Frances nodded, rapt.
Max was waxing poetic on the last of the tables when he realized he had spent the past quarter hour deep in a monologue about all the ways Bryony had not only made his life easier, but personally changed his club for the better.
“So... she makes herself useful?” Frances asked with a knowing smile. “It sounds like this club belongs to both of you.”
Max’s smile died.
His sister’s insightful comment had hit a bit too close to home.
The Cloven Hoof did not belong to both him and Bryony. The property currently belonged to Bryony alone. If she wished, she could shut it down at any time.
He didn’t think shewould, mostly because such a counter-intuitive action would be an irresponsible financial decision not supported by available facts. When it came to business, Bryony could be trusted to take the most logical path.
However, it did not require an analytical genius to realize selling Max such a lucrative property made absolutely no business sense at all. Bryony would be foolish to give up her best advantage.
And Bryony was far from foolish.
Frances crossed from the gaming salon to the seating area. “What is the purpose of this room? Are these tables numbered, too?”
Before Max could answer, the rear exit opened and Bryony struggled inside with a slender wooden crate.
Her hair was tucked inside a top hat not unlike the one his sister wore. Her greatcoat fit just as badly, her nankeen trousers a little too long, her smile just as wide.
She looked more beautiful every time he saw her.
He crossed his arms and scowled at her. “I knew you were behind this.”
“Of course I was behind this,” she said cheerfully as she placed an oblong case wrapped in linen down on the floor.
He would make his inquiries into this new mystery in a moment.
“How the devil did you determine my sister’s address?” he demanded.
Bryony hooked her top hat on the wall and raised her brows. “Have you met my brother?”
“Thank you so much for sending for me.” Frances bounded over to Bryony with the excitement of a newborn kitten. “I love everything I’ve seen so far, but Max gives a dreadful tour. Won’t you show me about?”
“I’ll do my best.” Self-consciously, Bryony gave a crooked smile. “It’s not my club. Everything you see here, Max built. He is the brains behind every detail.”
Frances shot a knowing look over her shoulder at Max. “Is that so? Have you not been helping with the wine and the tables?”
Bryony shrugged out of her greatcoat and draped it over her arm. Max watched her lead Fran back down the corridor toward the entrance, not realizing she had just come from there.
“I might tune where I can, but the foundation was already here.” Bryony frowned and corrected herself. “More than a foundation. The Cloven Hoof was blossoming before I ever stepped through the door. Do you see this bar?”
Frances nodded innocently. “Seems the sort of venue that would only sell French wine.”
Bryony waved this away. “We did have a few extra cases by mistake, but that was solved in a trice. As is everything. Max quite brilliantly keeps a few bottles on hand from every part of the world. Whether your taste runs to ales brewed here in London, wine or whiskey smuggled from the darkest corners of Europe, he can meet your every desire. This is not just a gambling den, but a place where wishes come true.”
Max’s chest warmed.
“And these tables?” Frances asked. “Were you involved in determining their function?”
“I shared ideas,” Bryony admitted grudgingly. “But your brother had already nearly maximized every bit of potential.”
Frances arched her brows. “How so?”
“He purchased the perfect tables for every kind of game, and is meticulous about their upkeep and condition,” Bryony explained. “In other gambling dens, warped surfaces and rickety chairs lead to an unpleasant gaming experience. Not here in the Cloven Hoof. Your brother has ensured his players enjoy every comfort. They have no reason to leave, which increases their satisfaction as well as the club’s profits.”
