Page 2 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” She turned to face him fully.
“I’d say we can do away with the pretence. We’re neither of us much suited for it.” He caught her fingers on the pretext of brushing a kiss across her knuckles. Her hand tensed in his grip. “I know you’re no more an American heiress than I am the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
She tilted her head. The smile she gave him was practised. “My goodness. Do you approach all innocent women with such outlandish claims? Or am I special?”
“Come now, darling. There’s not an innocent stitch on you.” He glanced at her neck. “That’s quite the rock weighing down your décolletage. Shame it doesn’t match the ones dripping from your ears.”
A hitch in her breath, quickly suppressed.
“A small inconsistency,” she said. “My maid has been distracted lately.”
“Funny thing about that diamond. The Duchess of Westchester’s been missing it since last spring. Clashes dreadfully with the Countess of Harrington’s diamonds dangling from your lobes. A lady of your discerning tastes should know better than to mix stolen goods from different heists.”
He had the pleasure of watching that placid expression ripple.
“You’re quite free with your accusations.”
“Am I? I call it being observant. Comes with the territory in my line of work.”
“And what work might that be? Professional ballroom lurker? Defender of the idle rich?” She raked him with a look. “But no. You’ve the appearance of a man accustomed to more utilitarian dress. And no taste for the useless chatter of the Quality. I suspected someone might be following me when I boarded that steamer to New York.”
Clever minx. But he’d expected nothing less. “What do you say to a turn about the floor, Miss Smith? I promise I’m lighter on my feet than I appear.”
“I promised the next set to Mr Avery.”
“He’s losing at the card table and won’t notice if you’ve run off to Paris by morning.” Callahan offered his arm. “One dance. I won’t bite unless you ask nicely.”
“How gentlemanly.” But she laid her hand on him. “I suppose one dance couldn’t hurt.”
He had her now. Tension thrummed through her, that stillness of a creature poised to flee or fight. But there was curiosity there, too, and the faintest edge of excitement. The thrill of the game.
He knew it well. Lived for it, in fact.
The orchestra struck up a waltz, and he splayed his palm over the small of her back.
“Lovely form,” he said, leading her through the turns. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. Thieves need good footwork, don’t they?”
Her nails dug into his shoulder briefly. If he hadn’t been paying attention, he would’ve missed it.
“And spies don’t?” she countered. “Crown agent, I assume? You’re a long way from London.”
He led her in a graceful turn, using the movement to study her face. “What makes you so certain of my loyalties? I could be Prussian.” The words came out in flawless German.
“Ihre anzug kommt aus London,” she replied, her German as perfect as his. “Narrow cut on the lapels, higher buttons.” Her nail traced the line of a button, and his lungs forgot how to work. “That subtle curve here” – her touch skimmed his chest – “only comes from Savile Row. Fine hand stitching emphasised by a country that values delicacy over durability. And English wool has a unique feel under my fingers. The weaving technique, you see. Softer. Lighter.”
Good God.
“Well spotted.”
She patted his shoulder. “Your accent’s slipping. Did I hear an Irish lilt just now?”
“Maybe.” Callahan dipped his head, his lips grazing her ear. “How’s my accent now, darling? Idle curiosity.”
“American,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “Manhattan born and bred. There aren’t many men who can slip into different skins so seamlessly. Tell me your background.”
“Dublin by birth, London by way of a misspent youth.”
She smiled. “And what is your fine talent for observation telling you about me?”
