Page 80 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
With a groan of regret, he stepped away, putting distance between them before he succumbed to the temptation to hike her skirts up and take her there against the wall.
“Fine. Be right back.”
He departed the alcove, scanning the milling aristos until he spotted the viscount, who was locked in conversation with three other men. Callahan pasted on his most vacuous grin and ambled over.
“I say, what’s the topic of the hour?”
Harrington turned. “Ah, Ashford. I’m afraid it’s all rather more specialised than garden parties and shooting weekends.”
Translation:don’t strain your liquor-addled brain.
Callahan only smiled wider. “Oh, I do enjoy expanding my horizons. The wonders of science and all that. Though” – he leaned in, lowering his voice – “I’ll confess, all this technical talk leaves me parched. I don’t suppose you fine gentlemen might fancy an excursion to more, ah . . . stimulating environs this evening?”
He caught the glimmer of interest in Harrington’s expression. “Did you have something particular in mind?”
Callahan shrugged. “Whatever passes for a den of revelry in these parts. Strong spirits, pretty company, a few hands of cards to pass the hours. You know, gentlemanly pursuits.”
The viscount clapped him on the shoulder. “Splendid idea, Ashford! There’s an establishment I frequent nearby. Crimson Veil. You’ll be our guest, of course.”
Ah, there we go.
After a few more meaningless pleasantries, Callahan made his escape and rejoined Isabel in the alcove.
“Well?” she asked.
“He took the bait. We’ll be going to the Crimson Veil.”
“Nothing risky, Agent. And I had better not smell a doxy on you when you return.”
Grinning, he skimmed his knuckles along the back of her hand. Callahan heard her breath catch.
“If you’re averygood girl while I’m away,” he said, watching her pupils dilate, “I’ll lay you out on the bed and bury my tongue in your pussy.”
A ragged groan escaped her. Callahan grinned, slow and filthy.
“And ifyou’regood, Mr Ashford,” she replied. “I may let you play with one of my knives.”
“Tease.”
“Boor.”
*
The clashing scents of perfume and tobacco assaulted Callahan’s nostrils as he entered the Crimson Veil. He tipped his hat to the doorman, and the brute barely spared him a glance before waving him through.
Callahan’s gaze swept the main floor, taking in the groups of men clustered around gaming tables with doxies sprawled on their laps. The club was decadent. Everything was gilded and gleaming, the sort of place that made his skin itch. Thick cigar smoke hung in a haze. Murmurs of conversation and feminine laughter threaded through the air.
It took only a moment to locate his quarry.
Viscount Harrington held court near the back of the room. Cut crystal tumblers of amber liquid and a scatter of playing cards littered the polished surface before him.
“Harrington, old boy!” Callahan called, his voice loud and jovial, like a man deep in his cups. He swayed slightly as he wove through the crowd.
The viscount glanced up at his approach. “Ashford. I was beginning to think you’d reconsidered.”
“Perish the thought!” Callahan collapsed into the empty chair at the table. “Whiskey, neat,” he said to a passing server. “None of that watered-down piss.”
Harrington’s moustache twitched in what might have been amusement. “Making allowances for your American tastes, I see.”
