Page 55 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
No. No. No.Zut alors.
Husband and wife meant sharing quarters. It meant touching, pretending, acting like they belonged to each other.
Her gaze flicked to Callahan. He’d gone rigid, jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He was probably used to getting orders he didn’t like.
Isabel spoke first. “Surely there’s some other way—”
“There isn’t,” Wentworth interrupted. “Ripon’s gathering begins in two days. You’ll be reporting to Basil House tomorrow afternoon. A dossier with your cover identities and a wardrobe befitting your roles will be delivered to your flat in the morning before you depart, Callahan.”
“Mr Wentworth, I really must . . .”
She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Her chest felt too tight, her skin too small, and the world tilted around her. She gripped her chair, trying to anchor herself against the rising surge of panic. Five months in America, and she’d almost forgotten what it felt like – this drowning feeling when the walls closed in, and she had no control over what happened to her.
“Miss Dumont.”
Wentworth’s clipped voice cut through the static. She lifted her head to meet his piercing stare.
“This is not a request. You come to me absent any leverage. If I have even an inkling that you intend to betray me to Favreau, there is nowhere on this earth that I won’t find you. I will make the very short duration of your days agony. If you wish to continue drawing breath, you will adopt some humility. Swiftly.”
Icy fingers trailed down her spine. She forced her lungs to work, to pull in air. “That won’t be necessary. I understand what you require.”
“Good. Callahan, I leave the rest to you. Don’t disappoint me.” Wentworth turned back to the papers on his desk in dismissal.
Isabel and Callahan left the office.
“Well,” she said, slumping against the wall in the corridor. She tapped her fingers against her suitcase. “That went about as well as a jump from a burning building.”
Callahan snorted. “Of course, you find this amusing.”
“Not in the slightest. But I hardly see what choice we have in the matter.”
“This’ll end badly.”
“No question. I’ll probably stab you again.”
“Good to know your smart mouth survived Boston intact.”
He scrutinised her, attention moving from her face down to her shoes and back up again. Slow. Deliberate. After five months, she wasn’t any more inured to that look, to the way it stripped her bare. Ronan Callahan had a stare like a rapier.
When she could take it no longer, she snapped, “You’re staring.”
“Just thinking that you look . . . different.” He cleared his throat. “Better.”
Different how? Better than what?But she knew what he meant, didn’t she? She weighed more. Her skin had colour, the hollows beneath her cheekbones had filled in, and she’d finally had full nights of rest. She looked less like the half-starved creature he’d found in the abandoned distillery.
“Fascinating what happens when you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder,” she said. “Regular meals. Regular sleep. Regular . . .”
The word “life” died on her tongue.
Callahan’s expression softened. “Where are you staying?”
The question caught her off guard. She hadn’t thought past the meeting with Wentworth.
“I—” She hesitated, lifting her suitcase. “I came straight from the docks in Liverpool.”
“Jesus, Trouble. What was your plan? Sleep in the street?”
“I didn’t have a plan. Vale took care of everything in Boston.”
