Chapter Four
It was half past midnight on a Friday night, and Max was ensconced in a taxi with a woman whose shoes smelled of sick, and who seemed to wish she were anywhere other than in his company.
Needless to say, this was not how he’d planned to end the evening.
They were making slow progress up Marylebone High Street, which was full of cabs and pedestrians on their way home after an evening spent, presumably, flouting Forbiddance laws in any of the half dozen or so magical clubs that still operated within the neighborhood, their illicit offerings hidden behind a thin veil of law-abiding respectability.
He glanced sideways at Miss Holloway, who kept her forehead pressed to the window, apparently trying rather desperately to pretend that she was alone.
Unfortunately for her, Max wasn’t in the mood to humor this pretense.
By the time things had settled down at Holloway’s, it had been nearly midnight—closing time for the magical clubs.
The unfortunate lad who’d had a bad batch of whatever it was had eventually returned to the floor, where he lay in a pitiful heap—not that Max could blame him.
Vesper had tried to send for a doctor, but he’d recovered enough to protest, leading Max to grimly suspect that his family disapproved of magic, and that he didn’t want to anger the parents who likely controlled the purse strings.
In any case, he’d been bundled into a cab by his friends, and the remaining patrons of the club had gradually returned to their business as the night’s unplanned entertainment had wound down.
Vesper had been going to catch a ride home with a friend of hers, Miss Thomas, who was there on the arm of John Delacqua, an acquaintance of Max’s from his Cambridge days, but here Max had intervened.
“I’ll see Miss Holloway home,” he’d said, his tone brooking no objections, and Vesper hadn’t even bothered to protest. Which was how he’d found himself here, in this taxi, with a woman who very clearly wished to be anywhere else.
He cleared his throat, and she glanced over, her green gaze flashing with irritation as she considered him for a long moment.
At last, she asked, “Is this the point where you tell me that you’re very sorry, but you’re going to have to ask me some questions about my family’s business?
” Her chin was raised, and her expression was defiant.
Neither of these facts made her look any less lovely; her hair was the gold of a new coin, her cheekbones sharp, her eyes large and luminous.
She was beautiful. And she knew it, too; he’d watched her batting her eyelashes at every man she spoke with tonight.
She was not, however, batting her eyelashes at him at this moment.
“Do I want to know how it is you’ve discovered who I work for?”
She harrumphed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Please. Fleas all have a certain look about them.”
“F.L.E.A.s, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Vesper rolled her eyes. “I seem to recall you being a terrible prude about potions even when you were at university. Then you show up unexpectedly at my club, on the same day I’ve received news that the government might be looking to make an example of someone…
it hardly takes a staggering intellect to put things together. ”
Perhaps not, but this still proved that she was cleverer than she looked.
He weighed his options for a moment, wondering how frank to be with her.
He sensed that continuing to deny his profession would not do him any favors, and so he decided to lay his cards on the table.
He turned in his seat so that he could face her more fully; glancing toward the front seat, where the driver was humming tunelessly, he lowered his voice.
“The impression I received from my superior was that you’re more or less correct, and there’s an interest in sending a message.
Holloway’s would not have been my personal choice of club to target, but I was instructed to visit. ”
“And you never disobey instructions, of course.”
“Not all of us come from families with the resources and clout to get us out of trouble, you know,” he shot back.
She blinked, her brow wrinkling for a moment. “Fair enough, I suppose. In that case, I don’t suppose there’s any way we can make it worth your while to turn a blind eye?” She gave him a coy smile. Max had expected this; people with money were extremely predictable.
“After what I witnessed tonight?” He raised a skeptical brow.
The chap had seemed none the worse for wear by the time he’d left, but Max did not think it was a ringing endorsement for the Marylebone members’ clubs if people were dangling from the ceilings for unexplained reasons.
Once he wrote up his report, Raffles would doubtless call in the authorities in short order.
“Hmm,” she said, watching him carefully. “And I expect you’re already aware that that’s the second such incident in recent days?”
Max stilled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve heard whispers of another similar mishap, just last weekend—at an establishment that purveys similar wares.”
Max ignored the linguistic gymnastics employed; he knew perfectly well what she meant. “You mean that two separate clubs have managed to make a hash of whatever bespelled cocktails you’re shoving down people’s throats?”
“Oh, yes.” Her voice was positively dripping with sarcasm. “We’re kidnapping innocent, law-abiding citizens off the street and plying them with our sinful wares.”
“All right,” he allowed. “I might have exaggerated.”
“Someone last weekend was made quite ill from a potion they’d apparently consumed regularly prior to that evening. I didn’t think too much of it when I first heard about it, but now…”
“You think something underhanded is behind it?”
“We’ve never had anything like this happen at Holloway’s before,” she said grimly. “And coming on the heels of that other accident, it does make one wonder.”
He drummed his fingers against the leather of the seat, considering her words.
He was a bit surprised he’d not heard a whisper of the previous incident, but these clubs were insular—their survival depended on it—and if it had just been the one instance, he supposed it must’ve been easy enough to keep quiet.
But combined with tonight’s events… the thought excited him.
If there was something rotten afoot in the magical world, and he could expose it…
Wasn’t that precisely what he’d joined the F.L.E.A. for?
He noticed Vesper’s expression turn calculating. The idea of a calculating Holloway was a bit unnerving; they were naturally inclined that way, but when they put their minds and energies toward it, the effects of the extra effort could be downright alarming.
“Why do you look like that?” he asked warily.
She smiled, an expression that shouldn’t have made him feel even warier—but it did. “It seems like the sort of thing that might be a bit of a headache to investigate on your own—especially if you don’t want anyone to know what you’re up to.”
“I’d hardly waltz into a club and announce who I work for,” he pointed out, more amused than offended that she seemed to have so little confidence in his professional abilities.
“And you don’t think they’d—we’d—work out who you were?” It was her turn to sound amused. “It’s not as though you fooled me tonight. But what if I were able to… lend you a hand?”
“Is that meant to sound like a proposition?”
She laughed, a sound of genuine, infectious delight. “No. You’ve already indicated that you’re immune to my many charms.”
Somehow, in incredulous tones, was unspoken but understood.
“How do you propose to help me, then?”
“Access.” She raised an index finger to silence him when he opened his mouth. “Think about it. If we were able to work out that you’re a Flea—”
“F.L.E.A.”
“—then surely other club owners with more than two brain cells to rub together will do the same. And if you want to investigate this discreetly, you can’t just swan into these clubs—they’re private. You’ll need to go as someone’s guest.”
“And that someone is… you?” he asked, skeptical.
“Precisely. There’s an understanding among all the families that own clubs—we’re all welcome to visit. As sort of honorary members, if you will.”
“Of course you are,” he muttered. It was like his introduction to Harrow all over again, when he’d realized that despite the scholarship that had got him there, despite the fact that he knew himself to be more than capable, he was already miles behind.
He didn’t have the right accent or know the right people.
Of course, there was someone who could have helped with that—could have helped with his school fees, too, if Max had let him—but that was a door best kept tightly shut.
Swallowing his initial distaste, he tried to consider the offer fairly.
It was a tolerable plan—she’d save him a considerable amount of effort if she could help him waltz into the various magical clubs without any sneaking about or clever planning on his part, and her presence at his side would likely dispel any curiosity his sudden appearance at a number of Marylebone clubs might provoke, should anyone take notice of him.
“It’s not a terrible idea,” he admitted. “If I can count on you to be discreet, that is.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, goodness, I didn’t know you wanted me to be discreet.
” She clapped a dramatic hand to her breast. “Why, I was planning to walk in, tap a knife on a champagne glass to get everyone’s attention, and then ask, in the loudest, most carrying tones, if anyone on the premises had a bit of magical mischief planned for the evening and, if so, if they’d be so good as to sit down with us to discuss their plans in great detail.
But if you think there’s a better way to do it… ?”
Max waited patiently until she had finished—no point interrupting a woman who’d worked herself up into a proper temper—and then said, “Point taken. I apologize.”
“You—what?” Her brow wrinkled.
“I. Apologize,” he said, clearly enunciating each syllable. “Not familiar with the expression?”
“Not coming from the less-fair sex,” she said, and Max pinched the bridge of his nose. He could already tell this was going to be exhausting, and they’d not even started yet.
“Why do you want to help me?” he asked, and she froze in the process of shifting slightly in her seat, lifting her skirts to facilitate the motion. He caught a brief flash of smooth, creamy thigh, and resolutely decided not to notice this.
“Well,” she said, giving him a shrewd look, which, perversely, he found that he preferred to the charming, seductive smiles, “I was thinking we might come to some sort of arrangement.”
“Arrangement,” he repeated.
“Agreement,” she amended.
“Ah.” He ought to have expected it—and, furthermore, he couldn’t even call it that unreasonable a demand. The country ran on the backs of little agreements like these, after all. “What did you have in mind?”
“Perhaps you can promise that you’ll tell whoever at the Flea sent you to Holloway’s that you could find no evidence of wrongdoing whatsoever, and that we appear to be operating an entirely law-abiding business?”
“I think we can work something out,” he said wearily, and she visibly brightened.
He did not add that it was something of a relief; the thought of shutting down Holloway’s, of repaying the kindness of Freddie Holloway and his family in such a way, had not sat right with him from the moment he’d walked out of Raffles’s office.
He felt a bit like a French aristocrat avoiding the guillotine.
Vesper clapped her hands together, delighted, as the taxi turned onto Devonshire Street and crawled to a stop before her parents’ house—an imposing stone building with bow windows.
Max had visited a couple of times, on trips home from Cambridge years earlier, when he and Freddie had been close.
His parents’ house could have fit inside the Holloway mansion three times over.
Vesper rummaged in her handbag for a few coins, which she now pressed into his hand—enough to cover the taxi ride home, and the remainder of the journey for Max as well.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she was speaking before he could.
“Come to mine for dinner tomorrow—or today, technically, I suppose. Shall we say half seven? I’m in the mews flat just behind my parents’ house—the one with the green door. I hope you’re not allergic to cats!”
And, with that, she flung herself from the cab, turning to give him a brief, breezy wave as the cab drove away.
Leaving Max with plenty to occupy his thoughts for the rest of the drive back to Hampstead.