Chapter Sixteen #2
Deciding not to push her luck any further, she retreated, and two minutes later, she was sliding into a seat next to Ashbridge, who was slumped in his chair, drumming his fingers in an impatient rhythm on the arm.
She reached for the fresh glass of champagne he must have procured in her absence, enjoying the taste of it unmarred by spell powder this time.
He was scanning the room, clearly seeking out anything out of the ordinary.
Sipping her champagne, Vesper followed his gaze, her own landing on a man across the room who was settling into a seat, reaching for a menu.
The man, tall and broad-shouldered and gray-haired, was immaculately dressed in a dark suit jacket and tie, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a peacock-blue waistcoat.
After a second, Vesper recognized him as Augustus Grimme-Nox, owner of the Grimoire.
He and her father had been friendlier in their younger days, but there had been some sort of falling-out.
Vesper couldn’t remember the story—her father had so many dramatic anecdotes from his largely misspent youth that she had started to tune them out at a certain point.
Not spotting anyone else she recognized, however, she felt safe to lean closer to Ashbridge and ask, “Did I miss anything?”
He took a moment to answer, his gaze still distant, but eventually he glanced down at her.
“Nothing other than a load of men at the next table discussing investment strategies and fox hunting.” Distaste practically dripped from the words; he reached for his whisky, his jaw tense.
“What did you learn in your sneaking about?” He took a sip of his drink.
“Well,” she said, trying to keep a note of triumph from her voice. “Not much. Unless you count the fact that Jacob Finlay is here.”
Ashbridge stilled, then set down his glass very deliberately and turned to her. “Excuse me?”
“Finlay. He was in the loos.”
“Vesper.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me that you didn’t actually go—”
“For Merlin’s sake, Ashbridge, focus!” Vesper was growing cross. “Jacob Finlay, one of the architects of Forbiddance, is here. What’s he doing here?”
“Being a raging hypocrite?” Ashbridge suggested.
There were legions of men who complained about magic in their speeches in Parliament but who reliably haunted the streets of Marylebone in the evenings. However, Vesper had always been under the impression that Finlay genuinely believed in his public stance against magic.
“It seems very odd to me,” she said. “Especially since he just went to dinner with Anthony Grenoble.”
“Two confirmed encounters with the magical world in three nights,” Ashbridge agreed, clearly deep in thought. “It’s beginning to seem plausible that he could be mixed up in all of this somehow.”
“It could just be a coincidence,” Vesper pointed out in the interest of fairness.
“Or he might be trying to meddle in the magical world in some other capacity. After all, it’s not as though he could be the one directly tampering with the potions—he hasn’t got any magical ability himself.
And I can’t see anyone magical wanting to ally themselves with Finlay—all of us hate Forbiddance, after all. ”
Ashbridge shook his head, still frowning. “There’s something we’re missing—some connection. There has to be.”
“I thought I might ask Cecily to look into it,” Vesper said. “She knows everyone, and is a genius at digging up sources. If anyone can find dirt on Finlay, it would be her.”
“Good idea. I can speak to my friend Will, too—he’s a reporter at The Times.” He still sounded a bit distracted, his gaze occasionally flicking around the room.
“I spoke to a member of staff, too, while I was poking around—he says the owners are panicking about the attacks at the other clubs. It could all be an act, I suppose, but—”
“But if it’s not, then they’re unlikely to be behind it,” he finished for her.
“I wonder if we ought to consider one of the pubs,” she said thoughtfully. “We’ve been focused on the clubs, but what if it’s one of the magical pubs that’s trying to drive us out of business?”
“That’s certainly possible,” he allowed, his brow furrowing slightly. “There are also a few more clubs we’ve not visited yet, right?”
“Just two,” she said. “There’s the Grimoire—we could pay them a visit this week, I suppose—and also the Secret Garden. They’re closed for the season, though, and won’t reopen till the spring….”
“I’ll speak to Will, and you speak to Cecily, and we’ll sort a plan from there.
” He knocked back the rest of his whisky, and set down his glass.
“I think this is quite enough for tonight, though.” He appeared to be positively itching to leave the club, not that Vesper could blame him.
They rose to their feet, and made for the bespelled door; a couple of minutes later, they were breathing in cold night air, the headlights, laughter, and music of a Marylebone Saturday night surrounding them.
Vesper stomped her feet against the chill, and looked up at Ashbridge.
“I’m going to get a taxi—it’s too cold to walk.
Want to share?” She raised her hand at an approaching cab, which slowed.
He looked down at her for a long moment, then shook his head.
“I’ll walk to the Tube—I want to clear my head.
” The cab Vesper had hailed pulled up before her, and Ashbridge opened the door, allowing her to slide inside.
He hesitated, and then the smallest hint of a smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
“Nice work tonight, Holloway, old chap.” He slammed the cab door shut with a last nod of farewell.
And Vesper, watching his retreating shoulders, could not stop the helpless smile that crept over her face.