Page 31 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“You have me all figured out, don’t you? Yes, I pine without that insolent mouth to enliven my days. Must be why I’m out here freezing my arse off watching you sulk in the shadows. Brooding doesn’t suit you, you know.”
“Oh, and I suppose you’re the expert on what does suit me?”
“I’ve watched you for years, haven’t I? Seen you work ballrooms and gambling dens where men can’t take their eyes off you. And now I’ve had the dubious pleasure of cleaning up your messes. Seems everywhere you go these days, a man ends up with his throat slit.”
“I’ve denied any involvement.”
“Oh, you deny it,” he said, a little mocking. “Tell me hypothetically, then. What other deadly talents have you been hiding up those sleeves?”
She glared up at him, refusing to step back. Refusing to give ground. “What if I told you I hypothetically strangled one of those men with my thighs first?”
That shut him up. His mouth fell open, and for once, the great Ronan Callahan had nothing to say. Ten seconds ticked by while his gaze dropped to her legs, encased in the tight trousers she’d stolen to pass as a lad in the dark.
She felt it then – that liquid heat pooling low in her belly. The one that only ever appeared when he looked at her like this. Like he wanted to consume her.
“Picturing it, Agent?” She smiled.
He let out a slow breath. “Thinking there are worse ways to die.”
The air between them crackled. Isabel almost reached for him, almost gave in to the urge to grab his shirt and pull him into the shadows. Almost.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “I only kill when I have to. If I hadn’t acted, you’d be scraping what was left of my sister off those cobblestones.” She nodded toward the townhouse, needing to change the subject before she did something stupid. Like touch him. “What do you know about the people keeping Emma?”
Callahan shrugged. “Decent, as far as the Quality goes. The earl is sharp. Keeps his hand in at Parliament, from what I’ve gathered. His brother’s got charm enough to coax a nun from her habit, but he’s not soft. And their sister—” A hint of what might have been genuine amusement lurked at the corners of his mouth. “She’s got a mind like a razor. Fancies herself a journalist, much to her brothers’ despair. Goes swanning about in the East End interviewing pickpockets and scriveners and God knows what else. She’s the one who put up your finder’s fee.”
She thought of the earl’s expression when he looked at Emma earlier. “Kent and Emma. Are they lovers?”
“His sister’s maid, as far as I know. But I can’t say I make a habit of poking my nose into an aristo’s romantic entanglements. Too much drama, too little profit.”
“Spoken like a true pragmatist.”
Another beat of silence, another drag on her cigarette. The slow curl of smoke in her lungs fortified her.
“Is there a reason you’re worried his intentions towards your sister might be less than honourable?” Callahan asked.
Of course, he’d caught that. He might look like a pretty ornament, but Callahan’s mind proved inconveniently sharp.
“Pretty promises from a nobleman’s lips always turn to ash,” she said shortly. The last thing she wanted was to discuss her background with him. “But my larger concern is the state of his brother’s defences. That terrace might as well be an invitation for any halfway competent thief, and the servant’s entrance is a jest.”
“You’ve an eye for weakness.”
“Of course I do.” She gave a bitter chuckle, dropping her cigarette to the ground. She crushed it with a boot. “Favreau trained me to find the cracks in every fortress.”
The memories of his brutal training never faded with time. She still recalled the punishments. The realisation that he liked the way blood looked on her skin.
Like paint on a canvas. Do try not to fail so often that I’m forced to sully it.
Callahan went quiet, considering. When he finally spoke, the words were careful. Measured. “I have a proposition for you. A job.” At her sharp look, he explained, “Under my supervision, you could put those skills to work. What was it you called it? A government purse and a license to kill to fund your frivolities?”
A sharp pain spread through her. Was that what he wanted? To have the Spectre under the government’s boot?
“A generous offer,” she said. Her tone conveyed precisely how much she detested it. “And you’re proposing this out of the goodness of your heart, I’m sure.”
“I’m proposing it because we both know that Syndicate bastard in the mews won’t be Favreau’s first attempt at using your sister as leverage. He’ll twist the knife in any soft place he can find.”
“Is that it, then? You’d make me your collared hound to point at whichever target the Crown deems a threat?” She stepped closer, right up into his space. “Or is it because you’re hoping to scratch that itch you’ve been nursing since Hong Kong?”
He went very still. “You should be careful taunting sharks, little thief.”
