Page 58 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
It was a towering stone edifice meant to communicate money more than a warm welcome. He counted the windows and guessed there were twenty, maybe thirty rooms. Four visible chimneys. The doorknobs on this place probably cost more than he’d made in a year growing up in Whitechapel.
Gargoyles scowled down at them as he helped Isabel down from the carriage.
“Quite the pile.” She scanned the façade with that professional assessment he recognised. “Always wanted to see inside when I was casing these homes. Shame we’re here for work rather than pleasure.”
“What, not excited about playing with the aristos? Thought you’d be thrilled for the chance now that honest crime doesn’t pay you anymore.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you bill Wentworth separately for the sarcasm?”
“The sarcasm comes free when I spend all night with a woman grinding against my cock and pretending she doesn’t notice.”
Isabel laughed. “What was it you told me? Next time, don’t wait. Ask for what you want.”
Then she tapped him on the nose and started for the house.
Infuriating woman.
He gripped his satchel as they climbed the steps, falling into the role of besotted husband. Too easy to play that part. The dossier Wentworth had shoved at him this morning laid out his new identity: James Ashford, an American businessman with more coin than sense. His wife, Lydia Ashford, was an heiress and socialite with scientific interests.
All very respectable. All very false.
The butler who answered Ripon’s door had a look that said he’d slid from the womb wearing livery and judging the doctor’s technique.
“Mr and Mrs Ashford, I presume?”
“You got it,” Callahan replied in his practised New York accent, ignoring Isabel’s small jolt of surprise. She didn’t have time to read their covers before they left that morning.
The butler’s mouth pinched tighter. “Do come in.”
Callahan and Isabel followed him into an antechamber that reeked of old money and judgment. Oil paintings stared down from the walls – generations of Ripons with perfect posture and cold eyes. Watching him.
“Banks.” A voice echoed from the adjoining room.
The marquess appeared in the doorway. He was younger than Callahan expected, with more muscle than your typical nobleman, short brown hair and brown eyes that assessed rather than merely looked. This wasn’t a man who spent his days drinking brandy and reading poetry.
“I’ll take our guests from here, Banks,” Ripon told the butler. “See to their luggage.” He waited until the servant was out of earshot before turning his full attention to them. “So you’re Wentworth’s people. James and Lydia Ashford sound like names concocted by a third-rate novelist on a deadline.”
Isabel grinned. “Isabel Dumont, at your service.”
“Save the charm, Miss Dumont.” Ripon didn’t smile. “Your flirtation might work on your marks, but I’m only tolerating this charade because I owe Wentworth. The bastard always knows exactly which debts to call in. Now, let’s dispense with the pleasantries. We’ve much to discuss and precious little time to do it. Come with me to your rooms.”
The marquess led Isabel and Callahan up the stairs, stopping at a second-floor door.
“Here,” Ripon announced. “Try not to ruin anything irreplaceable.”
The chamber beyond was larger than Callahan’s entire damn flat. It was sumptuous, with gilt mirrors, tapestries, and rich fabrics in deep blues and golds. And dominating the far wall, a four-poster bed that could fit half of Whitechapel.
Isabel wandered further in, running her fingers along a marble-topped table. “What’s your symposium like?”
Ripon leaned against the doorframe. “Men with too much education and too little practical experience, attempting to impress each other with theories that will never see application. And wives who are simply grateful their hermit husbands have left the house for once.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“I’d rather swallow broken glass. But my father believed in it, so here we are.” He crossed his arms. “Now, perhaps you’ll explain why Wentworth insisted I invite a man I’ve never met to my home. What has this Ramsgate fellow done?”
“Intercepted communications, irregular financial activities,” Callahan said. “All pointing to him being involved with an international organisation we’ve been tracking.”
“Criminal?”
