Excitement began to race through her veins. This would be just like sneaking into her father’s study as a child. Better, even. Bryony had been far more scared of the baron’s wrath than she worried about Maxwell Gideon. He would never even know she’d been present.
What Bryony wanted to know was whatever he’d left out of his report. Why offer such an extravagant sum for a small rectangle barely brushing the border of the fashionable district? She’d plotted the earnings trends time and again. At this rate, Mr. Gideon could afford to purchase a much better venue within a few more years. There was no reason to spend one’s last penny on the current locale.
Unless therewas. In which case, she needed to know the reason.
Now that her sister’s school was no longer in danger of closing without Bryony diverting her personal income to save it, she was free to save or invest her money as she saw fit. The price she’d been offered for the property would be a welcome windfall, indeed.
It was also a short-term gain. If Mr. Gideon had no intention of relocating, she—or her future husband—would earn far greater returns by collecting rent month after month, year after year. The Cloven Hoof was doing a brisk business. Rent could be priced accordingly.
Of course, following that plan would inhibit her ability to engage in other opportunities requiring ready cash. There would be no way to know which avenue offered the surer reward until—
“Cloven Hoof.” The driver pulled his horses to a stop. “Looks closed.”
“Rotten luck,” Bryony groused in as manly a voice as she could muster, and flipped the driver a coin as she bounded from the carriage.
She did not pause at the Cloven Hoof, but strolled off as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
The driver wasted no time in continuing on in search of his next fare. Only once he was out of sight did Bryony circle around to the rear of the club and place her ear to the door.
It was silent.
She slid her key into the lock and twisted. The door unlocked with ease. She held her breath as she opened the door.
Nothing.
The coast was clear.
Ever since she’d made the purchase, she’d studied the plans for the property, and could likely find her way about in the dark.
Nonetheless, she welcomed the moonlight streaking through a few high windows. It was impractical to bring a lit candle on a carriage ride, and she was glad to discover she could see—if dimly. She was standing at the rear of the long corridor that bisected the club’s interior.
She inched forward with caution.
Mr. Gideon’s office was to her left, a supply room to the right. Once she cleared these, she came to a small area with chairs and tables on either side. According to her monthly reports, this area was designated for conversation, not gambling. After this section was the primary salon, which contained a bar, dozens of gaming tables in a large open area, and a handful of smaller tables for spectators along the edges.
This last bit, she had to trust more to her research than her eyes. Very little light snuck into the front salon, likely to protect the gamblers’ privacy from passers-by on the street outside.
A tenseness she hadn’t been willing to acknowledge disappeared from her shoulders.
No one was here.
She was safe.
With a sigh of relief, she turned her back on the gaming tables and retraced her steps to the rear office.
She’d known the club would be empty. Past trends had indicated this was the safest of all moments to attempt a reconnaissance mission. All the same, she was relieved to be proven right.
After all, she well knew her disguise wouldn’t pass muster in direct light, or if forced to hold a lengthy conversation. It was simply for getting about in the shadows. A protective shield from the night.
A lad alone never received so much as a second glance. A lady alone received far more than mere glances.
Bryony far preferred being the lad.
She unlocked the office door. Despite the utter blackness within, she locked the door tight behind her as soon as she stepped inside.
Although the plans of the building failed to indicate the location of candles and sconces, logic dictated that there must be one near the door for those entering or exiting the office. She retrieved the tinderbox from her pocket and struck the flint to the metal.
There. Quickly, she lit a taper and lifted the candle from its holder. She stared about her in wonder.Thiswas the black heart of theton’s most infamous den of iniquity?
