The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  “What if she’s attracted to you, as well?”

  He shook his head. Florence Greene had her pick of men in Manhattan. Why on earth would she settle on a man like Clay, who lived in the shadows? “She isn’t, nor will she be.” Not after spending a significant amount of time with him. He wasn’t capable of romance and warmth. Of long walks and picnics in the park. He preferred the nighttime, with its damp fog and anonymity.

  Anna tossed back the remaining liquid in her glass. “I’d best return next door.” She rose. “Shall I send over a nice young woman to keep you company tonight?”

  He thought about it. The problem was Anna’s people were being paid. Clay didn’t like feigned passion. And he knew his face wasn’t the kind to draw admirers. “No, that’s not necessary.”

  “Clay.” Her voice gentled and he braced himself. “You’ve been alone far too long. What’s it been since that pretty widow, a year?”

  Eleven months, but who was counting? “Stop wasting your pity on me. I’m perfectly fine. Go see to your business.”

  “I’m not going to drop this. You deserve happiness.”

  No, I didn’t, he thought as he watched Anna leave. He was not a good man. His entire life he’d traded on fear and violence to get what he wanted. Namely, money, power and Duncan Greene’s ruin. Only after he succeeded would Clay turn his eyes toward a legitimate venture—one that might turn him into someone deserving of a slice of happiness.

  Until then, he was more than happy to embrace the darkness.

  Florence Greene had said it was like making a deal with the devil. She wasn’t that far off.

  “And where were you last night?”

  Florence tore her gaze away from the passing buildings to cast a bland stare at her younger sister, Justine. It was midmorning and the three Greene sisters were traveling a few blocks south to visit their grandmother. “I don’t know what you mean. I was home.”

  “No, you weren’t. I came to see you around eleven-thirty and your bed was empty.”

  “I have a good idea where she went,” Mamie said. “And I bet it starts with the letters b and h.”

  “The Bronze House? Again?” Justine’s brows nearly touched her hairline, they were so high. “Did you at least win?”

  “Of course.” As if she’d lose. “And I’ll donate the money to your charity, as usual. Why is no one asking Mamie about where she went last night?” Florence knew full well that her older sister had gone out to see a man. Why was a trip to the Bronze House more interesting than Mamie’s tête-à-tête?

  “Now, that is interesting. I know she wasn’t meeting Chauncey,” Justine said, referring to Mamie’s almost-fiancé. “Because he’s with his family in Boston.”

  “How do you know that?” Mamie asked with a frown. “He didn’t tell me he was leaving town.”

  Florence rolled her eyes heavenward. “The only way you two could care less about one another is if you were perfect strangers. Lord, Mamie. Why are you marrying that man?”

  “I don’t wish to talk about Chauncey . . . or any other man,” she added, her tone harsher than usual.

  This merely piqued Florence’s interest further. She had a good idea who the other man was in this case. The air fairly sparked whenever Mamie and Frank Tripp were in the same room together. Yet, Florence knew that pushing her sister would not help the situation. Stubborn as a mule, Mamie had to make up her own mind on matters. Florence sent Justine a look, a slight shake of her head to indicate they should switch topics.

  “So the Bronze House,” Justine prompted with a nod in Florence’s direction. “Tell us everything.”

  “I finally met Mr. Madden.”

  Both sisters stared at her in astonishment. “You did?” Mamie’s voice was a whisper even though they were alone.

  “I did. He summoned me to his office and demanded to know why I kept returning to his casino.”

  “What did you tell him?” her older sister asked.

  “Forget that for a moment,” Justine said. “What did he look like?” Justine was the romantic one, always seeing the good in people. She thought anyone could be redeemed, if only shown enough love.

  “Sturdy, with shoulders like—” Florence held her hands out wide to indicate the breadth of Clay’s shoulders. “And handsome, in a rough sort of way.” She didn’t tell her sisters of his two admissions, that he was attracted to her and had designs to ruin their father. He’d soon get over the first and she’d dissuade him of the second.

  “Did he hurt you?” Mamie lowered her brows, her shoulders hunching. “Because I will—”

  “Settle down, big sister. He didn’t hurt me. And, he’s agreed to tutor me.”

  “Tutor you?” Justine glanced between Mamie and Florence. “Do not tell me this is about that casino for ladies again.”

  Florence had confided in her sisters about her idea months ago, and Justine had predictably disagreed about the need for a ladies-only casino. Mamie liked the notion, only commenting that it was impractical. Florence didn’t care. She’d show everyone that a woman could succeed in business as well as a man. “Yes, this is about the casino for ladies. And you’re wasting your breath if you think to talk me out of it.”

  Justine’s lips tightened but she said nothing more. The carriage swung around the corner to start along Seventy-Ninth Street and Florence tried to shake off her morose mood.

  Lord, she was tired of this, of feeling like the odd sister out. Mamie, the self-assured and strong one, not to mention Daddy’s favorite. Justine, their mother’s favorite daughter, was the righteous and kind one. Florence was . . . nothing. The daughter they rolled their eyes over; the girl no one understood. She hated society, while Mamie and Justine tolerated it. She wanted to explore the city, while her parents insisted they stay north of Forty-Second Street. She had no interest in marrying and turning her life over to a man, while Mamie was practically betrothed, the understanding arrived at years ago.

  Florence had always been the problematic one.

  Florence, be a good girl in church today.

  Florence, do not say anything outrageous during tea.

  Florence, stop encouraging the housemaids to unionize.

  So she’d learned to play the part. To lie and pretend. Whatever the situation required, Florence adapted to blend in. Mamie had once called her a chameleon. Florence rather liked the comparison. Changing was certainly easier than fighting to be noticed all the time.

  Only her grandmother seemed to comprehend Florence’s real nature, the burning need to do something else with her life. Which was why Florence loved their grandmother like no other person on earth.

  “Look, they’ve torn down those two houses over there, the ones up the street from Granny.” Justine pointed out the window. “Who lived there?”

  “The Turners and the Hoffmans, I think,” Mamie said. “The houses were stunning. I wonder why they were torn down.”

  Florence murmured in agreement, though it wasn’t that unusual. New York City was forever building up and tearing down. Old and new. Outdated and modern. And some of the people who lived up here had more money than sense. Why, there was a castle with an actual moat a few blocks north.

  And in less than two years there would be a casino just for ladies. Wouldn’t that send Knickerbocker tongues wagging? She’d be an independent business owner, relying on no one other than herself.

  The carriage slowed to a halt in front of a large four-story stone house in the middle of the block. The house’s front door cracked before the wheels even stopped rolling. Granny appeared on the front stoop, her tall frame clad in a smart purple silk morning gown. Her hair was mostly gray, with only a hint of the dark brown from her youth. She was a handsome woman, still fit and sharp as a tack. A formidable society matron, Granny held the annual Forsythia Ball each spring, which made Mrs. Astor’s Patriarch Ball look like a child’s tea party.

  The three sisters piled out of the carriage and stepped to the ground. Florence let Mamie and Justine precede
her, as she always preferred to enter her grandmother’s home last.

  “You look tired,” Granny said when Florence finally climbed the step. “Should I be worried?”

  She melted at her grandmother’s concern. That was one of the hundreds of reasons Florence loved this woman. “Hello, Granny. I’m fine, just out late causing trouble.”

  Granny patted Florence’s cheek, her expression filled with understanding and affection. “I’d expect nothing less from you, sweet child. We are alike in our restlessness, I’m afraid.”

  “And beauty,” Florence added with an exaggerated wink.

  “Not to mention our fondness for cards. Speaking of, we missed you at the weekly game yesterday. I won a diamond brooch.”

  Florence hated missing her grandmother’s weekly euchre game. “I hope you weren’t cheating again.”

  Granny chuckled. “As if I need to stoop to such antics. Come in and you may catch me up on your week.”

  Florence smiled and nodded. As they went inside, she caught a glimpse of another empty lot farther up the street. “Why have all these houses been torn down recently?”

  “Probably for another tall office building. Dashed things are a blight on our city. They offered to buy me out of this house.”

  “Buy you out?” Florence closed the heavy wooden door, one that still had an indentation from her shoe. At nine years old, she’d been furious with Mamie and thrown a boot at her sister—thankfully missing—only to hit Granny’s front door. Her grandmother had laughed over the damage, telling Florence to work on improving her aim. Florence knew every inch of this house. She’d practically been raised here. “You didn’t sell, did you?”

  “Goodness, no. They keep sending me letters with offers and I just let them pile up. I do not even bother to open them any longer.”

  “That’s a relief. I love this house.” Granny’s home had been Florence’s refuge during her childhood. She’d spent nearly every weekend here. Now the entire Greene family gathered at Granny’s for each holiday.

  “I know you do. That is why I left it to you in my will.”

  This was not news. Granny had been saying as much for years, ever since Florence’s debut. “But you are never allowed to die.”

  Granny’s mouth softened. “It happens to all of us, I’m afraid. I have such fond memories of this house, though. You know, your father terrorized his younger sister and brother right in these very halls.”

  “He did?” Florence asked.

  Granny took Florence’s arm and began leading her to the sitting room. “Oh, I have stories about your father that would make your toes curl. Maybe I’ll share them one day.”

  “Can’t you tell us just one for today?”

  “Oh, let’s see. There was the time he put a garden slug in your uncle Thomas’s slipper . . .”

  Chapter Four

  Heart pounding, Florence didn’t know what to expect when she knocked on the now-familiar bronze door that evening. Clay had agreed to mentor her, yes, but they hadn’t decided on a schedule or discussed the topics to cover. Would he turn her away? Or would he make time for her?

  It didn’t matter, she realized. He’d agreed not to bar her from the casino, and just walking inside was an education. So if she didn’t see him tonight, she’d still find the experience beneficial.

  And any disappointment over that possibility needed to be quashed.

  The young man at the door lifted his brows when he spied her. “Looks like I owe Bald Jack twenty dollars. Thought for certain you’d change your mind about lessons from Mr. Madden.”

  Ah, so word had gotten out amongst the staff. “You bet against me because I’m a woman?”

  “Name’s Pete,” he said as he waved her in. “And my bet had nothing to do with you being a woman. I’ve seen grown men piss themselves at the idea of spending time with Mr. Madden.” His expression grew sheepish. “Beg pardon, miss.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard worse. No need to censor yourself on my account.”

  “That’s what Mr. Madden said. He told the staff no one should make allowances for you or change their behavior when you’re about. I can’t see how that’s proper, though. We don’t have any other women in the club, except for Annabelle, and she don’t mind a bit of bawdy talk.”

  Annabelle? Who was that, Madden’s relative? An employee she hadn’t met? His paramour? She put that thought aside for the moment. “In this case, Mr. Madden is correct. I don’t require any special treatment. Now, where shall I go? To the floor?”

  “Up to the balcony with you.” Pete pressed a flat panel behind him. It clicked then popped open. This must be another secret passage. “Mr. Madden wants you up there first.”

  She ignored the flutter in her belly as she climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. The dim lighting swathed the shabby interior in gloomy shadows. Clay clearly hadn’t bothered to spend money where no one would see it. The public part of the casino was lavish and elegant. This portion was . . . not.

  The balcony was empty. No doubt Clay would be along when it suited him, so she stood near the rail and waited, observing the action on the floor.

  “There you are.”

  She started at the deep voice behind her. Whirling, she found Clay there, dressed in all black again. His face appeared impassive, almost forbidding, but his eyes said something else entirely. Light danced in the dark depths as he stared down at her, almost as if he was glad to see her.

  “How do you manage that?”

  He cocked his head. “Manage what?”

  “Walk without making a single sound?”

  “Practice.”

  “Were you a thief at one time? Breaking into homes and stealing jewels?”

  “No, I prefer to steal outright.” He waved a hand at the casino floor. “It’s much cleaner that way.”

  Hard to argue with his logic. “Busy evening. I think this is the most crowded I’ve seen it.”

  “A bit busier than normal. See that group near the back, the gents at the roulette table? Some sort of pre-wedding bacchanal.”

  She searched where he indicated—and then gasped. Good Lord, she knew every man at that table. Had danced with many of them at various parties and balls. Fought off advances from two at a particularly rousing costume ball.

  She instinctively took a step back into the shadows.

  “Ah. May I assume you are acquainted with these young men?”

  “One or two,” she lied. “I’d rather not be recognized, if I’m able to avoid it.”

  “Then tonight we best begin our lessons off the floor. Follow me.”

  “Off the floor? But what about—”

  “My casino, my rules,” Clay said as he started down the long side of the balcony. She hurried to keep up, remaining close to the wall and shrouded in the darkness. Where was he taking her?

  They twisted through several corridors to a set of stairs. Without telling her what he was about, he started climbing. His feet made no noise, as if he were a ghost. Meanwhile, her heels clicked loudly on the old pine, alerting anyone in earshot of her presence. Another trick I need for him to teach me.

  He held open a door at the top of the stairs. “Welcome to the training room.”

  Training room? She stepped inside . . . and froze. Tables were spread out in the large space, each one a different game. Roulette. Craps. Card tables. It was a veritable feast of chance.

  He came to stand at her side. “You look like a child in an ice cream parlor.”

  “You have a miniature casino on your third floor.”

  “Yes, I do. As I said, it’s the training room. You don’t think those dealers and croupiers come to us fully trained, do you?”

  That made sense. “So you teach them the games here.”

  “Wrong. Most have an understanding of how roulette or craps works. What they don’t know is how the games work in my casino.”

  “But I’ve played in your casino. It’s no different than anywhere else.”

  He walked toward
the closest card table. “Isn’t it?”

  She thought back to her nights here as a guest. “I . . .” She trailed off, unable to come up with an answer.

  “Florence, if gambling here was like anywhere else, then why would anyone choose to patronize the Bronze House? The overpriced champagne?”

  “Because the Bronze House has the fairest games in the city.”

  “Exactly. There’s no need to cheat guests when the very nature of the game is leveraged for the house to always come out ahead.”

  “Every game?”

  “Yes.” He picked up a deck of cards from the green baize and began shuffling, his thick, blunt fingers moving deftly.

  “But I won every time I played here.”

  “You are a rare exception, Miss Greene.” He flicked his eyes over her face. “But then, you are an exception in many ways.”

  Was he calling her exceptional? With any other man, this banter would come across like flirting. With Clay she couldn’t tell. “I was lucky.”

  He gave a dry, hoarse laugh, a sound torn unwillingly from his throat. “There is no such thing as luck. No, you are extremely talented.”

  Warmth suffused her chest. She didn’t know why his praise affected her like this, but her insides were quickly turning to jelly. If there’s an opportunity to get you in my bed I won’t hesitate to take it. Was this part of his effort? If so, she feared it might work. Flowers and jewelry from admirers hadn’t ever wooed her, yet a man who noticed her gambling skills? That was dangerous.

  She might end up dragging him to bed if he kept it up.

  “Now,” he said, “you’ve always looked at the games from the guest’s perspective. I am going to teach you to look at the games from the house’s perspective.”

  Why was he so appealing like this, with his stern voice and exceptional card-shuffling skills? His hands were nimble and steady, the cards moving swiftly through his fingers. He bent them, flipped them, spun them around. Cut the deck with just a flick of his wrist. Clever man. She could watch this for hours.

  “Which game has the best odds for a guest to win?”