Page 93 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“What now?” Ripon demanded, dropping all pretence of aristocratic niceties.
Callahan didn’t soften the blow. “You’ve got a corpse upstairs.”
“Bloody buggering fuck, not another dead guest.” Ripon’s shoulders slumped as he dragged a hand down his face. “Who is it this time?”
“Ramsgate,” Isabel supplied.
“Right. Of course.”
“We think he’s been dead since last night,” Callahan added. “Looks like Favreau spent the evening ridding himself of unneeded complications.”
“Christ. This keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?”
“We’re leaving to brief Wentworth now. I assumed you’d want to be a part of that particular conversation,” Isabel said.
“Oh, yes, wouldn’t miss it for the world,” the marquess said. “Just let me go and inform my staff that if they value their positions, they’ll forget they ever clapped eyes on Ramsgate’s rooms. I’ll meet you out front directly.”
He strode off, already barking orders.
Callahan turned to Isabel. “This is all going rather spectacularly to shite, isn’t it?”
“You expected anything else?”
“Hope springs eternal.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
*
Wentworth looked up from behind his desk as they filed in. He took in their dour expressions and heaved a gusty sigh.
“Don’t tell me,” he drawled. “You’re about to ruin what was shaping up to be an altogether pleasant morning after last night’s mess.”
Callahan snorted. “Fine, I won’t tell you. Drink?”
“Make it a double.”
As Callahan busied himself at the sideboard, Isabel fished Ramsgate’s journal from the folds of her skirts and passed it to Wentworth.
“What fresh hell is this?” he asked.
“We need someone who can parse that scientific gibberish,” Callahan said, handing round the drinks. The whiskey burned a welcome trail down Isabel’s throat. “Ramsgate is . . . no longer available for clarification.”
Wentworth blew out a short, sharp breath through his nostrils. “Marvellous.” He stood and walked to the door. Yanking it open, he stuck his head out into the hallway beyond and called out to some unseen underling, “Fetch me Jones, will you? Soonest. And send some lads round to Ripon’s mansion. I need a bit of sprucing up. The discreet sort. Unseen.Again.”
Isabel rather pitied the poor sod on the receiving end of that directive. Few things were more stomach-churning than a good, old-fashioned “sprucing up” in this line of work. Blood was damnably hard to get out of upholstery.
Minutes later, a man slipped into the room. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and a severe set to his brow. Not handsome, exactly. But interesting. His shoulders were rigid, his posture too perfect. Military training, perhaps?
“Gentlemen, Miss Dumont – this is Alaric Jones,” Wentworth said. “Expert in all manner of mysterious substances and attendant buggery. If anyone can parse Ramsgate’s scribblings, it’s him. Alaric, I need you to read this scientific blatherskite for me, if you would.”
He passed over the notebook. Alaric bent his head to study it, the furrow between his brows deepening.
“Well?” Callahan prompted. “What exactly are we dealing with?”
“An organophosphate, by the looks of it.” Alaric’s voice was lightly accented. German, perhaps. “Attacks the nervous system on contact. Asphyxiation would follow swiftly after.”
“And how quickly does it kill?” Wentworth asked what they were all thinking.
“Five minutes. Maybe less.” Jones closed the notebook. “It depends on how it’s delivered. Inhaled is quickest. Skin contact, slightly slower. I’ve only seen research like this in . . .” He hesitated. “Places where morals are flexible.”
