First thing tomorrow, his staff would suffer through a very displeased warning about checking the club carefully before locking up for the night.
“You should not be here.” He loomed over her as menacingly as possible. Although she was obviously an eccentric and seemed to be harmless, she did not belong anywhere near his club.
She peered up at him with a sunny smile. “Says who?”
“Says the world. This is a gentleman’s club.”
“Mm, but isn’t ityourgentlemen’s club? If you say I can be here, then I can be here.”
“An astute observer might notice that I have said no such thing,” he countered.
She lowered her gaze. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Yes,” he said icily. “The lack of invitation was deliberate. Good-bye.”
A knock sounded upon the door. “Mr. Gideon, there is an issue with today’s delivery.”
Normally, Max would invite his barkeeper in to chat about any issue that affected the club.
Normally, Max did not have an impertinent lady in lad’s clothing reclining upon his settee.
He opened the door a crack. “What is it?”
A frown of confusion flitted across his bartender’s face. “Did I hear voices? I didn’t see anyone else come in. I can come back if you’re busy with—”
“I’m never too busy to correct an issue. What happened with the delivery?”
“We were meant to receive two cases of Rioja and one of Madeira. They have bollocksed the shipment, and sent French wines instead. One Bordeaux, two of Champagne. It has doubled the cost. Should I send it all back? We did not budget for these prices. On the other hand, we cannot run out of wine.”
Before Max could respond, his uninvited guest opened her mouth.
“The higher price is due to the trade situation with France, but that is also what makes drinking French wine so enticing. Accept everything and double the price per glass. Tell your customers it’s ‘victory wine,’ or spoils of war. We beat Boney and will drink his land dry. Every bubbly drop of it.”
Max ground his teeth together.
Bryony had kept her voice low and raspy, but if the barkeeper suspected for one second that the admittedly brilliant solution had come from a woman sequestered in the back of a gentleman’s club—
“’Victory wine,’ sir?” the barkeeper stammered.
“Go with ‘spoils of war,’” Max said firmly. “Play up the plunder angle.”
The barkeeper nodded. And tried to peek about Max’s shoulder. “Who is—”
“My neighbor’s nephew,” Max said quickly, and all but shut the door in his barkeeper’s face.
When he whirled to face Bryony, her countenance was not repentant in the least.
“Plunder! Of course. Far manlier than victory wine.” She nodded at him appreciatively. “We make a great team.”
He heroically refrained from shaking her. “We make nothing together because we are nothing together. You have to leave before clients arrive.”
“No, I don’t. I’m your neighbor’s nephew. If I leave now, while there’s no other clients to distract them, your staff will have nothing better to do than attempt to make my acquaintance before I exit the building. Once the nightly festivities are underway, they will be far too busy tending the crowd to worry about me.”
“And what about the others?” Max growled. “The dozens of drunken men about to fill the gaming salon?”
“They don’t know your neighbor’s nephew is here and wouldn’t care if they did.” She quirked a brow. “The men who frequent places like this are in search of one of three things.”
Max crossed his arms. “Which are?”
