Chapter Two #3
“Hmm,” Freddie murmured. “Watch them as closely as you did Ainsley Sherwood?”
“For the last time, I am not going to see bloody Ainsley Sherwood again.” Being the youngest was maddening; was anyone listening to anything she was saying?
“My point is,” Lucian said, seeming determined to steer the conversation back on track, “we’ll want to keep an eye out, in case they send a Flea.”
The entire room shuddered in unison.
“That reminds me,” Freddie said, reaching into his back pocket and producing a wrinkled square of paper. “I’ve the most recent list of personnel employed as Fleas.”
The identities of Fleas were meant, technically, to be a secret—but bribery was an ancient, noble art, and Freddie got his hands on a list of staff at the agency a couple of times a year.
“Anyone interesting?” Vesper asked.
Freddie gave her a thin smile. “Take a look.”
Vesper took the proffered square of paper. She skimmed the list before her; there tended to be a fair amount of turnover among the Fleas, so many of the names were unfamiliar.
Midway down the list, however, her eyes snagged on a name.
Maxwell Ashbridge.
A name she hadn’t considered in years. She would’ve been perfectly happy to keep it that way, considering that she’d once embarrassed herself horribly in front of the man in question.
Her gaze flicked back up to Freddie’s. “Is this—”
“The very one. It suits him, really, given his feelings on magic.” Freddie’s expression was dark.
“Who are you talking about?” Cecily queried.
“D’you remember Max Ashbridge?” Freddie asked; Vesper’s gaze had returned to the list, her eyes stuck on that name.
“Your friend from Cambridge with the stick up his arse?”
“That’s him. That’ll be one to keep an eye out for, Vee,” he added, glancing back at Vesper. She didn’t think she was imagining the slight tightening of his jaw.
“I will,” she said, and before she could add anything further, there was the sound of a loud yodel from the kitchens, which was their cook Mrs. Holstein’s favorite way of summoning the family to mealtimes.
Simon startled slightly from his spot on the sofa.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Simply cannot get used to being called to dinner that way.”
“It’s been nearly ten years, Simon, and I worry about the state of your nerves if you don’t get a bit less jumpy,” said Amelia, sweeping around him and Cecily to where their offspring crouched behind the sofa.
Vesper hadn’t even noticed her nephew’s presence until this moment: George was five, and she harbored dark suspicions that he possessed some sort of latent magical ability, because she found the degree to which he managed to go unnoticed somewhat uncanny.
“George, darling, I am going to pretend not to have noticed the fact that you are now coloring on the floorboards instead of the perfectly good roll of paper I gave you, only because I had Mrs. Holstein make black forest pudding for dessert tonight, and I know it is your particular favorite, and I do hate to deprive a child of sweets before sending him home with his parents. But if you do not cease in the next three seconds, I am going to reconsider that decision.”
“Sorry, Nan,” George said, leaping to his feet at the promise of this treat.
The Holloways did not believe in sending children to eat in the nursery, which meant that George was becoming alarmingly precocious.
Vesper liked to keep a close eye on her nephew; she loved him, but was not convinced he wasn’t plotting against them all. He was certainly clever enough.
“Right,” Lucian said, clapping his hands together as Mrs. Holstein yodeled again, louder this time; she became very distressed if it seemed possible that her food was going to get cold before the family had the chance to offer rapturous praise.
“Shall we? We can continue this discussion later—no doubt we’ll work out a rotating schedule, so that one of us can be at the club with Vesper every evening until this fuss blows over, and all will be well. ”
The rest of the family, considering the matter settled, trailed into the dining room, chattering happily, not seeming to notice Vesper lagging behind, quietly seething.
They clearly didn’t trust her. Despite the fact that she’d spent six nights a week ensuring Holloway’s was running smoothly for the past few years.
Despite everything she’d done to prove she wasn’t flighty and irresponsible.
At the end of the day, they still thought she was the same reckless girl who’d once made a series of disastrous romantic decisions—Maxwell Ashbridge being the very least of them—and whose judgment couldn’t be trusted.
But she wasn’t that girl anymore, she thought now, lifting her chin. And she was simply going to have to prove that to them.
Prove that nothing at all was going to happen to their club, so long as she was at the helm.
And—she spared a last, disgusted thought for Ainsley Sherwood—that meant, first and foremost, that she certainly wasn’t going to allow her head to be turned by another man anytime soon.