Chapter Twelve
What’s wrong?” Hazel asked on Thursday afternoon, as she and Vesper were having lunch at the Cauldron on Marylebone High Street.
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“You’ve got that worried V forming between your eyebrows. You’re usually too vain about your forehead to allow it.”
“Merely thinking about Ashbridge.”
Hazel gasped. “I knew it.”
“Hazel. Merlin. Not like that.”
“Oh.” Hazel sagged. “I thought this was turning into a romance, and I was quite excited.”
“Don’t you have enough romance in your own life?” Vesper asked. “You and Delacqua have seemed cozy lately.”
Hazel sighed, looking a bit morose. She was spared answering by the arrival of the sandwiches and soup they’d ordered, but once this had been sorted and their waiter had retreated, Vesper leaned forward.
“Why did you look like that, when I mentioned Delacqua?”
Hazel toyed with a teaspoon. “I like John an awful lot,” she said, looking even more glum now.
“He’s so kind—I love talking to him, and spending time with him.
But I just—I just don’t know if I want to kiss him.
And eventually, if he realizes that, he’ll be off to find someone who does.
And my father is so worried about me finding someone to marry, so I’ll have to start this process all over again with someone else, and—”
“Has Delacqua been pressuring you to kiss him?” Vesper asked, prepared to sweep into a righteous fury on behalf of her friend.
“No, of course not. He’s lovely.”
“And you enjoy spending time with him?” Vesper pressed.
“Very much. We have such nice conversations—he’s so interesting, I really like talking to him.”
“Then why worry about it? Don’t kiss him until you want to.”
“But that’s just it, what if I never want him to? I’ll have wasted all his time.”
Vesper huffed in exasperation. “Hazel, he’s a man.
Unlike us, there’s no clock set to chime on his twenty-fifth, or thirtieth, or whichever birthday is arbitrarily decided to be the point at which he’s too old to marry.
He’s a rich, handsome bachelor. He’ll be fine.
And he clearly enjoys spending time with you, so—let him.
And don’t kiss him if you don’t want to. ”
Hazel’s expression shifted into something desperately fond as she looked across the table at Vesper. “Thanks, Vee.” She squeezed her hand, and then returned to her sandwich.
Vesper reached for her own, and, just before taking a bite, asked curiously, “Do you think you might want to kiss women instead?”
Hazel choked. Vesper supposed, when asking a question like that, it would be wise in the future to consider whether the person she was interrogating might be at risk of a blocked airway before proceeding.
“You might warn me the next time you’re going to ask a question like that,” Hazel said, once she’d recovered enough to speak.
“That occurred to me after the fact,” Vesper agreed, contrite.
“But to answer the question,” Hazel said, blushing again, “I—the thought had crossed my mind, so I, er…” She looked around furtively.
“Stop that. You’re going to make the waitstaff think we’re planning a bank heist.”
“I don’t want to be overheard!”
“You look so guilty. We’re talking about sex, Hazel, not murder.”
“We’re talking about kissing, you libertine, let’s please not bring nudity into this.”
“I have personally found that a bit of nudity really makes kissing more interesting, and especially—”
“My point is, I, um, considered that option, and so I procured some, er, literature, featuring only women, that I thought might provide clarity, but I found it to be unfortunately… unstimulating. Compared to similar literature involving, um, men and women.”
It took Vesper a second to parse the linguistic gymnastics being deployed, but she eventually cottoned on. “Hazel Thomas. You bought dirty books!”
“Shh!” Hazel said, despite the fact that Vesper had spoken barely above a whisper.
“Where did you get them?” asked Vesper, a seasoned connoisseur. “Quill I heard about it when I ran into Edith Kent on the way to meet you.”
“But! But! We were there.” Vesper was feeling extremely put out; what point was there in conducting an investigation if they were going to miss something interesting?
“Not late enough, I suppose,” Hazel said. “Someone drank a potion and then had a nosebleed that lasted half an hour. That’s an alarming amount of blood.” Hazel considered the soup before her, then seemed to decide that she was hungry enough to not be put off by the topic of conversation.
Vesper, meanwhile, was turning this information over in her mind.
While she was infuriated to have missed this—and was frantically casting her mind back over the memory of every face she’d seen the night before—this was, in one sense, useful information: Plenus Venter had now been hit twice.
Whoever was behind this was not opposed to repeated strikes on the same club, which meant that Holloway’s would not necessarily be spared further mischief.
All the more reason, Vesper thought grimly, taking a bite of her sandwich, that she and Ashbridge needed to get to the bottom of this, sooner rather than later.
“I’ve watched at least a half dozen men walk into this place in the five minutes I’ve been waiting for you who are already pissed, so this bodes well.
” This was Ashbridge’s greeting to her that evening outside Grenoble’s; his brow was lowered, and he looked to be in a bit of a mood.
Not that she could blame him—Hazel’s report from Plenus Venter had left Vesper feeling on edge as well.
“It’s a rather different environment to Mauve’s, you’ll see,” she admitted, eyeing the exterior of Grenoble’s with some distaste.
It was situated on Welbeck Street, an imposing building with columns and a gaudy gold front door.
There was a steady stream of well-heeled patrons making their way through its doors.
She reached out and twined an arm through Ashbridge’s.
“Try to look enamored, will you?” she murmured, as he leaned down to catch her words. “I think people will think it a bit odd that I’m here, otherwise.”
She hadn’t worried about this as much at Mauve’s or Plenus Venter, but given her family’s history with the Grenobles—Lucian Holloway’s fisticuffs with Anthony Grenoble had become the stuff of society legend—her presence here was likely to raise a few eyebrows.
“Did you care to elaborate on what, precisely, your history with the Grenobles is?” he murmured back, his breath warm against her temple.
“Merely a catastrophic romantic mistake, born of youthful folly and too much champagne. Oh, and my father punched the current owner once. Shall we?” she asked brightly, and led a gaping Ashbridge into the club.
She had a courtesy membership at Grenoble’s and was waved through the door by a bored-looking attendant, wearing rather less clothing than the chilly evening seemed to demand. Vesper suspected she’d taken some sort of warming potion—or just had a fair amount to drink.
Once inside, she and Ashbridge shed their coats and took in their surroundings.
There was a sitting room off to one side, featuring an awful lot of red velvet and darkened corners; a quick glance inside confirmed that there was at least one couple on a settee kissing so enthusiastically that Vesper spared a thought for the virtue of the furniture.
Another doorway led to a dining room, full of crystal and golden goblets and an almost aggressively bright chandelier.
A dish on one table was dramatically aflame.
Another room featured gilt-framed paintings of women in various stages of undress—this room, unsurprisingly, was crowded with men knocking back drinks and laughing uproariously.
Vesper sighed; even she, a great fan of the sensual arts, could not find this particular space appealing. It was so… obvious.