Page 19 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
The Brimstone loomed ahead, its doors gleaming in the glow of the gas lamps along its façade. 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?”
