The Speakeasy Spell

Chapter One

Vesper loved autumn because she had a fatal weakness for men in scarves.

It was not entirely logical, since she spent much of her time with men involved in a race to rid them of their clothing as quickly as possible.

However, this weakness had led to more than one enjoyable evening in her past; so far its results had been decidedly mixed this autumn, but that was not enough to dissuade her from being fondly disposed toward the season.

October in England was admittedly rather hit-or-miss; it could be sunny and crisp and glorious, but it could also be gray and damp and miserable, and it felt so often that the latter sort of day tended to win out.

Vesper found this rude; she knew that her golden bob looked particularly alluring in the autumn sunshine, and it seemed that the weather ought to oblige her.

Today, it unquestionably did not. She was in Quill it was by D. H. Lawrence—one of his that hadn’t been banned, evidently—so she was fairly certain there was something interesting to be found within if she read far enough.

“I didn’t know you could read.”

She turned, blowing an errant curl out of her face. “That joke would work better if you hadn’t tried it out five hundred times in the past.”

Her brother shrugged, leaning casually against a shelf.

His blond hair was ruffled from the same stiff breeze that had driven her indoors in the first place, and his cheeks were reddened from the cold.

He was wearing a scarf, but her scarf-induced weakness decidedly did not extend to elder brothers.

“Don’t you have a job?” she asked peevishly.

He shoved a hand into his pocket. “I don’t have rehearsal for another hour.

” Freddie was an actor, much to the delight of their parents—who felt it reflected well on them to have “interesting children”—and to the horror of their one living grandmother.

He was currently in rehearsals for a show soon to open at the Adelphi, in which he played, if Vesper had the details correct, a lovelorn clown.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” Vesper said, and he smiled serenely in the way he knew irritated her.

“I heard,” Freddie said, casting a casual eye about his surroundings, “that you went for drinks with Ainsley Sherwood the other night.”

Vesper frowned at this; Freddie was not one to usually pay much attention to her romantic (mis)adventures.

“And?” It had, in fact, been a few cocktails at the Savoy, followed by a cab ride back to Vesper’s mews flat, a rather hurried and uninspired romp in the sheets, and then a cigarette at the door as she waved Sherwood goodbye.

On the whole, it hadn’t been worth the bother of getting dressed up for, but she’d been feeling restless, and Sherwood had been stopping by Holloway’s to flirt with her for weeks, and she supposed there were worse ways to spend an evening.

“He’s a bounder. You must know this.” Freddie tilted his head at her. “Surely you have better taste than that.”

“Bold words indeed, from someone who, last I heard, was sleeping with a man engaged to the daughter of a duke.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, which was satisfying. “I don’t think we really want to go down the road of ill-thought-out romantic entanglements, do we, Vesper?”

She sighed. “Probably not.” She shook her head ruefully. “I’m not going to see Sherwood again—he was a bit lacking in stamina. The entire interlude barely took a quarter of an hour.”

Freddie grimaced. “Please spare me the details.”

“You raised the subject in the first place.” She glanced down at the book in her hand, and then said, “Come on. I’m buying this, and then I’m going to the club. If you promise not to annoy me, you can come along.”

“That is frankly a lot to ask of me,” Freddie said, falling into step beside her as she made for the till.

The club’s name was Holloway’s, and it occupied prime real estate in the heart of Marylebone just off the high street.

Its Neo-Palladian facade sported impressive columns that flanked the steps leading to its black lacquered doors.

Vesper’s family had owned the club for a few centuries now, meaning that when she and Freddie appeared on the front steps a few minutes later, the doors opened as they approached, and Geoffrey, the doorman, bowed them in without question.

During the day, the club was a quiet, peaceful enclave.

There were luxuriously upholstered sofas and chaises, plush window seats, and intimate tables tucked into alcoves, perfect for a private conversation.

The walls were painted in warm jewel tones, and a few sported wallpaper in intricate floral and woodland prints; plush Turkish rugs covered the gleaming wood floors.

The large bow windows offered a glimpse of the glittering streets and headlights below, making the club’s interiors look even warmer and more inviting by comparison.

Waiters made their way quietly in and out of rooms, always ready to supply a pot of tea or coffee, a glass of something stronger, or a bite to eat.

The establishment catered to a well-heeled, politically progressive, and fairly young set, as had been the case for most of its history, dating back to its founding by a particularly rakish great-great-et-cetera grandfather of Vesper’s.

This afternoon it was crowded with patrons eager for a cozy escape from the damp gray autumn day outside; a quick glance around as Vesper and Freddie made their way through a series of connecting rooms confirmed that nothing looked amiss.

She caught the eye of Sam, one of the younger waiters on staff, and smiled at him, causing him to blush furiously.

She was used to having this effect on men, so she ignored it.

“Sam, could you send us a pot of tea? We’ll be in the office. ”

“And whatever cake looks nicest,” Freddie added hopefully; Vesper and Freddie were each in possession of a sweet tooth.

Soon they were ensconced in the back office—a large room that was a combination of a traditional office, with a desk and bookshelves, and a workroom, with a marble-topped table cluttered with any number of ingredients, vials, and sachets.

Since Vesper had taken over the day-to-day running of Holloway’s—and the use of illicit magic that was necessary to make the potions and spell powders that comprised a significant part of the club’s business at night—she had thought often that she ought to redecorate the office, which was still painted the rich green that was her father’s favorite color.

The floor was covered by a thick rug in shades of emerald and navy; the intricately carved furniture was glossy oak; the bookshelves groaned beneath the weight of volumes that had been accumulated by generations of Holloways.

Framed above the marble fireplace, in which a cheerful fire was already burning, was a photograph of the Holloway family at the wedding of Cecily, Vesper and Freddie’s elder sister, and her husband, Simon, immediately in the wake of the Great War.

Vesper loved this office, but it still did not entirely feel as though it were hers.

She was distracted by the prompt arrival of a tray bearing a silver tea service and a couple of plates of Madeira cake.

Freddie immediately dedicated himself to this bounty, and Vesper could not resist settling herself in one of the armchairs before the desk and reaching for her own slice of cake.

She was still somewhat suspicious about her brother’s sudden concern regarding her love life, however, and decided to use this moment, when he was at his weakest, to try to work out what this was about.

“It was kind of you to take an interest in my evening with Sherwood,” she said, all sweetness, as she speared a bite of cake.

Freddie froze with his fork halfway to his mouth and cast her a wary glance.

“In fact,” she continued, “if you would like me to consult with you about all my love affairs, perhaps I could bring men to meet you, before we ever go for a drink—”

“Enough!” He set down his fork and shifted in his seat to face her fully. “I asked about Sherwood because he works for the government.”

Vesper blinked. “Does he?”

Freddie nodded. “The Ministry of Transport.”

She relaxed. “Oh. Well, that’s nothing to do with us, then, is it?”

“No, but his father is a Forbiddance campaigner. You might consider being a bit more careful.” Freddie took a generous bite of cake. “You’re running a private club with an illegal side business—you ought to think twice before falling into bed with any man who happens to walk through the door.”

“We don’t know that he agrees with his father in politics.

Plenty of men don’t.” Vesper and Freddie’s parents were refreshingly progressive, but she was fairly certain that if they’d been born to a man like many who haunted the halls of Westminster, Freddie would have lost little time in rebelling against all his father stood for.

“I know,” he conceded. “But I’ve heard mutterings that the Fleas are going to be conducting more raids. Just… be careful.”

Vesper wrinkled her nose at the mention of the Fleas—or, technically, the F.L.E.A.s: Forbiddance and Licensing Enforcement Agents.

In addition to issuing licenses permitting businesses to sell alcohol, they were also tasked with enforcing the government’s ban on all magical substances that had been signed into law at the beginning of the decade.

They spent their taxpayer-funded time investigating private clubs, looking for signs of Forbiddance violations for which they could either extract a heavy fine, or—in a rare but alarming occurrence—send in Scotland Yard to shut the club down.