Chapter Six
Max despised being late.
His father had been late, every time he’d ever spent an afternoon with Max during his childhood.
His mum had always told him not to fret—that his father would be there in due time, that he’d likely got caught up with some sort of urgent business—but to Max, every time, it was a reminder that he was not important enough to be on time for.
“You can’t possibly expect a woman to be ready when she says she will,” Caro had scolded him more than once during their year together.
He made it a general policy to not spend much time thinking about the woman he’d once thought he would marry, but she did have a way of occasionally creeping into his mind, unbidden.
He wondered belatedly if Vesper Holloway were the same sort of woman as he stood at precisely half seven outside the green door in a narrow, cobblestoned mews that she had instructed him to call at.
The door opened, and she appeared, wearing a simple cream-colored dress and a thick blue cardigan that looked as though it had been in use for a number of seasons. It was quite a contrast to the glamorous Vesper Holloway that he’d seen at the club the night before.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully, and glanced at the bakery loaf in his hands.
“Don’t trust me to feed you?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, trying to work out a polite response to that, but she laughed and spared him.
“Don’t worry, our cook makes enough for about twelve—though, given how much my brother eats, that’s barely sufficient when he comes round—and is constantly plying me with leftovers.
I think she worries about me starving out here. ”
“Well,” he said, following her into the flat, “you don’t strike me as someone who would have spent much time in the kitchen.”
“You have an awful lot of opinions about me for someone who doesn’t know me.
” Vesper led him into the kitchen, which was filled with copper pots and expensive-looking crockery.
A lemon was half-sliced on a butcher’s block.
“Sorry,” she said over her shoulder, reaching for a knife and making quick work of the rest of it. “I wasn’t expecting you yet.”
“You did say seven thirty, didn’t you?”
“People usually aren’t quite so punctual.”
“Fashionably late?” he asked. “I can’t say I am very fashionable.”
“Why does that not surprise me,” she murmured. “Would you like a drink?”
“Depends on what’s in it.”
“If you’re worried I’m going to slip you some sort of love potion and have my wicked way with you, you can relax. The Holloways’ magic has never been good at that sort of recipe.”
Max was busy trying not to allow a single image associated with the idea of wicked ways and Vesper to creep into his mind, and did not manage anything resembling a reply before she added, her tone brisk, “I was thinking perhaps a sidecar, but if you’re more of a gin man—or whisky—or there’s champagne, of course… ”
“Of course,” he muttered, at last recovering enough to speak.
She narrowed her eyes at him, as if trying to work out whether he was teasing.
“A sidecar is fine,” he said, and after another moment’s scrutiny, she nodded, scooped the lemon slices onto a plate, and led him through a doorway and into what turned out to be a small, cozy sitting room.
One that appeared to be inhabited by a ball of cotton wool.
“Meow?” the cotton wool said, revealing itself to be a mammal, rather than a bit of fluff.
“Who’s this?” he asked, crouching next to the ottoman atop which the bit of fluff was elegantly reclining.
“That’s Sheep,” Vesper said, crossing to the gold-and-glass cart that housed any number of bottles of spirits, as well as several small amber bottles with handwritten labels on them.
She glanced quickly over her shoulder at Max and tucked those out of sight behind the ice bucket, seeming to think he hadn’t noticed.
“She’s spoiled rotten, so don’t let her trick you into scratching her—she receives plenty of affection as it is. ”
“You have a cat named Sheep,” he said, as Sheep enthusiastically thrust the top of her head into his hand.
“Yes,” Vesper said, as though this should have been obvious. “Look at her. She looks like—”
“A brand-new feather duster that hasn’t had the opportunity to be used yet,” he suggested, and she frowned at him.
“Ah,” he said, with great regret. “I forgot. You’ve no notion of what that is. You see, there is a substance called dust that accumulates on furniture—”
She laughed, turning back to the bar cart.
“She’s a lovely cat,” he said, by way of a peace offering. Women, he understood vaguely, appreciated compliments about their familiars.
“Thank you,” she said, shaking her mixer with some vigor.
He hadn’t seen her behind the bar at her club, but the motion spoke of experience.
He became conscious of the fact that they were alone in her flat, a fire lit in the grate, cocktails about to be consumed.
It felt a bit intimate, and he cast his eyes around the room in an attempt to distract himself from any thoughts along those lines.
It gave the impression of a tiny, perfect jewel box, every detail having been chosen with care: the dusky rose color of the walls; the blue willow vase on the mantel filled with a fat bouquet of dahlias; the enormous, gold-framed advertisement for a famous singer who had once appeared at Holloway’s, before the war; an étagère filled with books, the spines worn and cracked; and a gramophone.
The entire room seemed wonderfully, perfectly Vesper, despite the fact that he wouldn’t have thought he knew her well enough to make any such assessment.
At the bar cart, Vesper divided the cocktail between two glasses and reached for a slice of lemon, then turned, handing him his drink. “Thank you for coming tonight.” She raised her glass in a toast.
“Cheers.” He took a sip; it was a rather nice cocktail. Under different circumstances, it would have made an excellent beginning to a promising evening.
But he was here to discuss business.
Vesper gestured to the dark blue silk sofa, and they took seats at opposite ends, keeping as much cushion space as possible between them.
“So,” he said, setting his glass down decisively on the trunk she seemed to use as a coffee table and shifting slightly in his seat so that he could look at her more directly. Sheep took this as an invitation and immediately hopped onto his lap.
Vesper fixed her cat with a reproving stare.
Sheep lifted her back leg and licked herself in a delicate location, which was essentially the feline equivalent of the cut direct of the previous century’s ballrooms.
“Cats have no loyalty,” Vesper said, sounding so annoyed that Max nearly grinned, before he caught himself. He was there for business, not for smiling at pretty women.
“Did you have an idea of what our first night out together should be?”
“Well,” she said slowly, and his focus sharpened on her, something in her tone sounding an alarm bell. “I was hoping to speak to you about that.”
“What do you mean?”
She took a sip from her glass. “The fact is, Ashbridge, I’d like something in the way of… assurances. From you.”
Christ almighty, hadn’t they already covered this terrain last night? “I told you, I’ll lie about Holloway’s and ensure that you’re able to stay open.”
“No—I know—but I need… something more.”
“Such as?” he asked, biting back his impatience with some difficulty.
“I don’t want you to use any information you gain to shut down the other clubs.”
He stared at her, incredulous. “You do realize that’s my job, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—well, I can’t be the person who helps you gain entry to a club, only for you to then pass on whatever you see there to Scotland Yard.”
“What do you expect from me, precisely? Shall I give you my word that, for the duration of our work together, I’ll not pass on any information I gather to anyone else at the F.L.E.A.?”
“I was rather hoping you’d agree to take a Promising Potion,” she said matter-of-factly.
He blinked. “A what?”
“It’s quite clever, actually—one of the other families brews it.
You take the potion, and then anything you say in the quarter hour after consuming it can only be uttered if you’re speaking the complete truth, and you mean it wholeheartedly.
A lot of magical couples drink it during their weddings, before saying their vows. ”
“No.”
She frowned. “What?” This clearly had not been the reply she was expecting.
He leaned forward. “I am not drinking a potion.”
“But if you truly mean what you say—”
“I do mean what I say. But I don’t use magic. Ever.”
“You’d be the first Flea I’ve ever met who didn’t,” she muttered, irritation lacing her voice.
“F.L.E.A. And I can’t speak to what anyone else is getting up to, but I promised myself a long time ago I’d never use magic, and I don’t intend to change now.”
She threw her hands up. “And you just expect me to take your word for it?” She gave a sharp shake of her head. “No. If you betray me, our business and reputation in the magical world could be destroyed. I want you to give me something that could be equally damaging to you.”
He stared at her. “You want me to tell you a secret to use as blackmail?”
She smiled sweetly. “Hopefully I won’t have to use it, if your word’s as good as you say it is. Or are you such an upstanding citizen that you can’t possibly think of anything that you’d be embarrassed to have known about you?”
He hesitated, even though he knew precisely what he could tell her—the piece of information that could destroy his career, if it were known. “There’s something,” he said at last.