Page 96 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
“Remember what I told you about how he looks. Like an angel. Blond hair. Blue eyes. You’ll know him when you see him.”
Before Callahan could stop her, she shoved into the throng. The ballroom had descended into chaos – ladies screaming, gentlemen shouting orders, staff cowering. Isabel shoved past them all. The crush of bodies made it hard to move.
Isabel fought her way outside the ballroom and into the corridor. Trying to think. Where would he go? Where would he wait for her?
Something caught her peripheral vision – a flash of movement at the end of the hall.
She didn’t get three steps before a hand shot out from a doorway and jerked her inside a bedroom. She reached for her blade, but Favreau was faster.
Her knife clattered to the floor as her back hit the door.
“Ma petite.” Favreau loomed over her, ice-blue eyes alight with hunger. “Have you reconsidered your choices now that you see the consequences? There’s so much innocent blood on your hands, Isabel. And for what? For your precious freedom? For your Irishman?”
“Get off me,” she hissed, twisting to break his hold.
But he knew all her moves. He’d created them, refined them, beaten them into her over the years. His hand tightened until her bones ground together.
“You’ve forgotten who made you,” he hissed. “Who trained you.”
“Go to hell.”
He wrenched her arm behind her back.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he snarled. “You will come to me by eight tomorrow morning. The plain brick house in Spital Square. Alone. No tearful farewells to your Irishman. No warnings. Just you, returning home where you belong. If you don’t, I’m using Ramsgate’s weapon on more people. How many have to die, Isabel?”
“This place is full of agents,” she gasped. “You won’t make it out alive.”
His laugh was soft against her ear. “My men have this place surrounded. One signal from me, and your precious Callahan’s brains paint these walls. I wonder – would you recognise him without that handsome face? Would you still want him then?”
The image made her knees weak. Ronan’s blood, his eyes empty, his mouth slack. She couldn’t breathe.
“Eight o’clock,” Favreau whispered, kissing her on the lips. “Or I’ll keep killing until you come. Don’t disappoint me.”
Then he crossed to the window and disappeared into the darkness beyond. Isabel slumped against the door, her legs barely holding her weight.
One. Two. Three. Inhale.
Four. Five. Exhale.
That was all she allowed herself – five breaths to feel the fear. Five seconds to be human.
Isabel swiped her hand across her mouth, adjusted her dress, brushed her hair back from her face, and checked the hall.
Clear.
Then she straightened and stepped into the ballroom.
Wentworth’s men had taken control, barking orders as they cordoned off sections of the room. Medics knelt beside bodies on the floor. Isabel counted six victims – six people who wouldn’t be dying if she’d just gone with Favreau months ago.
She scanned the room for Ronan, blinking hard against the burning in her eyes.
The moment he spotted her, Callahan strode towards her.
“Jesus, Trouble.” His grey eyes raked over her as if searching for any signs of harm. “You disappeared on me. Did you find him?”
The lie rose to her lips, easy as breathing. “No. It was absolute chaos. I got swept up.”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed. He looked like he wanted to say more, but Wentworth appeared at his shoulder.
