Page 108 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“My worry isn’t that she went without a plan. It’s that she wants him dead more than she wants to live.”
And I’ll be left with nothing but ashes.
Footsteps splashed through puddles behind them. Callahan turned, reaching for his pistol, but it was only Alexandra, her cheeks flushed as she emerged from the fog.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Thorne tugged his wife into his arms. “Where’s O’Sullivan?”
“In Spitalfields following a lead. But listen, there’s news—”
“What is it?” Wentworth asked, all business.
“One of my girls – Tilly down at the Hen and Fox – she came to me not half an hour ago. Said there were men drinking in the back room who were speaking French with each other. She overheard them talking about an old house near Spital Square and a delivery that needed special handling.”
Callahan’s pulse thundered in his ears.Delivery.
He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “Did they say anything else? About her condition, or—”
“Easy, lad,” Thorne said quietly. “Let her finish.”
Alexandra hesitated. “The rest was too muffled for Tilly to catch. But she said she went by the place after they left. There were more men inside. At least a score, maybe double that. And they were armed.”
Callahan knew this was coming. Favreau wasn’t stupid. The bastard would have Isabel surrounded and protected like the treasure he believed she was. Getting to her wouldn’t just be difficult – it would be a bloodbath.
Unless . . .
“We need to split them up,” he said, the idea forming as he spoke. “Draw some out. Create enough chaos for me to slip inside to get her.”
Wentworth’s eyebrow lifted. “And which of you gentlemen will be handling this distraction? I don’t recall assassin-baiting among your listed talents.”
The corner of Thorne’s mouth curved upward – that same dangerous smile Callahan had seen right before bar fights and knife brawls when they were younger. The smile that meant someone was about to bleed.
“I might know a thing or two about causing trouble,” Thorne said, turning to Alexandra. “What do you think, love? Ready to raise some hell tonight?”
She looked delighted. “With you? Always.”
“Keep talking like that,” he said, kissing her knuckles, “and we might never make it to the diversion.”
Wentworth cleared his throat. “Much as I hate to interrupt whatever elaborate mating ritual you two are performing, perhaps we could return to the business of finding Favreau and rescuing Miss Dumont? What did you have in mind for this diversion?”
“How do you feel about small, contained explosions?” Alexandra asked, all but vibrating with excitement. “I have some concoctions that should do the trick nicely. The girls at the Hen have been experimenting with black powder and—”
“I don’t want details,” Wentworth cut in, lifting a hand. “Plausible deniability. Just . . . try not to destroy an entire neighbourhood. Her Majesty takes a dim view of urban renewal through fire.”
“When do we move?” Callahan asked.
Wentworth checked his pocket watch. “One hour. That gives Lady Alexandra and Thorne time to position themselves.” His eyes moved between the couple. “Sufficient?”
Thorne’s fingers found Alexandra’s, squeezing once. Some silent conversation passed between them that Callahan couldn’t read.
“More than enough,” Thorne said. “I’ll gather my men. We’ll be ready.”
Callahan thought of Isabel’s face. Her scars. The way she’d held onto him after Favreau hurt her.
“Tell them to bring weapons,” he said. “If Favreau’s touched her, I’m going to cut his heart out while he watches. And then I’ll make him eat it before he dies.”
32
“What an obedient little pet you are,” Favreau said. “Waiting for me just as I left you.”
