Page 95 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
But armour was all she had. Without it, there would be nothing left.
She stepped away, the air between them suddenly too thin.
“Shall we go?” She tugged her bodice back into place, hiding the bandages. Hiding his mark on her. “Wouldn’t want to keep our adoring public waiting.”
Something flickered across his features. Regret, perhaps. Or resignation. But he merely inclined his head.
“After you, Mrs Ashford.”
*
Candlelight bathed the parquet in an amber glow. Liveried footmen wove through the crowd with trays of champagne and tiny savouries. The air was thick with the mingled scents of flowers, tobacco and spirits, and too many bodies crushed together.
“Shall we dance?” Callahan murmured. “It would give us a better view of the room.”
She didn’t answer, just let him lead her to the floor. Callahan’s arm slid around her, drawing her in close. They moved in circles.One-two-three, one-two-three.Isabel kept her eyes on the crowd, scanning every face. Favreau could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting.
“You look like I’m torturing you,” Callahan chided. “This is supposed to be a loving marriage, remember? Pretend I’ve just paid you a compliment.”
“Like this?” She bared her teeth in what felt more like a grimace.
“Maybe don’t look like you’re about to bite me.” He paused. “Unless that’s on offer later.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the proper Mrs Ashford.”
“You’re supposed to be besotted with your husband. Not plotting his murder on the dance floor.”
She let him spin her, using the movement to scan another section of the room. “I’m choosing to be selective with my wit tonight. Saving it for worthier targets.”
“How judicious of you. And here I thought scandalising these fine people was your favourite pastime.”
“I’ve found I prefer more intimate audiences these days.”
Something dark and hungry flashed in his eyes. His fingers dug into her waist, just hard enough to make her breath catch. Isabel almost missed the flash of emerald green that caught her eye across the room.
She frowned. Lady Camberley stood surrounded by a cluster of admirers, a small crystal vial in her gloved hand.
“What’s happening over there?” She nodded toward the group.
Callahan glanced over his shoulder. “Ripon said something about a perfume demonstration. A new type of bottle. The idle rich and their silly baubles.”
Lady Camberley pressed something on the vial. A fine mist sprayed across her neck and chest.
Aerosolised. Asphyxiation in minutes.
Isabel’s grip tightened on Callahan. “Ronan. The perfume—”
The woman clawed at her throat and collapsed to the floor. Then another. Someone shrieked as a third guest dropped, gasping for air. Isabel’s stomach lurched. She’d seen death before, but this was different. This was a slaughter. Bodies hit the floor while the orchestra kept playing, oblivious to the chaos for three more seconds before the music died. Champagne glasses shattered. Women screamed. Men shouted.
But she barely heard any of it.
Because Favreau was here. He wouldn’t miss his moment of theatre, his chance to see her squirm. To watch her realise how completely he controlled the situation.
Men in dark suits materialised from the crowd – Wentworth’s agents, moving to control the chaos and usher out the other guests.
“Trouble, look at me,” Callahan commanded. “Wentworth’s men will handle the civilians. We need to find Favreau.”
His eyes were steady. Grounding. But she didn’t have time to let him anchor her.
