Page 54 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“Sir—” Portia started.
“The return steamer leaves Friday.” His tone left no room for argument. “Get some rest before then.”
Isabel felt a flicker of panic as Vale’s footsteps retreated and her last ally disappeared through the door.
Wentworth studied her. “So you’re Spectre.”
“And you’re the one who’s been reading about all my sins for the past five months.”
His mouth twitched – not quite a smile. “Sit, Miss Dumont. Put down the suitcase.”
She hesitated, then sank into the chair in front of his desk, her back straight like a lady. Like someone who hadn’t killed men with hairpins.
“I trust you’ve settled well enough with Agent Vale these past months?”
“Well enough. Is my sister Emma all right?”
“Lady Kenthas just returned to England. The Syndicate lost her scent months ago, her alias as an American heiress is holding up, and as long as there’s no connection to her past, she remains safe.”
The warning was clear – Emma’s safety hung on the tenuous thread of her false identity. But she was alive and well with her new husband, and that was what mattered.
“I understand,” Isabel said. “She’ll hear nothing from me.”
“See that she doesn’t. Now. To—”
The door swung open without a knock.
Isabel’s head jerked up.
Ronan Callahan filled the doorway, every bit as beautiful as she remembered. His black hair was damp from the rain, messy, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Faint stubble coloured his jawline. When his grey eyes met hers, they went as dark as storm clouds over the sea.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. Even after months apart, her body still reacted to him as if he owned it.
“You summoned me, Wentworth?” His gaze never left Isabel.
That voice. Every time they were apart, she’d forget it a little – how deep it was, the way it seemed to brush over her skin like fingertips.
“Have a seat, Callahan.”
She kept her attention on Wentworth as her personal plague dropped into the chair beside her. Her senses filled with him. The heat of his body, the scent of rain and leather, the edge of his boot touching hers.
It was torture.
Wentworth pulled papers from a drawer. “The information Miss Dumont provided about the Syndicate’s operations has been useful. We intercepted communications about a man named Edmund Ramsgate.”
The name meant nothing to Isabel. “Who is he?”
“A biochemist of some repute. Brilliant, reclusive. Lives in some decrepit country house most of the year, except when he emerges for scientific events. But we’ve had a look at his finances, and while there’s no direct connection to Favreau, he’s certainly quite flush for an academic hermit.” He pushed a paper across the desk. “My men copied Ramsgate’s research notes, and they’re working on decoding them. But his sudden influx of capital coincides neatly with Miss Dumont’s reports of expanded Syndicate activities on English soil. Look here.” Wentworth tapped a row of figures. “Until a year ago, Ramsgate was up to his neck in gambling debts. He owed sums he had no way of repaying through legitimate means. Favreau wouldn’t waste resources on a mere scientist unless he had something of value to offer.”
“What’s the play, then?” Callahan asked.
“The Marquess of Ripon hosts an annual symposium at Basil House for leading minds in the scientific community. Thanks to the Office’s cordial relationship with Ripon, Ramsgate has received an invitation. I need you both to attend and find out what he’s doing for Favreau without alerting the Syndicate or anyone else to our interest.”
Callahan grimaced. “You want us to go to some posh scientific salon and make nice with the nobs?”
“As husband and wife,” Wentworth said.
Isabel’s stomach dropped.
