Rodolphus could tell straight away that it wasn't cognac being poured. But then again, he wondered just how many patrons in an establishment like this would be able to tell the difference. He didn't cause a fuss yet, and would berate Bletchley later.
The ruse was good, and he nodded, excusing himself as he headed in the indicated matter, opening the door on the right and waiting for Bletchley to come in. He helped himself to the fire-whiskey that was in the decanter on Bletchley's desk - at least he suspected that would be of a finer vintage than the crap he'd just poured him at the bar.
He turned when Bletchley came into his office, standing by the fireplace with the glass in his hand. He dropped the accent and stared him down, pleased at least to see that Bletchley was immediately putting up privacy wards. He's already raised his own as this was a very private conversation. "You know, this is almost as good as the finest I could find in Blagden's cellar. The Greengrass wine cellar truly has some fine selections. You must take some back to your wife the next time you visit."