Page 15 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
He lunged for the window, nearly tumbling as the sheet tangled around his legs. Down below, the Praya was already awake for business – trundling handcarts, peddlers and street hawkers bargaining and bartering in a dozen different tongues.
And a familiar figure cut through the tangle withhissuitcase clutched in a dainty hand.
Callahan sprinted from the room clad in nothing but his bedsheet, caution and dignity be damned. Gasps and scandalised giggles nipped at his heels as he barrelled through the lobby. He scarcely registered a shout over the roar of blood in his ears.
He burst into the street. More shouts followed.
Spectre glanced over her shoulder at the commotion. Her eyes widened before crinkling in amusement, a mocking grin flashing across her face.
Then she hiked up her skirts and dashed off.
That fucking thief.
He took off after her. Early morning light gilded the Praya’s cobblestones as he sprinted down the road. The blasted sheet hampered his stride, but he pressed on. He should have tied her to the damn bed.
She reached the waterfront and, to his horror, popped the latch on his case—
And upended every last one of his belongings over the seawall.
Callahan could only watch in slack-jawed disbelief as shirts, trousers, smallclothes, and travel papers rained down to be swallowed by the waves. She had the bloody cheek to throw him a jaunty wave before spinning on a heel and melting into the crowd.
Leaving him alone. A panting, wild-haired madman in a toga.
Nearly naked in front of half of Hong Kong.
Damn her eyes, damn her quick fingers, damn every last infuriating, intoxicatinginchof her—
A hand landed on his shoulder. “Here now, sir. What’s all this about?”
Callahan turned to find an officer of the Hong Kong Police looming over him. The man’s gaze flicked down over Callahan’s heaving chest, the bedsheet barely preserving his modesty, then back up. Disapproval radiated from him.
“Well?” the officer barked. “Out with it, man. You’re making an unholy spectacle of yourself.”
Callahan opened his mouth and then shut it with a snap. What could he say? That he was a spy for Her Majesty’s government? That he’d just been soundly fucked and robbed by his nemesis? That he’d allowed her to lure him into a dalliance, strip him of every possession and stitch of clothing, and then watched her vanish into the fetid circle of hell from whence she’d come?
No. Better they think him a cuckold than a complete incompetent.
Callahan tamped his rage into something approaching civility. When he trusted himself to speak without cursing, he drew himself up to his full height.
“Just a minor misunderstanding,” he gritted, “with my wife. You know how they can be, yes? Changeable as the weather. My apologies for the disturbance. It won’t happen again.”
The other man’s eyes narrowed. But after a long moment, he shook his head, clearly washing his hands of the whole sordid affair.
“See that it doesn’t. I’ll let you off with a warning this time, but Hong Kong has standards to uphold. You’d do well to remember that, sir.”
“Noted.” He snatched for the sheet pooling around his ankles, wrapping it about himself once more. “If you’ll excuse me?”
The officer gave him a last hard look but allowed Callahan to limp away with the battered dregs of his pride.
By the time he stumbled into his rooms, he was nearly blind with fury. When he found her again, she would pay for this.
But first, he needed trousers.
4
London, 1872
Six months later
