Page 99 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Only then did he reach out, let his fingertips hover above the constellation of freckles dusting her shoulder but never making contact.
It was the only concession he’d allow himself, the bittersweet ache of this not-quite-touch in the witching hours. The agony and the ecstasy ofalmost, nearly, just short of.
Just for a little while longer.
The scant inches between them might as well have been a chasm, and Callahan let himself drift, let the exhaustion of the last few days drag him down into the waiting dark.
He never felt her leave.
*
Callahan woke to silence.
He reached out, seeking Isabel’s warmth, but his searching fingers met only cool sheets.
“Isabel?”
Silence. A silence with teeth.
Already knowing what he would find, or rather, what he wouldn’t, Callahan made a swift circuit of the flat. Each room yielded the same result: nothing. As if she’d never been there at all.
A glance at the window confirmed it was still early, the sky heavy with the promise of rain. Wherever she’d gone, she’d likely managed a head start of several hours. More than enough time to vanish into the city’s underbelly.
He dressed quickly and yanked open the door, consumed by the imperative need to act, to move. He hailed a passing hack.
“Whitehall,” he barked.
The ride passed in a blur of streets. Callahan leaped down, tossing a few coins to the jarvey over his shoulder.
He ignored the startled squawk of the clerk at the reception desk as he strode past to Wentworth’s office. Callahan rapped his knuckles against the wood and shoved inside.
The spymaster’s eyebrows climbed as he took in Callahan’s dishevelled state. “Agent. I was scheduled to visit the safe house this afternoon to brief you on Ripon’s. To what do I owe the pleasure at this obscene hour?”
“She’s gone. Isabel slipped out sometime in the night.”
Wentworth’s expression shuttered. “You believe her departure was coerced.” It wasn’t a question.
“She’d never go to that bastard willingly. Not after—” He broke off as he mastered himself. “I think she saw him last night. And I think he made clear, on no uncertain terms, that he would hurt more people if she didn’t return. And I think Isabel went as some noble sacrifice—”
“Forgive me for saying, but Miss Dumont doesn’t strike me as the type to submit herself as anoble sacrifice. Let’s not be delusional.”
“Then she went to kill Favreau,” he snapped. “The result is the same. She’s with that bastard, and God knows what’s happening to her right now.”
For a moment, the spymaster simply watched him. Callahan fought the urge to fidget under that penetrating stare.
“You know,” Wentworth said, “when I assigned Miss Dumont as your partner, I did so with some reservations. And not just because I found out my agent threw caution to the wind and fucked a wanted criminal.”
Callahan blinked, thrown by the non sequitur. “Sir?”
“Her history is chequered, to put it mildly. Clawing her way to the top of Favreau’s empire breeds a certain moral flexibility.” He paused, letting the implication hang. “But she came to us in the end. Turned her coat, offered up Favreau’s secrets in exchange for her sister’s safety and her own freedom. It was enough to make me wonder if perhaps there wasn’t some shred of decency, after all.”
“You can’t honestly believe—”
Wentworth silenced him with a look. “I believe Miss Dumont will act in the manner she feels best ensures her continued survival. An alliance with Her Majesty’s government is simply a temporary condition of that survival. How can you be sure she hasn’t leveraged your personal investment to facilitate her return to Favreau? She has proximity to power in the Syndicate. Power she lacks here.”
The question hovered between them. And Callahan – who had grown up hard, who’d clawed his way out of the rookeries with nothing but gutter-cunning, whose first lessons had been in hunger and cruelty – flinched.
Because hidden under duty and purpose, he was still that grubby orphan with quick fingers and scars all over his body. Still half-convinced the noose would drop any day, that the gilt and polish of his new life was little more than the thinnest veneer over the festering rot beneath.
