Page 16 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
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 asbenignor atrifle. 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 myfavouritehapless 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 withBallahan, 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.
