Page 21 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
A subtle tension eased out of Thorne’s shoulders. “Good. Best we keep the details buried because the second she finds out, she’ll decide you’re the last man in London worthy of trust. She’ll probably fling herself into something even more reckless. Better the devil she knows, I suppose.” He took a long breath before releasing Callahan’s shirt and stepping away. “The woman she’s got you hunting. What’s her story?”
“A Frenchie by the name of Isabel Dumont. If she takes after her sister, she’s petite with green eyes. Dark blonde hair, according to the description. Has quite the knack for adopting new identities and stealing money. Last seen in Paris before she bolted, best guess puts her here in Town now.”
Callahan tried not to consider how that description resembled Spectre in all her troublesome glory. That would be too much of a coincidence. Too much like fate taking the piss at his expense.
No, best to assume this was like every other woman who got herself in a spot of trouble with nowhere to turn except thievery or selling her body.
“You’ve just described a quarter of the doxies in Whitechapel alone,” Thorne said. “Anything else?”
“Probably looking for a bolthole to lay low in until the dust settles.”
The other man looked thoughtful. “No doubt she’ll need to unload whatever she’s nicked. That takes contacts. Specialised ones.”
The kind of contacts that populated the Brimstone’s smoky back rooms, though neither of them needed to say it aloud.
“You’ve found people on less,” Callahan said.
“Fine. I’ll put a discreet word out with my sources. See if anyone’s heard whispers of a new woman with quick fingers and a pretty face.” He cut a glance at O’Sullivan. “Leo? You’ve got a few avenues of your own to explore, I’d wager.”
O’Sullivan drained the last of his whiskey. “I’ll rattle a few cages, see what scurries out.”
“Good man.” Thorne returned his attention to Callahan, amusement fading. “Don’t think for a moment we’re finished discussing my wife’s little meetings with you.”
“You might want to kiss and make up with her before you toss around those proprietary nouns, Nicky.”
“Watch your mouth before I put my fist back in it.”
“Brave talk for a man too craven to confront his woman. You lied to her, swindled her, and you’ve yet to apologise. Bend your knee on her doorstep if you want my advice. Grovel. She’ll probably cut off your bollocks, but at least you can say you made an effort.”
Something dark moved behind Thorne’s gaze. “I don’t want your advice,” he said softly. “You ought to take more care with your words. I’ve killed men for less.”
A chill slithered across Callahan’s skin at the eerie calm in the other man’s voice. He’d witnessed the brutal efficiency of Thorne’s rage too many times to doubt the veracity of that threat.
He forced his face to blankness. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing we’re such dear, dear friends. Aren’t we, Nicky?”
“If one hair on Alex’s head comes to harm, I’ll carve pieces off you until even the rats can’t recognise the scraps, friend or not. Nod if you understand.”
There was nothing yielding in Thorne’s expression, not so much as a flicker of doubt. Only the flat certainty of a man who’d spent a lifetime dealing in blood.
“Noted.” Callahan knew where the lines were drawn as well as anyone; he wasn’t stupid enough to cross them. “Can I go now, or did you want to wave your cock about a bit more first?”
Thorne’s smile was vicious. “Oh, you can go. I’m sure you’ve all manner of important skulduggery to be about. And the next time Alex ends up on your doorstep with a job, I had better hear from you.”
Callahan didn’t have to be told twice. O’Sullivan fell into step beside him as he walked out the door.
“Aren’t you glad you stopped by?” the other man drawled. “An evening with Nick always does wonders for my disposition.”
“Fuck off,” Callahan snarled.
O’Sullivan ignored that. “If you ask me, this little side venture is the best thing that could’ve happened. You’re going soft. A good chase is just the thing to put blood back in your cheeks.”
“When I want your opinion, I’ll bash my head against a wall until I’m witless enough to ask for it.”
O’Sullivan’s laughter chased him down the stairs.
6
The ropes bit into Isabel’s wrists. She’d lost track of how many hours she’d been bound to this chair, locked away in some forgotten corner of London’s underbelly.
