He leaped from his chair and dashed into the corridor just as the knock sounded a second time. He paused.
The sound had not come from the rear exit leading to the alleyway, but from the primary entrance at the front.
Frowning, he strode through the club to the main door and threw it open wide.
A lad in ill-fitting clothing and a too-big top hat stared back at him.
Not a lad.
His sister.
“What the devil?” Max spluttered.
“So this is the Cloven Hoof,” Frances said as she brushed past him into the primary salon. “I can’t see a thing. Consider lighting a few candles for your guest.”
“Why are you here?” he demanded. “Howare you here?”
“I received an invitation. And this outfit.” She gestured at her preposterous ensemble. “This is where the driver brought me.”
Max buried his face in his hands. “Good Lord.”
This had to be Bryony’s doing. But for what purpose? What could she mean by it?
“I found a candle,” Frances called. “Shall I use this to light the others?”
Max reached behind the bar for a tinderbox and then lit the spare taper closest to the door. Without a word, he set about lighting all the other candles until the interior of the Cloven Hoof was as bright as it ever managed to get.
“No wonder you only wear black,” Frances said, impressed. “Can the players even read their cards?”
“It’s not that dark,” he groused. “What exactly was in your invitation? When did you receive it? Did she say anything else?”
“She?” Frances asked. “It was signed ‘Basil Q. Jones.’”
“And youcame?” Max thundered.
“It did say ‘Bryony’ beneath that, in parentheses,” Frances mused, then turned toward the gaming tables. “I’m inside a den of iniquity! I never thought this day would come. Start the tour, dear brother.”
Max clamped his teeth together. He wanted to be angry. Heoughtto be angry. But Bryony had managed a feat that he had not.
Since the Cloven Hoof’s inception, Frances had wanted to visit. He hadn’t allowed her to do so, because he felt such a risk too dangerous.
The last time the topic had come up, hehadoffered to bring Fran after hours, and she had turned him down. He didn’t blame her. Too little, too late.
Basil Q. Jones to the rescue.
Max gave up trying to fight Fate.
“This is the bar,” he said, gesturing behind him. “It previously contained a disproportionate quantity of Bordeaux and Champagne, but once Bryony reframed our stock of French wine as ‘spoils of war,’ it became the only thing anyone will drink, no matter the price.”
Frances’s eyes widened. “Bryony did that?”
He smirked. “I believe her exact words were something like, ‘We beat Boney and we’ll drink his land dry. Every bubbly drop of it.’”
Frances grinned in satisfaction. “I do like her.”
So did Max.
He crossed to the gaming tables and explained each one in turn. Its number, according to the new index he and Bryony had devised. Its game and number of players. Whether there was a schedule change on certain days. Which ones were more profitable than others, and what steps Bryony had invented to exploit existing opportunities for higher gains.
