Chapter Seven
Vesper supposed she should have expected something like this.
“Freddie, sit down,” she said, brandishing a crust of bread at the lone empty chair at the table she and Ashbridge currently occupied.
“I’ll pass,” her brother replied, his tone clipped. He was dressed for the evening—in a full suit and tails—and his blond hair was artfully disheveled in a way she recognized would have taken him at least a quarter hour before the mirror.
“Go on,” she coaxed. “There’s bread and butter.”
“Well, perhaps…”
He was seated and had Vesper’s pot of expensive salted butter before him on the table in a trice.
“Now,” he said threateningly—though the effect was somewhat diminished by the crust of heavily buttered bread in his hand—“what’s this about?
” He split a menacing look between Vesper and Ashbridge, who was looking inscrutable.
And handsome, in his wool jacket and tie, his carefully shaved jaw a bit tight—his only tell.
Not that his handsomeness had anything to do with the proceedings, but Vesper, as a connoisseur, couldn’t help but notice.
“We had a small incident at the club last night,” Vesper began, and Freddie waved an impatient hand.
“I know—what do you think I wanted to speak to you about?”
“Well, Ashbridge was there.”
Freddie turned to Ashbridge. “Was he?”
Ashbridge cleared his throat. “I was.” He met Freddie’s gaze.
“For a simple evening’s pleasure, no doubt?” Freddie asked, his voice lightly laced with venom. “You being so fond of cutting loose.”
Vesper had to hand it to Ashbridge: He must be a hell of a card player. His expression—sharp-eyed, stern-mouthed—didn’t waver. Instead, he merely said, “Something like that.”
“It’s the second incident of a contaminated potion in a week,” Vesper reminded her brother. “Which seems like a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? So Ashbridge and I have decided to visit some of the other Marylebone clubs and see if we can uncover who’s behind this.”
Freddie looked at her, incredulous. “You’re going to take him to clubs in”—he lowered his voice to a dramatic stage whisper—“Marylebone?”
“It’s always seemed like a very nice neighborhood,” Ashbridge offered blandly, and Vesper was sorely tempted to laugh. She could practically see the steam coming out of Freddie’s ears.
“Are you trying to get us all arrested?” Freddie asked, ignoring Ashbridge entirely. “Vesper, I know good judgment isn’t your strong suit, but this is mad, even for you.”
“Ashbridge isn’t going to arrest anyone,” Vesper snapped, her patience growing thin. “We have an… agreement. He’s here to investigate the contaminated potions, and will not be sending in Scotland Yard to raid any of the clubs in question.”
“I can’t believe Mother didn’t try to talk you out of this. Perhaps Dad—”
“Is there a reason,” Ashbridge asked, “that you can’t treat your sister like an adult?”
Vesper and Freddie blinked in unison, and turned to him. “What business is it of yours?” Freddie asked.
“Merely a question.” Ashbridge sounded cool and unbothered, but his gaze was fixed on Freddie with a keenness that Vesper could tell was irking her brother.
“Right.” Freddie turned back to Vesper as if this interruption had not occurred. “I see you’re going to be stubborn about this, so I won’t waste my time further, as I’ve somewhere to be.”
“Who’s the unlucky gentleman?” Vesper asked, then darted a quick glance at Ashbridge; he looked unfazed, so he either had an even better poker face than she’d thought, or—more likely—was already perfectly well aware that Freddie preferred men.
The two of them had been quite close, after all.
The laws outlawing sodomy had been repealed decades earlier—magical society had never been very prudish about what went on in the privacy of the bedchamber, and these attitudes had eventually worn off on the mundanes as well—but these relationships were still a bit frowned on by a certain subset of mundane society.
“None of your concern,” Freddie said, with a significant look at Ashbridge, and Vesper nodded.
That meant it was a political assignment, rather than a romantic one.
Freddie was active with an underground group that worked on several fronts—distributing pamphlets, giving public speeches, and trying to educate the general populace on the uses of magic and the harm of Forbiddance, while also infiltrating more conservative spaces in an attempt to keep tabs on what the anti-magic cohort in Parliament and employed by the government was up to.
In another moment, he was on his feet, nicking a last slice of bread from the platter—where Ashbridge had carefully sliced the loaf—before vanishing with a last nod for Vesper, and not so much as a glance in farewell for Ashbridge.
A few seconds later, they heard the front door slam behind him.
Vesper turned an inquiring look to Ashbridge, who had rededicated himself to his stew with an expression of intent concentration. His fingers were oddly elegant where they gripped his spoon, she noticed—somehow at odds with the rest of him, so broad-shouldered and sturdy-looking.
“I don’t suppose that you’d like to make nice with Freddie, just to make this a bit easier on us all?”
“If Freddie wasn’t such a meddling idiot, it would be easier,” came his terse reply. He set his spoon down in his empty bowl, then pushed his chair back and carried the dish to the sink.
“Are you… doing the dishes?” she asked, astonished, as he turned on the tap and reached for the scouring brush.
“I know this might shock you,” he said over his shoulder, “but they do not, in fact, wash themselves.”
“You are the most mystifying man.”
“I’m so glad—anything to keep Vesper Holloway on her toes.” She couldn’t be certain, with his back to her once more, but she thought he might be smiling. “I was thinking, by the way, that I ought to come to work with you tonight.”
“Whatever for?”
“We didn’t get a chance to question the staff last night.”
This was true; it had been rather chaotic, and everyone had been quite focused on ensuring that none of the club’s patrons were unduly distressed (and, more importantly, that no one did anything stupid, like summon the police).
She brightened, spotting an opportunity. “If I tell my parents that you’re coming with me to the club, they’re less likely to insist that I need a nursemaid.”
Ashbridge glanced at her with a frown as he set his bowl on the drying rack. “A nursemaid?”
Vesper waved a hand. “They’re worried about—” She broke off, realizing, belatedly, to whom she was speaking. “They don’t want to take any chances with the club.”
He looked back over his shoulder at her again for a long moment, clearly trying to work out what it was that she wasn’t saying. She kept her lips firmly pressed together, however, and at last, he merely said, “You seem to have things well in hand, from what I saw last night.”
Her brows rose in surprise. “Thank you. My family don’t quite seem to see it that way, though.”
“Well. Perhaps they ought to come tonight, so they can see what I did.”
“They’ll be there often enough—they don’t want me alone at Holloway’s until… well, until things feel a bit less… uncertain.”
He turned to face her, propping a hip against the counter.
In the close confines of her kitchen, he seemed particularly tall.
“I don’t know what it is that you think you know—what tip-off you’ve received—but if you’re concerned that someone is going to…
” He trailed off with a frown, clearly choosing his words carefully.
“To make an example of you, in some way,” he continued at last, “then I’ll remind you of what I promised you. I don’t go back on my word.”
“I know,” she said. She had, after all, asked him not to tell Freddie anything about what had happened on that humiliating night years earlier, and he hadn’t spoken a word.
She was trusting him rather a lot, at the moment—and yet, she somehow didn’t think she was wrong to do so.
She held his gaze for a second, and almost thought that she could read something in it. Just as quickly, however, it shuttered.
Instead, he reached for a tea towel, and nodded at the dishes still on the table. “Bring those here. If we’re going to play detective, let’s at least finish the dishes first.”
When they arrived at Holloway’s, the Saturday night revelry at the club was already in full swing.
Vesper had changed clothes before they’d left her flat, vanishing into her bedroom and reemerging in a black evening gown with a plunging neckline, a string of pearls, and a ridiculous headdress with feathers.
“Do you have a swan corpse hidden in your bedroom?” he asked as he reached for his coat.
“Coming from you, that’s downright flattery.”
Now, they were at Holloway’s at half past nine, the club heaving with patrons—more than a few whom Max recognized from his university days, and at least one whom he knew from the Home Office. Nice to see that the grand tradition of government hypocrisy was alive and well.
Vesper linked her arm through his as soon as they’d left their coats with the cloakroom attendant. “Now, pretend that you enjoy my company,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, and Max obligingly plastered a neutral expression on his face. Vesper gave a dramatic sigh.
They made their way through the crowds, and Max watched as Vesper greeted what felt like every person she passed.
Cheeks were kissed. Compliments were exchanged.
At least one blatant attempt at seduction was fended off (aided, perhaps, by the glower that had crept across Max’s face before he could stop himself).
It was all surprisingly interesting to witness; he had never possessed the sort of easy charm that seemed to come naturally to all members of the Holloway family, and he found himself admiring the skill involved in putting everyone at ease.