Chapter Eleven
Vesper took her usual care with her appearance on Wednesday evening. This might be a night out for strictly professional reasons, but there was no reason she shouldn’t look as delectable as always—not that she cared if Ashbridge noticed, of course.
The flimsiness of this insistence—even if it had only been to herself—was revealed by the rush of pleasure she felt when Ashbridge’s eyes immediately dropped to her chest when he met her outside her door for the short walk to Plenus Venter.
She had selected one of her most cleavage-forward dresses that evening (difficult, given the current fashions, but Vesper had always been one to persevere in the face of hardship, et cetera), and if even moral, upstanding Max Ashbridge couldn’t help but notice, then she knew that the ensemble was as fetching as she’d thought when she surveyed herself in her bedroom mirror.
“Ashbridge.”
“Vesper.” He kept his eyes carefully north of her chin. “Shall we?”
She looked at him expectantly, and he looked back at her blankly. “Ashbridge. We’re meant to at least imply that there might be something romantic between us. Perhaps you might try to look vaguely pleased to be in my company?”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. It’s, er, been a while since I’ve taken a woman out for an evening.”
Vesper willed herself, unsuccessfully, not to find this intriguing. “Oh?” Worrying she sounded a bit too interested in the topic, she added, a bit airily, “Too busy rounding up dastardly practitioners of magic to find your way into anyone’s bed?”
He very nearly tripped over his own feet, which was gratifying. “Stop that.”
She blinked, all innocence. “Stop what?”
“Stop being deliberately shocking to try to put me off-balance.” He frowned down at her. His dark brows were lowered, his eyes a bit shadowed in the glow of a streetlamp. Vesper didn’t like that he so easily recognized her tactics; she thought herself more cunning than that.
“Now.” He extended his arm, which she took. “Let’s get to work.”
“You do know how to woo a woman, Ashbridge.”
“Trust me, Vesper.” He glanced down at her as they made their way across the cobblestoned mews. “If I were wooing you, you’d know it.”
This time, it was Vesper’s turn to trip.
The streets of Marylebone were still fairly busy on a Wednesday night, and she passed a half dozen people she knew, smiling in passing but avoiding getting drawn into chitchat. She and Ashbridge were on a mission, after all.
For his part, Ashbridge looked increasingly uncomfortable with each person who grinned at Vesper in recognition. At one point, she leaned up to murmur in his ear, “You might try to look a bit less alarmed each time someone says hello to me.”
He exhaled slowly. “I don’t like being the subject of gossip.”
“You’re being awfully virginal about all of this.”
Ashbridge looked even grimmer. She followed the line of his gaze, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary—merely an older gentleman whose face she couldn’t quite see arm in arm with a woman who was considerably too young for him, walking in the same direction they were.
“If you could try to look like you’re remotely enjoying my company, I’d appreciate it.”
Ashbridge blinked, as if he’d forgotten her presence momentarily. Vesper found that she did not enjoy this feeling, which was rather novel to her. “Sorry,” he said, and then pulled her closer to his side.
Once they had sailed through the front doors of Plenus Venter, waved in with the merest glance at one of Vesper’s engraved cards, they paused to assess matters.
It had been a while since she’d been here, though in the years before she’d taken over the running of Holloway’s she’d been a frequent visitor.
Compared to the various other clubs, which were so obviously for evening pursuits, Plenus Venter, with its focus on comestibles, boasted interiors that reminded Vesper more of the dining rooms at a posh hotel than anything else.
The ground floor opened into a high-ceilinged foyer, with a tiled floor, gold-framed mirrors, and a number of potted palms. Private dining rooms branched off on either side—in one, there was a long communal table before an enormous marble fireplace; in another, small round tables for two were scattered around a room whose walls were painted a cheerful yellow; yet another held a series of low-slung sofas and settees, all done in rich jewel tones, ruby and emerald and amethyst, accompanied by an eclectic assortment of coffee tables and spindly-legged end tables, all currently bearing cocktails and bowls of various snacks.
“The bars are upstairs,” Vesper informed Ashbridge. “It’s table service down here, but I think we’re better off trying to speak to one of the bartenders directly.”
“Lead the way,” he said, and followed her up the steps.
Upstairs, the entirety of one wall was occupied by the bar, made of glossy mahogany with shiny brass fittings; an enormous mottled mirror hung on the wall behind it. The dance floor was relatively small, as the rest of the room was taken up with round high-top tables in glossy dark wood.
“How do they keep the potions a secret if the bar isn’t hidden?” Ashbridge asked in an undertone, watching as a redheaded bartender mixed an old-fashioned.
“They’re meant to be enjoyed before eating, so a lot of people order them at their tables, and they’re sent out from the bar just before their first course arrives.
There’s a particular turn of phrase you’re meant to use, to tell the waitstaff that you want the potions menu rather than the regular drinks menu. ”
“What turn of phrase?” Ashbridge asked, looking curious.
Vesper hesitated. This merely made him focus his attention on her with greater intent. “What?”
“Don’t make fun,” she said, and he now looked more eager than she had thought him constitutionally capable of appearing.
“You have to tell me, or I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Fine. It’s…
um… it’s ‘Hello, old thing. Lovely evening for a tipple, what ho! I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a peek at the drinks menu?
’ And then, when they’re handed over the regular menu, they add, ‘Sorry, old thing, but I’d fancy something a bit more toothsome,’ and then the server produces the potions menu. ”
Ashbridge was gazing at her in astonishment. “Every time someone orders a potion, they have to remember that precise sequence of words?”
“Yes,” Vesper said, raising her chin. “It weeds out anyone too stupid to memorize it, as well as being jolly entertaining to watch people recite.”
Ashbridge shook his head. “I will never understand magic.”
“That,” Vesper informed him, “is just the way we’d like it to remain.
” With that, she led the way to the bar, where they slid onto velvet-topped stools that were sturdier than their spindly legs made them look.
She considered the redhead behind the bar; she was about Vesper’s age, very pretty, and, at the moment, not overly busy; the fact that it was a Wednesday night meant that they’d timed their visit well, if they hoped to get a word with the staff.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, making her way over toward Vesper and Ashbridge. She glanced at Vesper, and did a double take. “Miss Holloway, isn’t it?”
Vesper gave her a bright smile. “It is. A glass of champagne for me, and…” She looked inquiringly at Ashbridge.
“What do you recommend?” he asked, leaning forward to brace an elbow on the bar and gazing at the bartender as if she were the most interesting thing he’d seen all evening.
Vesper blinked.
The bartender blinked—and then blushed. (The curse of redheads everywhere.)
“We do a nice Bee’s Knees,” the bartender offered.
Vesper could not imagine Max Ashbridge, of all people, drinking a Bee’s Knees, but without missing a beat, he smiled at the bartender and said, “That sounds lovely. Thank you… what was your name?”
“Maggie.”
“Thank you, Maggie.”
His smile widened; Maggie appeared temporarily blinded, not that Vesper could blame her, poor girl.
The second Maggie had walked a short distance down the bar to fetch gin and champagne, Vesper turned to Ashbridge.
“Excuse me, have you seen Max Ashbridge around here anywhere? I thought I was sitting next to him, but he seems to have been replaced by a far friendlier doppelg?nger. It’s all very mysterious.”
Ashbridge’s smile vanished; Vesper found this strangely reassuring. “I’m being polite. A course of action that is generally considered wise, if one is hoping to obtain information?”
“This isn’t polite. You’re always polite—except to me,” Vesper added slyly, and enjoyed the irate look Ashbridge shot in her direction.
“You only think I’m not polite to you because you’re used to men falling over their own two feet the second they catch a look at your face—or… other assets.” He determinedly did not look at her chest, but Vesper was delighted nonetheless.
“Do you have a fever? You’re behaving very oddly.”
“Perhaps I’ve come down with whatever temporary, insanity-inducing malady your mere presence seems to inspire,” he muttered.
Vesper laughed and he glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.
At that moment, Maggie the bartender returned, the necessary spirits in hand, and proceeded to very efficiently produce a coupe of champagne and a delicious-looking Bee’s Knees that Vesper regretted not having ordered herself.
“Cheers,” Max said as Maggie handed him the glass and he took a sip. “That’s lovely, thank you—one of the best cocktails I’ve ever tried. You must’ve worked here quite a while, to be so skilled…?”
He trailed off delicately, not quite asking a question, just leaving room for information that Maggie, clearly still reeling from the rare experience of having received a Max Ashbridge smile, hastened to provide.
“Three years this month. I worked in the kitchen before that, but I’d always hoped to make it out to the bar eventually.”