Page 37 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
How does it feel, Agent Callahan? To have the Home Office’s collar so tight around your throat, you can barely breathe?
“I’m certain you’ll find the quarters perfectly adequate,” he said. “Her Majesty’s government does occasionally spare expenses for ungrateful but useful harpies. After which, you will haul yourself back to England to do your job. And if you even attempt to flee, I’ll find you and put a noose around your neck myself.”
Isabel surged up with a snarl. Emma’s hand shot out, grabbing her sister’s shoulder before she could launch herself at Callahan. He made a mental note to thank the younger Dumont later, preferably when Isabel wasn’t within earshot or throwing distance.
“I said I’d work for you,” Isabel growled. “But it will be on my terms. No chains and no nooses. And tell your superiors that I want another handler. Not you.”
“The preference is mutual. What about you?” he asked Emma, his tone softening. This sister was easier. She was sane, for one thing. “Any name in mind for your alias, Miss Dumont?”
Emma gave a wan smile. “I suppose I’ll leave that to you. Choose whichever name you think is best.”
Before Callahan could respond, Kent cleared his throat. “Whatever name and identity you assign her, make it fit for the future Countess of Kent.”
Emma’s head whipped towards Kent, her expression slack with shock. Even Isabel seemed momentarily thrown.
“Christ.” Callahan pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a damn headache. “Of course, you both had to go and needlessly complicate things.” He loosed a sigh. “I’ll send word when it’s time to depart for the steamer.”
He stalked out of the parlour, leaving the Dumonts and Kent to sort themselves out. The boards creaked beneath his boots as he navigated the narrow halls of the safe house for the cramped study that served as his makeshift headquarters.
Damn Kent and his romantic declaration. The earl had just doubled Callahan’s workload. Creating a false identity for a thief was difficult enough. Creating one for the future Countess of Kent? That required craftsmanship and time, which was in short supply.
He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the back of his chair. Dropping into the seat, he tugged a sheaf of papers close and unscrewed the cap of the inkwell. He couldn’t have said how long he sat there with his head bent over his work before a pointed cough broke his concentration.
Isabel against the doorframe. “Plotting my demise? Or doodling little hearts around my name?”
“What do you want, Trouble?”
“Just making sure you’re not saddling me with some ghastlynom de plume. No Scarlett O’Harlots, if you please. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“And what a sterling reputation it is. Tell me, do you prefer ‘infamous thief’ or ‘traitor to international crime syndicates’ on your calling cards?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘peerless acquisitions specialist.’ It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. Then memory crashed in – her mocking voice in Belgravia.
Nothing wrong with being a whore, but call it what it is.
The almost-smile died. “I’ll take it under advisement. Was there something else, or did you come to make my life more difficult than it already is? Because there’s no need. You’re doing an exceptional job of that by existing.”
Her chest expanded on a breath. Something flickered in her eyes – an emotion that might have been hurt – and then she shook her head.
“Good,” he said, standing and reaching for his coat. The room suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Too filled with her. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Arranging aliases and safe passage for ungrateful thieves is surprisingly time-consuming.”
Callahan moved to exit, but Isabel stepped into his path. Close enough to touch. To take.
“Move,” he growled.
“Why?”
“Why what?” He sidestepped; she matched him. “You’ll have to be more specific. My list of questionable life choices is extensive.”
His list started with her.
Hell, it ended with her, too.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked. “After everything I said in Belgravia? After Hong Kong?”
Callahan fixed Isabel with a look. He was struck by how young she looked beneath the bravado and the scars. Young, and very, very tired.
