Page 92 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Isabel fixed a sunny smile on her face as they descended for breakfast, channelling Lydia Ashford with practised ease.
Callahan bantered with their fellow symposium attendees, Jamie Ashford’s boyish charm and flirtatious grins in place. But Isabel could feel the coiled tension thrumming through him. She sensed it in the way his fingers flexed against her back as they circulated the room.
It was almost a relief when she overheard a snippet from a cluster of men by the buffet.
“. . . still abed. Someone ought to check on the poor fellow.”
“What’s this?” She drifted closer, allowing curiosity to soften her features. “Is someone unwell?”
The oldest of the three men turned towards her. “Mr Ramsgate hasn’t come down yet. Most unlike him to miss the morning sessions.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Brandy’s likely the culprit. Biochemists and their delicate constitutions and all.”
“How dreadful.”
Her attention slid to Callahan, who was chatting with a group of women by the buffet. Their eyes met briefly, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.
She turned back to her conversation, making appropriately vapid comments about the weather while tracking Callahan’s exit from the corner of her eye.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
When his fingers finally closed around her elbow, Isabel nearly jumped. The subtle pressure of his grip told her everything she needed to know.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to her companions. “My husband requires my attention.”
Callahan’s face was a mask as he steered her through the crowd.
“What is it?” she whispered once they were out of earshot. “Is he ill?”
“Come with me.”
Three words, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.
He led her up the stairs and down a long corridor, stopping at a door halfway down. Without a word, he pushed it open.
The smell hit her first. Metallic. Thick. Familiar.
Ramsgate lay sprawled across the bed, the white sheets beneath him seeped in blood. The spatter on the walls told the story of a violent end.
“Favreau?” she asked, her voice steady. Her hands didn’t even tremble. “Did he follow me back?”
Callahan shook his head, his face grim. “Wentworth had men watching. No one came or went after we returned.” He moved closer to the bed, studying the body with professional detachment. “This happened earlier. Probably right after the symposium adjourned yesterday evening and before Favreau moved on to Harrington at the club. It seems he was busy tying up loose ends last night.”
“He got what he wanted – me back in London. Ramsgate served his purpose.”
An icy feeling spread through her chest. If Favreau already had what he needed from Ramsgate, then the weapon was finished. Ready.
Her attention caught on a small leather-bound notebook clutched in the man’s fingers. She tugged it free, her breath catching as she flipped through pages covered in cramped writing and intricate diagrams. Something cold settled in her stomach.
“This one isn’t coded,” she said. “Which means Favreau left it here on purpose. One date matches Harrington’s letter.”
“We need to get this to Wentworth,” Callahan said. “Let’s find Ripon.”
The marquess was in the breakfast room with a cluster of scientists. When he saw Isabel and Callahan, he immediately paused the conversation. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid you must excuse me. Urgent matters, you understand.”
He didn’t wait for their response; he just steered Isabel and Callahan down the hall and into an empty sitting room.
