Page 67 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
If a feather had dropped at that moment, the sound would have been deafening. The sycophants flanking Ramsgate were doubtless unused to being interrupted by a foppish dandy who wouldn’t know an atom from an abacus.
Isabel had to give her partner credit – the man did a fine job of playing the idiot savant.
She widened her smile and interfered before Callahan’s performance got out of hand. “You must forgive James his little jokes. An acquired taste, I’m afraid.”
“Indeed,” Ramsgate managed. “Well, I’m not certain—”
“Oh, how unspeakably rude of me.” Isabel offered a gloved hand. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Lydia Ashford, and this is my darling husband, James. We’re here from New York.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to clasp her fingers in a limp, perfunctory grip. “Edmund Ramsgate. A pleasure, Mrs Ashford. And you as well, Mr Ashford.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear you mention your work.” Isabel leaned in, conspiratorial. “My husband and I are always looking for worthy scientific endeavours to support. Financially, of course. It’s a particular passion of mine.”
A calculated gleam entered Ramsgate’s eyes as they swept over the small fortune glittering at her ears and throat. The reaction was subtle, barely there, but Isabel knew that look.
It was almost disappointing how predictable men were beneath their veneer of civility. As transparent as the beggars in the East End.
“Well,” Ramsgate demurred, “I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn. You have an interest in biochemistry, do you?”
He cut a dubious glance at Callahan, who was staring at the milling throng with the perplexed air of a man who’d stumbled into the wrong study by mistake and couldn’t quite determine how to extricate himself.
“I’m sure I can keep up,” Isabel assured him, batting her lashes. “And Jamie does so adore hearing me ramble on about my little enthusiasms. Don’t you, love?”
“Hm? Oh, rather!” Callahan snapped to attention. “Absorbing stuff. Miasmas and whatnot.”
Ramsgate looked mildly appalled, but pushed on, nonetheless. And so began a solid quarter-hour of increasingly esoteric jargon. Callahan had long since progressed from diplomatic boredom to the stare of a man girding his soul for war.
“. . . of course, the real challenge is stabilising the compound,” Ramsgate was saying. “Ensuring a reliable delivery mechanism . . .”
The prospect of listening to Ramsgate drone on in perpetuity stretched before Isabel like a slow death.
“. . . environmental factors can wreak such havoc on more delicate solutions, but I’ve had some promising results with a tincture derived from the common foxglove—”
Deliverance came from an unexpected quarter when Ramsgate paused to draw breath, and Callahan seized the opening like a drowning man.
“Is it just me,” he asked, fanning himself, “or is it deuced warm in here? I’m feeling a touch peaked.”
Isabel made a concerned sound. “You do look flushed, darling. Perhaps a turn on the balcony is in order? A spot of air might set you to rights.”
“Capital idea, light of my life.” Callahan sketched a bow. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen? I fear I’m on the verge of a swoon.”
As they approached the French doors to the gardens, Isabel heard Ramsgate mutter, “Bit of a milksop, that one.”
Callahan shut the doors and leaned against them in exhaustion. “Bloody hell. I think that man actually sucked the soul out of my body. Through my ears.”
Isabel rubbed at her temples. “I can’t decide if I’m more astonished by his lung capacity or his ability to talk so much while saying nothing.”
“He employed some form of circular breathing, I’d wager. Like those chaps who play wind instruments.” He shuddered. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take without running mad. Quicker just to nick his papers.”
“They’re coded, remember? And we can’t arouse suspicion. That means not stealing his scientific effects.”
He sighed. “Right.”
Isabel’s lips twitched. “Poor fake husband.”
She found herself all too aware of Callahan’s proximity. The solid warmth of him at her side, the faint scent of his soap and tobacco.
“Mm.” Callahan tapped his fingers against the wall. “Then I’ll keep playing the idiot and hoping he yields something. You keep dangling money in front of his face.”
