by Joanna Shupe
“Just send me all the bills.”
“Oh, I will.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Where is your intrepid sidekick, the lovely Miss Greene?”
“I sent her home.” For her own good. He would have liked nothing more than to curl up in bed with her right now. Pleasure her until he forgot all about intruders, corrupt coppers, Duncan Greene and the other myriad worries that plagued him on a daily basis. Worse, this separation could last days. Weeks. If there were more random acts of violence within these walls, he couldn’t allow her to return.
He ground his teeth together. The idea of going weeks without seeing her hurt worse than when he’d been jumped by three toughs in a Bowery gin house at the age of fourteen. They’d stolen his take for the week, a meager forty dollars, after busting several of his ribs.
Still, he’d rather face that than any stretch of time without Florence.
“Is she planning to return now that the drama is over?” Anna asked, oblivious to Clay’s inner turmoil.
“No, not until the threat has passed.”
Jack snorted. “That may never happen, considering.”
“You can’t protect her all the time, Clay,” Anna said. “Besides, she’s a grown woman. She knows the risks of coming here.”
Clay didn’t care. He’d protect her to the best of his ability, and that meant sorting out this mess first. “Thank you but I know what I’m doing.”
“Does this mean you are going uptown to see her?”
Uptown? Had Anna lost her mind? A man like Clay was constantly on guard, always looking over his shoulder. Even disregarding his current problems with Bill and the Metropolitan Police, there were plenty of men who’d do him harm if given the chance. Clay would rather not give them the opportunity. “You know I prefer not to leave the club.”
Anna rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Which is absurd. Your legion of enemies cannot track you at night in a closed carriage.”
“Or even in the daylight,” Jack put in. “If you recall, you attended a Giants game at the Polo Grounds not long ago.”
“For a meeting. That was business.”
“Your relationship with Miss Greene is also business,” Anna said. “All those late-night tutoring sessions.”
“Indeed. In his bedroom,” Jack added and Anna chuckled.
While they laughed at his expense, Clay thought about what Anna had said. He could leave the club, of course. He just preferred to remain here unless absolutely necessary. It was safer that way. Hell, one of Clay’s former associates had been gunned down in broad daylight three years ago in Washington Square Park. And that man had merely operated a low-level racket of policy shops.
Yet, the long evenings without Florence stretched out ahead of him like a thick gray fog. Lifeless and prosaic. An endless cycle of tedium. She’d brought light and joy to his world, even when he didn’t deserve it—light and joy that would be permanently taken away when she discovered his plans for her grandmother’s home.
That didn’t leave him much time.
There had to be a way to see her outside of the club and keep both of them safe. He couldn’t very well promenade with her in Central Park, but plenty of discreet locations existed for this sort of thing.
And wasn’t tomorrow her birthday?
He glanced at his pocket watch. Actually, today was her birthday.
Surely he could think of a way to surprise her.
Birthdays were usually fun, Florence thought as she finished the champagne in her glass. Tonight they dined in a private dining salon at Sherry’s, her favorite restaurant. She’d worn her favorite dress. And she’d ordered all her favorite dishes.
So why did this year’s celebration feel as though a dark cloud loomed on the horizon?
No one was particularly cheerful. Her father, with his tight jaw and distracted demeanor, was strangely subdued throughout dinner. Mamie also seemed preoccupied, lost in her thoughts and uncommunicative. For her part, Florence spent the meal worried about Clay and wondering when she’d see him again. Which left Justine and their mother to shoulder the burden of the dinner conversation.
It was clear by dessert that no one wished to prolong the evening. The plates were barely cleared when her father stood to call an end to the service. “Darling Florence, happy birthday. Now, if you all don’t mind I have an early meeting. It’s best if we head home.”
“Daddy, you and Mama go on,” Mamie said. “We’ll stay here and finish the champagne.”
“Are you certain?” Mama asked, her brows lowered in concern. “I don’t like the idea of you three unescorted in a hansom at night.”
Florence dug her nails into her palms to keep from laughing like a loon. If only her mother knew how often the two eldest Greene siblings were in hansoms, unescorted, late at night. She’d likely faint from the shock.
“We’ll be fine,” Mamie assured her. “I’ll have the staff fetch a carriage for us in a few moments.”
Mama glanced at their father. “What do you think, Duncan?”
“I think it’s best if your mother and I take a hansom home instead. Then you three may stay as long as you like and George will see you home,” he said, referring to their family driver.
Decision made, her parents gave their farewells and departed. Waiters bustled in and out of the salon, clearing away the dishes and glassware. When they were finally alone, Florence turned to Mamie. “You were awfully anxious to rid ourselves of them.”
Mamie’s mouth curved into a knowing smile, the one she wore when hiding a secret. “And you’ll soon see why, little sister.”
“Well, I want to know,” Justine said. “What’s happening?”
Mamie leaned back in her chair, champagne glass in hand. “Perhaps I wished for more time with my sisters.”
“I’d sooner believe you plan to run an oyster cart in the Bowery,” Florence said. “Tell me what this is about.”
Instead of answering, Mamie handed Florence a note.
Make certain Florence leaves alone. I have a surprise for her.
—M
Who on earth . . . ? Then it hit her with the subtlety of three aces. Clayton. Was he downstairs? Excitement fizzed and popped in her veins, just like the champagne she’d been drinking all night. Goodness, how she longed to see him.
Confusion quickly overshadowed her excitement, however. Clay never left the Bronze House. It made no sense for him to come to Sherry’s only to escort her home. “When did you receive this?”
“During appetizers.” Mamie looked at her fingernails as if appreciating them. “And I kept your little rendezvous a secret this whole time.”
“Why do I have a feeling I will owe you something for that favor?”
“Because you will. Frank is helping me with one of the tenement wives. She’s been arrested and there may be stretches of time where I’ll need to disappear. You will cover for me with our parents.”
“Arrested!” Justine was aghast. “For what?”
“Murdering her husband,” Mamie said. “Frank plans to get her acquitted. But he needs my help so—”
“I’ll bet he does,” Florence said under her breath, which prompted Mamie to elbow her. “Ouch! Fine, I’ll make sure Daddy and Mama don’t suspect a thing.”
“You are the best liar in the family,” Justine said to Florence. “You have a bizarre talent for thinking on your feet.”
“It’s not hard. All you have to do is sound like you know what you’re talking about. People believe you if you speak with confidence.” She pushed her chair away from the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to see who is outside.”
“But I thought it was Clayton Madden,” Justine said, rising, as well.
“He hardly ever leaves the Bronze House,” Florence explained. Now that she thought about it, the possibility of Clay waiting for her seemed far-fetched. And considering the assault of the doorman last night, whoever waited downstairs could have a nefarious purpose. “And there have been some strange happenings of la
te. It could be someone else hoping to trick me.”
“Then we should come with you,” Mamie said. “I won’t allow either of my sisters to be hurt.”
“Nor will I,” Justine added.
Florence was touched by this show of familial solidarity. “Come along, then. We may stab any ne’er-do-wells with hatpins together.”
The three sisters left the salon and descended the staircase to the main floor. The restaurant was crowded, a mix of high society, theatrical folk and political cronies. Black-coated waiters hustled about and diners carried on loud, animated conversations. Florence ignored the chaos and headed straight to the front door.
She could hardly breathe once on the sidewalk. Justine and Mamie were right behind her, but Florence didn’t wait. She started walking up Fifth Avenue to search the carriages. Whoever was waiting for her would not find her trembling in a corner. Show no fear.
“Might I offer you a ride, miss?” a deep voice said from behind her.
Whirling, she gasped. Clay stood there, dressed in the finest black evening clothes. A silk top hat sat on his head, a walking stick in his hand. He even wore a crisp white shirt, a sharp departure from his usual all-black attire. Hell’s bells, the man was sinfully attractive. He was thunder and electricity, a shock of raw heat and masculinity. The words died in her throat. All she could do was stare at him, frozen, like a painting.
They’d find her in a museum one day, the title of the work simply listed as “Woman Gobsmacked.”
“I knew it was you,” Justine said. Her youngest sister, unafraid of anyone or anything, came right up to Clay. “You’re Clayton Madden.”
“I am. You must be Miss Justine.” He bowed—bowed!—over her sister’s hand, and Florence felt her eyes nearly bulge from her skull. “And Miss Greene,” Clay said to Mamie. “Nice to see you again.”
Mamie smirked. “We didn’t officially meet before.”
“True, but I do keep tabs on everyone and everything in my club. It’s not often a woman is nearly drugged at my roulette table.”
“What are you doing here?” Florence said quietly. Her initial shock had receded, but she was having a hard time believing Clay was here on Fifth Avenue, chatting with her sisters. “Shouldn’t you be at the club?”
His dark eyes sparkled with a teasing light she hadn’t seen before, one that melted her insides like a hot knife through butter. “I took the evening off,” he said. “I thought I might surprise you.”
She could feel her skin heating, the blush undoubtedly evident to anyone in a three-block radius, thanks to her pale skin. “With a ride home?”
“Eventually. I have more than that planned, however.” He faced Mamie and Justine. “Ladies, may I steal her away?”
“Please do,” Mamie said. “Justine and I will take the long way home, just in case our parents are still awake.”
“And we’ll tell your maid you’ve come down with a stomach ailment,” Justine added. “That’ll buy you even more time.”
“Thank you,” Florence told them before meeting Clay’s gaze. “Are you actually here?”
“Come along and I shall prove it to you. My carriage is just ahead.”
Waving to her sisters, she allowed Clay to escort her to his carriage. On Fifth Avenue. Outside Sherry’s. In evening clothes. It hardly seemed real.
He stopped alongside a large black closed carriage. Clearly expensive, the conveyance was no rented hack. Gold accents and pearl inlays decorated the lacquered wood. He handed her up then called for the driver to depart. When he followed her inside, he sat across from her, his bulk almost comically large for the intimate interior.
“The way you look tonight,” he rasped. “You take my breath away.”
The compliment burrowed under her skin and wrapped around her heart. She’d never had a man stare at her as Clay did, so intently. Hotly. Like he burned for her. She felt that heat in her belly, in the thrumming of her blood. “You . . .” She could barely articulate her thoughts. Her, the woman never at a loss for words. “You look quite handsome.”
“Thank you.”
“What happened to not playing the gentleman with me?”
The side of his mouth hitched in a roguish, playful manner. “Allowances must be made on your birthday, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t sure you remembered.”
“Of course. Twenty-two. Which is still too young but certainly older than you were yesterday.”
She bit her lip. Who was this man? This was an entirely different side of Clayton Madden. “Where are we going? Just a ride about town?”
“Now, what kind of present would that be?”
“You bought me a present?”
“In a roundabout way. But it’s a surprise.”
She peeked out the window. They were heading south on Fifth Avenue, already past Thirty-Fourth Street. “Are we going to the club?”
“That would be disappointing, were I hoping to surprise you. You’ve already seen the club.”
“So you’re taking me to a place I haven’t been before.”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “No more questions. You’ll not worm it out of me before we arrive.”
She nearly bounced on her seat with excitement. She couldn’t remember the last time she had this much fun. Though it was hard, she’d try to curb her curiosity for now. “Was there an intruder at the Bronze House last night?”
“No.”
“And your guard, the one knocked out. How is he faring?”
“Perfectly well. Anna’s girls have been seeing to his recovery. I’m told he may languish for a few weeks.”
Florence laughed. “Well, that’s good. So I may return tomorrow.”
“No, not yet. I’d like a few more days until we know the assault was a random incident, not part of a larger plan.”
“But Clay—”
“Don’t argue, Florence.” His hand shot out to capture her wrist. In one tug of his powerful arm, she ended up on his lap. He held her tight. “Let’s enjoy your birthday and the rest of the evening. I have been dying to get my hands on you.”
She relaxed into his chest, the warmth from his body like a drug, turning her limbs languid and heavy. “I missed you.”
“Oh, my dear girl. Missing you doesn’t come close to what I’ve felt.” He cupped the back of her head and brought her forward, until her mouth met his. She nearly sighed at the feel of him, the hard chest and thighs underneath her. Soft, plush lips plucked at hers over and over again. Then his tongue darted out to twine with her own, swirling and stroking, driving her mad.
When they pulled apart, both were breathing hard. She laid her head on his shoulder. “I hope my birthday surprise contains more kisses like that one.”
“Many, many more,” he promised. “As many as you like.”
“Tell me where we’re going.”
He dragged a fingertip along the edge of her bodice, tracing the exposed skin and making her shiver. “We’re almost there.”
“Hmm, so it’s above Fourteenth.”
“You’ll never guess the location, so you might as well learn some patience.”
“I bet I could guess it, if I had enough time.”
“A gambler at heart.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “And no, you couldn’t.”
The wheels slowed and she peered out the window. They were on Broadway, just north of Madison Square Park. “Are we going to a hotel?” Many high-end hotels lined these few blocks, like the Fifth Avenue Hotel and Hotel Albemarle. Perhaps Clay had rented them a suite for the night.
“In a sense.” He reached to throw open the door. Setting her off his lap, he climbed down to the street. “Come along.”
She took his hand and descended. They were in front of the Hoffman House, one of the grandest hotels in the city. Tammany Hall used it as an unofficial headquarters, and nearly every major city decision was brokered here.
Clay took her arm and started for the doors. Only, he didn’t lead them to the lobby ent
rance. He directed her toward the saloon. The male-only saloon. Moralists were always screaming that Hoffman House’s Grand Saloon should be closed, due to a scandalous painting on the wall. Which was likely why women were not permitted inside. Fools. They thought protecting women from nudity would save society. Instead, it taught shame and ignorance.
“After you,” he said and pulled open the taproom door.
“But women aren’t allowed.”
He dipped his head and put his mouth near her ear. “This particular woman is allowed just for tonight.”
A thrill shot along her spine, the illicit lure of the forbidden. She stepped inside, unsure what she’d find. Elegance greeted her, a room as fine as any she’d ever come across. Mahogany panels lined the long room, which had high decorative ceilings. Thick Eastern carpets covered the floor and surrounded a carved wooden bar. French tapestries covered the walls, and marble and bronze nude statues were displayed proudly.
“Welcome, miss. Mr. Madden.” A waiter approached them. Four other waiters hovered in the background. “May we show you to your table?”
It was then that Florence realized there was only one table set up in the saloon, under a red velvet canopy. A matching red drape covered the wall under the canopy, an ornate chandelier overhead.
“Thank you,” Clay said and took Florence’s arm.
They followed the waiter to the table. Florence’s head swiveled as she struggled to take it all in. No woman had ever graced these floors, observed these walls. How had Clay talked them into allowing her to be the first?
He held out her chair and she lowered herself down. Who was this casino owner with such impeccable manners? The man was layers and layers of mystery. One I hope to solve.
“May I bring you both a drink?” the waiter asked when Clay had claimed the empty seat.
“Two house cocktails, please,” Clay said. “And your oldest bottle of Bordeaux.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter departed and Florence narrowed her eyes playfully. “Should I not get to choose my own drink on my birthday?”