The Rogue of Fifth Avenue

by Joanna Shupe

  “I need this last plot of land,” Madden said. “It’s smack in the middle of the damn block.”

  Frank lifted a shoulder. “So make her a better offer.”

  “My offer has been above fair market value. I refuse to go higher.” He leaned in. “I want to take her to court.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “I had hoped you might suggest the grounds.”

  Frank shook his head. He could not fabricate laws. “If she owns the home and hasn’t broken any zoning violations then you have no case.”

  “What if I threaten her with legal action, no matter how bogus, to waste her time and money. Not to mention the embarrassment. She would still need to defend herself, even against a frivolous suit.”

  Ah. No wonder Madden’s lawyers were objecting. “In theory, yes. What is costly for her, however, is also costly for you. Why not start construction on either side of her? My guess is she won’t appreciate the noise or the chaos and she’ll move.”

  Madden’s expression shifted into something hopeful and devious. “Build around her house?”

  “Sure. Have your plans drawn up, get your permits. Then start demolition. I predict she’ll move before you break ground on the casino.”

  “I like it. Even by annoying her I have won.” He pointed at Frank. “I like how you think, Tripp.”

  “Thank you. By the way, I know a great architect. She’s the best.”

  “She?”

  “Mrs. Phillip Mansfield. Responsible for the new Mansfield Hotel.”

  Madden flipped open the lid of the enameled box on his desk and withdrew two cigars. “Ah, I’ve heard of her. I do appreciate a woman who shakes things up. Speaking of women, how did Greene take the news last night?”

  Frank merely pressed his lips together.

  The edges of Madden’s mouth curled as he trimmed the cigars. “You didn’t tell him. I am shocked,” he said, his tone suggesting the opposite.

  As Madden lit a cigar, Frank tried to defend himself. “I have merely postponed the conversation. Miss Greene and I are having dinner this evening, at which point I’ll learn what these outings are all about.”

  “You assume they have a purpose?” Madden handed the unlit cigar to Frank. “These bored society girls love to go slumming downtown. See how the other half lives.”

  “You’re not exactly downtown,” Frank pointed out as he pocketed the cigar for later. “If they wanted that, they’d travel to the Bowery.” Frank had grown up not far from there, where he’d gained firsthand knowledge of downtown squalor. Memories that haunted him still, ensuring he’d do anything and everything to never return there.

  Madden exhaled a long plume of white smoke. “The sister is an expert at roulette. Craps, too. She was up two hundred and thirty dollars by my count.”

  High praise coming from the owner. “So the story of the stolen chips was true.”

  Madden shrugged. “I never saw any chips disappear.”

  The liar. Madden knew everything that went on in his club. “Where would Florence Greene learn to gamble like that?”

  “I couldn’t say. Seems both the Greene sisters have secrets.”

  “Any chance you’ll tell me about your squabble with their father?”

  Madden puffed on his cigar and then tapped the ash in a dish. “Seeing as how you represent him, I think it best if I keep those reasons to myself.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t need conflict of interest charges brought against me.” He checked his pocket watch, then rose. Another client awaited, this one downtown, before he needed to return home and bathe for his dinner appointment with Mamie. Ignoring the sizzle that slid through him at the thought of seeing her, he said, “I have another meeting, unless there was something else?”

  Madden got to his feet. “No, you have been most helpful.” The owner reached into a drawer and pulled out a fat stack of cash. He held it out to Frank. “Thank you for your time.”

  Frank waved away the money. “I’ll bill you—”

  “Nonsense. I hate to be indebted to anyone, even for a short period. Take this, and if it’s not enough then see Jack for more.”

  Frank accepted the payment. He’d worked with enough men of Madden’s ilk to know that arguing was futile. Refusing their generosity only angered them, a complication Frank didn’t need at the moment. “Thank you. Good luck with your project.”

  “I don’t need luck.” Madden put his cigar between his teeth. “I own a casino. I am the goddamn luck.”

  Women were not supposed to play billiards. Well, there was no law prohibiting women from playing . . . but there might as well have been. The billiards room in nearly every fancy home was located far away from the common areas used by women. It was the goal, by segregating these male domains, to shelter ladies from the smell of tobacco and ribald language. To allow men a place away from the rest of the family, where they could drink and commune with other men.

  In the Greene household, however, the three sisters spent more time in the Moorish-style billiards room than hardly anywhere else. Their father never played and the girls had taken over the space as their own.

  That afternoon Mamie skipped paying calls with her mother to play a match of fifteen-ball pool with her siblings. The rules were simple: the player who reached sixty-one points first won the game, and whoever won best of three games collected the pot of seventy-five dollars. The second game was underway, with Justine easily handling the first. The youngest Greene sister, if not for her love of charities and being born the wrong gender, could have had a thriving career as a professional billiardist.

  Mamie hadn’t given up just yet, however. She was determined to win the money and divide it between the many struggling families she knew downtown.

  Florence studied the table and debated her shot. “Shall I sink the nine or try for the ten off the rails?” Justine opened her mouth, but Florence threw her a quelling look. “Do not answer. I’m merely thinking aloud.”

  Justine held up her hands and remained silent. Florence lined up and tried for the ten ball . . . only to miss the pocket. “Hell,” she cursed.

  Justine slid off her stool and strolled to the table. “You cannot carom to save your life. You never correctly judge the distance.”

  “Please stop giving advice.” Florence dropped into a chair. “No one likes a know-it-all.”

  “Or a sore loser,” Mamie pointed out before popping the rest of an almond macaroon in her mouth.

  Florence reached over to snatch the last macaroon off the tray. “Why did I let you talk me into putting up my last twenty-five dollars? I was saving it for something.”

  “Like another trip to a casino?”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Justine lined up and took a shot, sending the cue ball flying over the green baize. “How was your excursion last evening?”

  Mamie said nothing, not certain where to even begin, and Florence took the opportunity to weigh in. “We won over two hundred dollars, a fight broke out, someone drugged Mamie’s drink and our chips were stolen.”

  Justine sank another ball. “Goodness. Glad you were both unharmed. What was the fight about?”

  “Frank Tripp dropped from the ceiling to attack the man who drugged Mamie’s champagne.”

  “Frank Tripp?” Another ball fell into a pocket. “Daddy’s attorney?”

  “The one and only. He carried Mamie to his carriage—”

  “That is quite enough, Florence. Justine does not need to hear every detail.”

  Justine moved to the other side of the table. “Yes, Justine certainly does. Why on earth did he carry you?”

  “He insisted on driving us home. I was more inclined to hire a hack.”

  “You should have seen it,” Florence said. “Tripp jumped down from the balcony like an avenging angel, ready to pummel this man. Then he wouldn’t leave Mamie’s side. I think Tripp is sweet on our eldest sister.”

  Mamie’s stomach fluttered. “You are ridiculous.”

  Justine miss
ed her next shot. Frowning, she waved at Mamie. “Your turn. Put me down for twenty-four points, Florence.”

  In studying the table, Mamie saw Justine had already claimed the balls with the highest point values. That would make winning more difficult. She aimed for the seven ball first.

  “I am not ridiculous,” Florence said as Mamie leaned over the table. “I saw the way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention, like he was a starving wolf and you were a sweet little lamb he planned to bite.”

  Mamie’s hand slipped at that, the tip of her cue digging into the baize. “Dash it, Florence.”

  Florence and Justine both snickered, which had Mamie’s blood rising. She leaned on her cue and faced her sisters. “I have no interest in him. I only agreed to share dinner with him tonight because it was the only way to keep him from telling Daddy.”

  “Keep who from telling me what?”

  Mamie swung around at the deep voice and found her father in the doorway. Oh, dear. How much had he heard? “Hello, Daddy. I thought you were downtown today.”

  At six feet tall and over two hundred pounds, Duncan Greene commanded every room he entered. His family, one of the oldest and most prominent in New York, had built a shipping empire that now spanned the globe, an empire their father now directed. Before marrying their mother, he’d been an amateur baseball player, a boxer, hammer thrower and swimmer. Their mother said Duncan had been the only man capable of sweeping her off her feet, both literally and figuratively.

  He strolled inside the room and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Returned early. I thought we might have tea together. I’ve been missing my girls.”

  Florence ran to him first and their father opened his arms wide, enveloping her in a fierce hug. “Hello, Flo.” Justine was next, receiving the same larger-than-life embrace. Mamie waited until last. She and her father had always been the closest, possibly because he had no son on which to dote. So he’d doted on Mamie instead, making sure she would carry on the Greene legacy.

  He held her tight and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Marion, do you have something to tell me? Perhaps you could start with why you lied about attending the opera last night.”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding. The opera had been a poor lie, one she’d been forced to think up on the spot. “Because we went to a party, Daddy. Mother would not approve of the family and you know how I hate to put you in the middle of these silly social squabbles between us.”

  He grunted. “You let me worry about your mother. I don’t like lies, no matter the reason. Now, where are you going this evening?”

  “I’m having dinner with Mr. Tripp at Sherry’s.” Undoubtedly, someone would see them together and alert her father anyway. Better to tell him the truth now.

  “Frank Tripp, my attorney?” He angled to see her face. “I wasn’t aware the two of you had more than a passing acquaintance.”

  She lifted a shoulder in what she hoped came off as a casual move. “He was at last evening’s party and asked me to dinner. I had no reason to refuse.” Because he blackmailed me.

  “Girls,” he said to Florence and Justine. “Give your sister and me the room.”

  Pool match forgotten, both the younger Greene sisters hurried into the corridor, where Florence cast a last worried glance in Mamie’s direction before disappearing. Her younger sister undoubtedly feared Mamie would tell their father everything. Florence should know better. Mamie had no intention of telling her father about their trip to the casino, ever.

  Her father released her and walked to the tray of small sandwiches and sweets. He selected two smoked salmon sandwiches and popped one in his mouth. “I have known Frank Tripp a long time,” he said after he swallowed. “And I like him—as my lawyer. That does not mean I want him for a son-in-law.”

  “Daddy!”

  “Mamie, you are old enough to understand how these things can happen. But Frank is not of our world. He’s not Chauncey.” He finished the other sandwich in one bite. “Do you get what I am saying?”

  Yes, quite clearly. Her father thought Frank Tripp a brilliant lawyer but not good enough for his eldest daughter. His concern was unfounded, however. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not interested in Frank Tripp.”

  “My dear, he could sell water to a drowning man, he’s that persuasive.”

  “Well, he won’t persuade me. You know Chauncey and I are still promised.”

  Her father shook his head. “Won’t matter to Tripp. If he wants you, he’ll move heaven and earth to have you—not that I will grant my consent. You will marry Chauncey, no matter what happens.”

  “I know. We’ve discussed this a hundred times.”

  “I just need to make sure you don’t forget it. We made a promise to the Livingstons and I don’t think I must remind you what that promise means to me.”

  She rolled her eyes and parroted the words she’d heard so often. “It’s the joining of two of the most prestigious families in New York as a favor to the man who once saved my life in the war.”

  “That’s no small debt, Marion. And Chauncey will make a fine husband. You’ve known him your entire life. It’s not as if I’m sending you off to England to marry an old stodgy duke or a philandering earl.”

  The idea gave Mamie chills. At least she would live near her family after her marriage. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I won’t disappoint you.”

  “That’s my girl.” He leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “You’re my favorite, you know. But don’t tell your sisters.”

  She smiled and patted his chest. “I wouldn’t dare. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I love Florence and Justine dearly, but I don’t care who they marry. You, on the other hand, are different. You are the one who will carry on the Greene legacy by marrying Chauncey. Don’t let Frank Tripp—or any other man—try to convince you otherwise because I will not bend on this.”

  Chapter Three

  He had arrived first.

  Damn, Mamie thought as she was led through Sherry’s crowded main dining room. She’d purposely come fifteen minutes early, hoping to beat Tripp here. The additional time would have allowed her a chance to compose herself and calm her nerves before seeing him.

  The crafty man had robbed her of that chance.

  He stood, straightened his cuffs and threw her a wide smile. His black-and-white eveningwear perfectly complemented his handsome features. The vest and coat highlighted his wide shoulders and flat stomach, with the white bow tie and collar contrasting his dark hair. His blue eyes were sharp and shrewd, but never cold. No, they burned and sparked, as if his legendary ambition and intelligence heated an internal forge visible in his gaze.

  Curious eyes in the dining room tracked his movements, guests angling to get a better view of Frank Tripp. He was a man that women noticed and men either admired or feared.

  If he wants you, he’ll move heaven and earth to have you.

  She swallowed at the reminder of the words, her tongue suddenly thick in her mouth.

  Oh, this is ridiculous. She hadn’t been nervous around a man in her entire life. She certainly wouldn’t start now.

  Drawing herself up, she strode closer to him. His stare remained on her face, not once dipping to appreciate the care with which she had dressed tonight. Arriving from Paris only a few days ago, the cream silk evening gown was heavily embroidered on both the skirt and revealing bodice.

  She remembered once asking her mother why they dressed for every occasion, even when no one else was around to notice. Her mother had said, We dress for ourselves, for how it makes us feel, not to impress anyone else.

  Well, tonight Mamie felt beautiful, powerful and more than capable of standing up to one cunning lawyer.

  “I was certain you wouldn’t come,” were the first words out of his mouth. “Seeing how you routinely break your promises.”

  Her nerves evaporated. This was familiar ground, trading barbs and nursing the resulting anger inside her. “Are we to
start with insults, then? I had assumed we’d wait at least until the first course had been served.”

  Though he didn’t appear chastised in the least, he lifted her gloved hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Miss Greene, how beautiful you are this evening.”

  Goose bumps rushed over her skin. “I would thank you for the invitation but as I had no choice in the matter . . .”

  He chuckled and held out a chair for her. “It seems we both have trouble holding our tongues. What would you say to a truce?”

  She lowered herself into the seat, taking care not to crush her bustle or train. Waiters began moving about the table, and champagne was quickly uncorked and poured. Tripp lifted his glass and Mamie followed suit. “A truce,” he said.

  “A truce,” she answered and tapped her crystal to his. They both sipped and she purposely looked away as he drank. She didn’t need to watch his lips pressed on the delicate glass, his throat working as he swallowed . . . Was the room always this warm?

  He placed his glass on the table. “I received an interesting cable from your father tonight.”

  She fought to hide her surprise, though the tips of her ears burned. “I apologize. He overheard me discussing tonight’s dinner with my sisters.”

  “No need. I’m quite familiar with Duncan’s bluster. What did you tell them?”

  “Tell who?”

  “Your sisters. What did you tell them about tonight?”

  “That you had blackmailed me into coming.”

  “That’s all?”

  He was angling for something, yet she had no idea what. “If you had hoped we waxed poetic over your multitude of charms, rest assured we did not.”

  “That is merely because you haven’t yet experienced my charms.”

  Yet? Was he . . . ? What did he mean, exactly? Mamie lunged for her champagne, desperate to cool her insides. Was there not any fresh air in this blasted restaurant? “Putting your charms aside for now, what of my father’s cable? What did it say?”