Page 28 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
His eye twitched at the wordsHer Majesty’s hound.
“Got herself into a spot of bother, I reckon. The kind that ends with corpses rotting in unsavoury corners and a sister worried she’ll be collecting body parts from the Thames. One Emma Dumont paid for any news of her wayward sister’s whereabouts. Poor chit’s near sick with dread over it.”
Isabel swallowed. She hadn’t spoken to her sister in nearly a year. A few months ago, she’d written a terse letter promising she was still alive and sent it through channels she prayed were still secure.
But what choice did she have? This was the only way to keep Emma safe. Isabel had only ever managed to keep two secrets from Louis Favreau. The first was her meetings with Callahan.
The second was the existence of her sister.
“How much is peace of mind going for on the open market these days?” she asked, as if she didn’t care about the answer.
“Seventy pounds. Enough to keep my whiskey cabinet well-stocked for the foreseeable future.” He grimaced. “And I’ll be adding a stabbing surcharge.”
Seventy pounds? Sainte Mère de Dieu.
Where in damnation had Emma beggared herself to scrape together that princely sum? With the squalor they’d been abandoned to after their father’s desertion, they’d survived on the funds Isabel obtained after Favreau took the lion’s share of her heists. Last she heard, Emma found work dressing and tutoring courtesans and actresses. And now she was tossing a small fortune at Ronan Callahan’s feet?
Damn. Bloody hell.Nom de Dieu de putain de bordel—
“How valiant of you,” she gritted out. “Well, I hope you track down this wayward woman, Agent. If she’s half as hardened a criminal as you seem to think, she’ll either slit your throat in your sleep, or you’ll be sending her to the gallows. What a treat for her sister, wouldn’t you say? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think Iwillgo see what’s on offer at Claridge’s. Have a nice bath, let a bottle of claret breathe on the sideboard—”
He prowled towards her. She’d seen that coiled menace in him before. In Hong Kong, right before he’d pinned her to the hotel sheets and fucked her until all she could do was pray he never stopped.
Now, all that barely restrained brutality was focused on her again. This was the hunter who’d tracked her halfway around the globe. This was the blade at her throat.
“Drop the act, Isabel. Your sister’s in knots over you.” His voice lowered, turning soft. “That man you left to rot in Charing Cross. He was Syndicate muscle? One of Favreau’s dogs?”
In a blink, she was back in that abandoned flat, with her thumbs in the Butcher’s eye sockets. His blood had been warm when she’d slit his throat.
Monster. Villain. She was those things.
Her fingers skimmed over the raw ligature marks ringing her wrists. Trophies from the Butcher’s tender care.
“What I do and who I kill is my business,” she said. “The minute details of my sordid life story aren’t yours to collect for my sister or as some contest with the men who want me dead. You’ve found me. Tell Emma I’m fine, and offer her condolences that you stumbled across my little mess. Apologies for you finding the corpse I left. It wasn’t meant for you.”
His expression went cold. “And no messages of devotion to relay, I take it? You could send a note. She’s employed as a maid by the Earl of Kent. I imagine you’re familiar enough with Pall Mall to know where he lives.”
She couldn’t believe Emma was inEngland, of all places—their father’s homeland—and playing servant to their father’s peers. What had put such a foolish notion in her her head?
Isabel shook off the thought and snapped her attention back to Callahan. “I don’t know why you care. I’ve disappointed everyone foolish enough to rely on me since approximately 1850, and I’d hate to break such a winning streak.”
He stepped closer. Too close, his chest brushing hers. So warm and tempting.
“Why is the Syndicate hunting you, Isabel?” he asked softly.
Please, please stop. They’ll use you to get to me. They’ll use anyone.
Better he believe her to be an indifferent, callous bitch. Then maybe he’d leave her alone.
“I’m sure you’d love to slap me in manacles and ask your questions in some ghastly interrogation room. But do us both a favour and stop chasing it. And stop chasingme.”
Please.
But he reached up and skimmed his knuckles over her cheek. “Hong Kong. I’d wager it’s the last time you managed a decent night’s sleep, isn’t it? Secure in my bed.”
The question knifed through her. She had no right to safety. To rest. Her life was calculated in debts, paid for in blood and sweat and pieces of her soul, and there’d be no respite until those scales finally balanced.
Or they buried her.
