Page 103 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“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 – oranyhour, 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. “Thisgaming 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 . . .pathsbeen 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.
