Page 39 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“The only reason I don’t have your bollocks in a vice right now,” Wentworth said with a glare, “is because I know Spectre in the custody of the Home Office is better than her helping Favreau.”
“Just so.”
“I heard something about another woman involved.”
“Our asset’s sister. Targeted as leverage.” Callahan ran a hand through his hair. “The Earl of Kent wants to marry her.”
Wentworth let out an aggrieved sigh. “Christ. Nobody informed me Kent had taken up thinking with his prick.”
“Didn’t realise the depth of his affections, truth be told. She was his sister’s maid, and you know how aristos are.”
The spymaster gave a mocking smile. He was, after all, the second son of a viscount. “So I suppose I’m crafting some hidden heiress from Boston. How’s her ear for accents?”
“If she’s anything like her sister, decent.”
“Let us hope so. Inform Kent that he needs to take a long honeymoon. Keep up the pretence of unfathomably falling in love with some American chit. The Syndicate can have no inkling of who she really is.” He tapped a slim folder to his left. “I have three tickets for the Liverpool Express tomorrow morning. I’ll put someone on the identities. Should be delivered to the safe house by nightfall.” His stare sharpened with a look that absolutely, unequivocally communicated that he wouldn’t hesitate to skin Callahan alive if this all went tits up. “I’m trusting your instincts on this.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Spectre will need a handler in Boston. Someone to keep her controlled and low profile. No reason you shouldn’t take the position.”
“She wants another handler,” Callahan said, his expression a careful mask of indifference. “I think it best to grant the request.”
One of Wentworth’s dark brows winged upwards. “Oh? And why is that?”
“I believe our interpersonal friction could become a liability if allowed to continue long term.”
His superior studied him. Callahan resisted the urge to fidget beneath that scalpel-edged scrutiny.
“You’ve fucked her, haven’t you?”
Callahan couldn’t quite suppress his flinch. There was no point in denying it. “Six months ago. In Hong Kong.”
With a curse, Wentworth ran his hands down his face. “I’d ask what the hell you were thinking, but that would presume you were thinking at all. Christ, man, we’ve been trying to bring her to heel for years, and you tumbled the chit into bed?”
“Momentary lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right, it won’t. I’ll have the lads upstairs send a cable to Portia Vale and have her meet you both in Boston to take over guardianship. You are going to be the consummate professional, Agent.” He jabbed his finger onto the desk to emphasise his words. “You’ll keep your head down and your cock in your trousers, and you’ll deliver Spectre into Vale’s hands without any further complications. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” Callahan bit out.
He could picture Isabel’s sneer, could almost hear the mocking lilt of her voice whispering in his ear.Such a good little lapdog.
13
When Isabel was little, she dreamed of the sea.
Not that she’d ever actually seen it at the time. Paris was so far from the coast, andMamanhad always been too busy to take them on a holiday. She shopped, visited the modiste, attended the theatre with the duke while he was in town. Isabel and Emma’s days were spent in lessons – language, philosophy, deportment. Everything their mother decided they needed to navigate a world with little kindness for bastards and fewer options for women.
After Southampton threw them out, Isabel used to curl onto the floor in their new, cramped little flat and imagine the waves.Mamanonce told her the sea sounded like breathing, deep and endless.
Isabel liked that.
Later, when Favreau was on top of her, inside her, hurting her, she’d think of the ocean. Its rhythm, its vastness. A reminder that she existed beyond her skin and bones and whatever he was doing to them.
The first time she ever saw the sea, she’d been stupid enough to tell him.
Quelle innocence, he said, stroking her cheek.We should make it a memory.
