She had inadvertently tested him under the worst possible conditions, and he had proven himself to be the sort of man who neither raised his voice nor his fist. He could have thrown her bodily from his club or told her not to worry her pretty little head about big scary concepts like “varied clientele.”
Instead, he’d treated her like a person. He was kind to her. Patient. Honest. Perhaps that explained why she felt so safe with him. Or perhaps when she looked at him, she too perceived more about him than others took the time to see.
“What are you doing?” she asked. By all appearances, he didn’t give two figs about her one way or the other. He was no devil with cloven hooves and a forked tail, but he was still as untouchable. As unreachable. Even though he was right here in front of her.
She had never wanted to know another person more.
He slanted her a look. “Adding.”
“Adding what?” she pressed.
“Numbers.” He turned back to the journal. “Now I must start again.”
“Three hundred and forty-six pounds, thirty-two shillings, five pence.” She pointed at one of the rows in the middle. “I believe that’s meant to be zero, not a six.”
Max’s gaze rose from his journal to her face. He laid his plume atop his desk and folded his arms over his chest. “You can tally sums over your shoulder from a journal facing the opposite direction?”
The back of her neck heated.
“Lots of people can do arithmetic,” she stammered.
“No one but me has ever managed to read my handwriting,” he said drolly. “Upside down or otherwise.”
Bryony swallowed. This was not the moment to tell him she’d had nearly five years of practice reading his detailed monthly reports. She would recognize his handwriting in any direction, under any light. She knew his hand as well as her own.
“I might’ve been wrong,” she said quickly.
“You’re not.” His dark gaze stayed focused on her. “And you know it.”
She wished she hadn’t spoken. If she’d failed to tempt him by appearing in his office in breeches and a great coat instead of an evening gown with a dampened bodice, she would only make herself seem all the more mannish by continuing to correct him on his own mathematics.
She fluttered her hand in the direction of his journal. “I didn’t mean to bother you. Carry on.”
“You mean to bother me, or you wouldn’t be here,” he said matter-of-factly. “You might as well be useful while you’re at it. Do you know what these numbers are?”
Her breath caught. Was he asking her to use her brain? Was he asking her forhelp?
Excited disbelief fluttered her pulse. She had dreamed of such a moment. And yes, she absolutely had a hypothesis about his numbers. Given the amount stated and the past history of income and purchases that passed through the Cloven Hoof, he was almost certainly tallying this month’s beverage income.
But she couldn’t tell him. That was something his secret investor would know, not something a woman who just so happened to slip into his club on a lark might be privy to. Despite the incredible opportunity, she still was not in a position to display her brain to full advantage.
Her responses would only be able to use whatever was currently perceivable to the eye.
“I haven’t a clue,” she answered, imbuing her voice with as much womanly femaleness as she could muster.
Max was unmoved. “Replacement candelabra. I’m switching from tallow to beeswax.”
“Are you outfitting Buckingham Palace?” she blurted out. “The Cloven Hoof has no need of candelabra when the current wall sconces do perfectly fine. You already use beeswax candles. Either someone is trying to hoodwink you, or…”
Oh. She was the one being bamboozled.
He folded his arms across his chest. “How do you know?”
She cleared her throat. “If you had ever smelled a tallow candle, you’d know how I know. And I can see the sconces. Exchanging sturdy lighting fixtures for precarious candelabra would be a fire hazard once you add drunken elbows. Installing a glass chandelier worth any sum would be a waste on clientele who prefer the darkness.”
“All true,” he said after a moment. “Very observant. I’m more interested in why you would know the difference in price between various commercial lighting options.”
“I am a candlestick-maker by day,” she said without blinking. “Sneaking into off-hour establishments by night is only a diversion.”
