Sullivan swung open the doors. The dim, smoky room was dominated by a massive gaming table occupied by half a dozen aristocratic men in the middle of a game of Vingt-et-un.

And at its centre sat Nick.

Finely made evening clothes hugged his lean frame. Not a dark hair out of place or a wrinkle marring his ruthless perfection. He’d always worn arrogance well. These days, he draped himself in authority and vicious elegance.

A lifetime ago, Nick, Leo, and Callahan had run these streets.

There wasn’t an alley or rookery they hadn’t marked – with brawls and battles and all the dark deeds men did to survive.

Thorne had parlayed those early years into a vast network of influence that spanned London.

There were few pies in the City that didn’t have his fingers stuck well within the filling, whether the baker was aware of it or not.

Nick’s black eyes flicked up at Callahan’s approach. The familiar weight of the dagger in Callahan’s coat was a cold comfort, as was the knowledge that O’Sullivan would step in if things turned ugly.

Probably.

“Ronan. How good of you to drag your mangy arse to my club after all these months.”

The assembled players glanced between them with avid interest. Scandal was the only currency that never depreciated.

“Clear the room,” Thorne said, setting down his cards. “My old friend and I have matters to discuss.”

Grumbling, the lords threw down their cards and slunk out. The heavy doors thudded shut.

Nick leaned forward, forearms braced against the table. “I’ve heard some interesting news, Ronan. The sort I’ve taken great pains to stay informed of. Would you care to hazard a guess as to its general theme?”

“You know I’m rubbish at riddles,” Callahan said. “Why don’t you spit it out and save us both the time?”

“Imagine my surprise,” he replied, “when I learned that the estimable Agent Callahan had a visitor yesterday. Two , in fact. And one of them happened to be my fucking wife .”

Oh, shite. Bollocks.

Fuck.

Of course, Thorne knew about Lady Alexandra’s visit.

The bastard was so entrenched in the intimate workings of Whitechapel that a mouse couldn’t shit without him knowing.

Someone had probably sent up a signal the instant Lady Alexandra and Miss Dumont set their dainty feet onto the cobblestones.

Thorne guarded his estranged bride every time she came into these streets.

From afar, of course.

Callahan braced for impact. “I’m just doing a favour for her friend who had a sister go missing. They hired me to help.”

Thorne’s hand curled into a fist. “You mean to tell me,” he said, each word precise, “that you are now in the employ of my wife. Who hasn’t deigned to speak to me in nearly four years.

Who wouldn’t cross the street to piss on me if I was on fire.

She asked for you. Specifically . Perfectly content to darken your doorstep and beg favours. ”

Alexandra was Nick’s bruise. He’d lied to her, tricked her into marriage to get his hands on the fortune in her trust, and she’d tossed him over the moment she learned the truth. Still, that money had all been put into making Thorne one of the most powerful men in England.

Callahan held up his hands as if he were trying to gentle a rabid dog.

Which honestly wasn’t far off. He might dress like a toff, but this was still the same Nick Thorne who fucked and fought his way from the Nichol, honing himself into a walking weapon.

He was as feral as they came. Especially for his woman.

“She knows I’ve got connections that might track the chit down,” Callahan said.

“Fascinating.” Thorne’s expression was cold and flat, and that’s when he was most dangerous. “And how did my darling wife become intimately familiar with your connections?”

And there was the blade sliding home. Callahan winced, glancing helplessly at O’Sullivan. The other Irishman just shook his head, mouthing, “You’re buggered, mate,” with entirely too much relish.

Callahan blew out a gusty sigh, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I may have availed her of my services a few times. She uses sources from the East End for that bleeding heart crusade she calls journalism. I thought if I made myself available and kept an eye on her, she might be less likely to end up with her throat cut in some piss-reeking alley.”

Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “How noble of you. And how long have you been availing yourself to my wife?”

Another wince. He’d been hoping to avoid this particular confession. But Nick had always had a way of sniffing out a man’s sorest spot and digging in his claws.

“Two years now,” he admitted. “It started just after some nasty business involving a nobleman. She came round looking for something she could use to pin the bastard’s bollocks to the wall.”

The other man stared at him for a long moment. Then, in a blink, he launched across the room.

Nick’s fist smashed into Callahan’s face. He had half an instant to lick the blood off his lip before the other man slammed him into the wall hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

Christ, but he’d forgotten how strong the bastard was.

“Tell me,” Thorne snarled, leaning in. “Do you service her in other ways as well?”

“Fuck no,” Callahan said. “Christ, Nicky—”

“So instead of turning her away like any sane man would, you decided to become her pet scrounger. Slipping her information that could get her killed ten times over if she barks up the wrong tree.”

Well. He wasn’t wrong. But reasoning with his wife was also like trying to argue with an obstinate, mouthy rock, so what the hell else was he supposed to do?

“Put the man down, Nick,” O’Sullivan said calmly from where he was pouring himself a drink at the sideboard. “You’re going to kill him, and I don’t want the lads to have to clean his guts out of the carpet.”

A thread of sanity in the maelstrom. Callahan dragged in a relieved breath as Thorne’s grip loosened.

“I want an answer from him, Leo,” Thorne said. “I destroyed my wife for all of us to get out from under Whelan’s boot. So he owes me a fucking explanation.”

Callahan’s own temper was clawing at its fraying tether.

Not to mention the headache from overindulgence and Nick’s fist. “I gave her just enough to keep her from winding up a bloody corpse in your streets. If I turned her out on her arse, she’d only run straight to someone with fewer compunctions about keeping her in one piece. ”

Something flashed across Thorne’s expression at that. His throat worked as he swallowed, gaze cutting briefly to the side. “I assume you’ve kept our shared past from her.”

“Of course I have. I’d like my liver to stay where it is. As far as your lady is concerned, I’m selling my expertise for a few coins to line my pockets.”

And it was an excellent way to keep his ear to the ground regarding the nobles and their scandals. Lady Alexandra had a rare knack for collecting secrets that made useful leverage.

A subtle tension eased out of Thorne’s shoulders.

“Good. Best we keep the details buried because the second she finds out, she’ll decide you’re the last man in London worthy of trust. She’ll probably fling herself into something even more reckless.

Better the devil she knows, I suppose.” He took a long breath before releasing Callahan’s shirt and stepping away.

“The woman she’s got you hunting. What’s her story? ”

“A Frenchie by the name of Isabel Dumont. If she takes after her sister, she’s petite with green eyes. Dark blonde hair, according to the description. Has quite the knack for adopting new identities and stealing money. Last seen in Paris before she bolted, best guess puts her here in Town now.”

Callahan tried not to consider how that description resembled Spectre in all her troublesome glory. That would be too much of a coincidence. Too much like fate taking the piss at his expense.

No, best to assume this was like every other woman who got herself in a spot of trouble with nowhere to turn except thievery or selling her body.

“You’ve just described a quarter of the doxies in Whitechapel alone,” Thorne said. “Anything else?”

“Probably looking for a bolthole to lay low in until the dust settles.”

The other man looked thoughtful. “No doubt she’ll need to unload whatever she’s nicked. That takes contacts. Specialised ones.”

The kind of contacts that populated the Brimstone’s smoky back rooms, though neither of them needed to say it aloud.

“You’ve found people on less,” Callahan said.

“Fine. I’ll put a discreet word out with my sources. See if anyone’s heard whispers of a new woman with quick fingers and a pretty face.” He cut a glance at O’Sullivan. “Leo? You’ve got a few avenues of your own to explore, I’d wager.”

O’Sullivan drained the last of his whiskey. “I’ll rattle a few cages, see what scurries out.”

“Good man.” Thorne returned his attention to Callahan, amusement fading. “Don’t think for a moment we’re finished discussing my wife’s little meetings with you.”

“You might want to kiss and make up with her before you toss around those proprietary nouns, Nicky.”

“Watch your mouth before I put my fist back in it.”

“Brave talk for a man too craven to confront his woman. You lied to her, swindled her, and you’ve yet to apologise. Bend your knee on her doorstep if you want my advice. Grovel. She’ll probably cut off your bollocks, but at least you can say you made an effort.”

Something dark moved behind Thorne’s gaze. “I don’t want your advice,” he said softly. “You ought to take more care with your words. I’ve killed men for less.”

A chill slithered across Callahan’s skin at the eerie calm in the other man’s voice. He’d witnessed the brutal efficiency of Thorne’s rage too many times to doubt the veracity of that threat.

He forced his face to blankness. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing we’re such dear, dear friends. Aren’t we, Nicky?”

“If one hair on Alex’s head comes to harm, I’ll carve pieces off you until even the rats can’t recognise the scraps, friend or not. Nod if you understand.”

There was nothing yielding in Thorne’s expression, not so much as a flicker of doubt. Only the flat certainty of a man who’d spent a lifetime dealing in blood.

“Noted.” Callahan knew where the lines were drawn as well as anyone; he wasn’t stupid enough to cross them. “Can I go now, or did you want to wave your cock about a bit more first?”

Thorne’s smile was vicious. “Oh, you can go. I’m sure you’ve all manner of important skulduggery to be about. And the next time Alex ends up on your doorstep with a job, I had better hear from you.”

Callahan didn’t have to be told twice. O’Sullivan fell into step beside him as he walked out the door.

“Aren’t you glad you stopped by?” the other man drawled. “An evening with Nick always does wonders for my disposition.”

“Fuck off,” Callahan snarled.

O’Sullivan ignored that. “If you ask me, this little side venture is the best thing that could’ve happened. You’re going soft. A good chase is just the thing to put blood back in your cheeks.”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll bash my head against a wall until I’m witless enough to ask for it.”

O’Sullivan’s laughter chased him down the stairs.