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“You’re going to seduce him,” I tell her, taking the photo from her hand and putting it back in the file. “He likes a young mistress, and he enjoys parading her like a prized pup.”
Elizabeth flashes a worried stare in my direction. “What do you need from me?”
“I need you to tell me his every move, particularly who he meets with. We have reason to believe he’s working with the United Republic, so we need you to look out for any of these men.” I place a few other photos in front of her. “And where they meet.”
“Okay.” She nods, examining the photos in front of her the same way she did with Chapman’s. “But I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t if you do your job properly. Fuck him, watch him, and report back to us.”
“Every Tuesday, Chapman visits the White Hart,” Simon tells her.
“His pub in Whitechapel,” Julian explains.
“That’s where you’re going to meet him.” Simon continues telling her the plan we have in place while I gauge Elizabeth’s reaction.
Her almost white, wavy hair is swept off her face, but she keeps combing her fingers through the loose tendrils as though it’s in her eyes. A nervous habit that becomes more apparent the longer she listens.
“Stop,” I tell her, cutting off Simon. “If you don’t get that habit under control, you’re dead.”
Slowly her hands drop to her lap, but as Simon continues, she does it again. I don’t care if she has a death wish, but I do care about getting the information I need. And I need her for that part. Slipping a fencing sabre from one of the displays, I ignore Julian’s questioning stare as I slash the flexible blade through the air.
“Carry on,” I tell Simon when he pauses, as confused as Julian.
It’s not long as he continues that Elizabeth makes to fuss with her hair again, and I whip her hand with the tip. The whistle of the blade cuts through her surprised scream.
“Carry on,” I tell Simon again as Julian calls my name in protest.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving Lizzie’s life,” I retort, rounding to her other side when Simon continues.
It takes a little longer for her to forget the first whip. But surely, her unpunished hand eventually moves to fuss with her hair. Again, I whip this one with the sabre, harder this time so that there’s no surprise and only pain in her garbled curse.
“Keep going,” I tell Simon before he pauses.
“You’re going to bruise her hands,” Julian growls under his breath.
“Better to have bruised hands than a bullet to the head.” It was the motto that got me through the intense Royal Marines training: Better to suffer in preparation than to die in the field.
When I was deployed on the secret missions where we were raiding heavily guarded compounds of terrorists and dictators, I was grateful for all the suffering during training. It saved my life and the lives of the other commandos. And it’s why I don’t stop or go easy on Elizabeth. If she doesn’t want to die, she needs to break her habit.
“From the top,” I tell Simon to repeat the plan he’s just taken her through again.
I don’t care that she’s sobbing or that her hands are bruised a deep red; we keep going. Again and again, as many times as it takes for her to learn. Eventually, she stops herself from touching her hair. Eventually, she flattens her hands on the tabletop and takes every word in without any telltale nervous tick.
Elizabeth is listening intently, learning the plan, and although her face is blotchy from her pained tears, she knows as well as I do that she can pull this off. She can look the devil in the face and smile her pretty little lies without getting burnt.
“The tracker?” I ask Julian, putting the sabre back on its stand with the other fencing swords.
“Sterling’s on his way up,” he informs me as I pour Elizabeth a hard drink and set it in front of her, along with a small silver dish of ice.
“For your nerves and your hands.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whimpers before drinking down the generous dram in one and then icing her hands.
“Give me Chapman,” I say, pulling my handkerchief from the pocket of my jeans and creating a cold compress. Elizabeth takes it without pause. “I’ll make it worth your while.
There’s a low knock at the door as she nods at me. Elizabeth is a good-looking woman—I can see why the men liked her so much. However, there’s nothing all that special about her aside from her Scandinavian looks.
