“No, no. Not that. It’s not the mechanics of it. I hardly know the man. How can I sleep with a man I don’t trust?”
“Don’t trust? Florence, you’re practically putting your life in his hands every single time you go in there.”
Hmm. She hadn’t thought of that. She must trust him a little. She decided to tell Mamie the rest. “He hates Daddy. He readily admits it and says he is plotting some revenge scheme against our father. How can I sleep with a man who will do that?”
“Has he told you what this scheme involves?”
“He refuses.”
“Take it from me. You cannot let Daddy come between you and another man.”
Florence remembered about Mamie and Frank Tripp, Daddy’s attorney. Frank had resisted any relationship with Mamie in fear of risking their father’s wrath. “In this case, Clay is hoping to hurt Daddy.”
“Physically?”
“No, Madden says it’s nothing physical and won’t ruin him financially.”
“Embarrassment, do you think?”
“I cannot fathom how Madden could embarrass Daddy.”
Mamie took a sip of her coffee and kept the cup aloft. “Me either. Daddy has his share of enemies, yet no one has been able to touch him. Clayton Madden wouldn’t be the first to try and fail.”
“You think I’m concerned over nothing?”
“I think Daddy is capable of taking care of himself. Sleep with Clay—or don’t—but do it for the right reasons. It’s not as if you’re going to marry the man. We’re talking about a few hours of pleasure, not a wedding.”
Florence considered this. “I don’t know if I trust him.”
“Has he ever lied to you?”
“No.” Quite the opposite, actually. “He’s hard to read sometimes but he hasn’t lied that I know of.”
“Why not ask Daddy if he knows Clay? Perhaps you could get the story from the other end.”
“And how am I supposed to do that? ‘Daddy, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Clayton Madden down at the Bronze House and I’m wondering if you two have ever shared a cigar or brandy at the club?’ He’d disown me on the spot.”
“Give yourself a little more credit, Florence. I think you’ll come up with something. Just hint at it.”
“That is the stupidest idea you’ve—”
“What are you two whispering about over there?”
They both jerked slightly at the sound of their father’s voice. Coffee sloshed out of Mamie’s cup and onto her evening gown. “Dash it,” she said.
“Marion,” their mother exclaimed on a gasp. “Language, please.”
“I apologize, Mama. I had best go and take this off straightaway.” She put her cup down. “Perhaps you’d come and help me?”
“I am a bit tired,” their mother said before leaning over to kiss Duncan’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a little while, darling. Florence, please get some sleep tonight. There are bags under your eyes.”
Mamie snickered and added under her breath, “Yes, please stop sneaking out until all hours. Now, ask him.”
Soon Florence was alone with her father, except for Justine still tinkering at the piano. Her father reached for a book on the table by his elbow and Florence tried not to be hurt that he’d rather read than talk to her. She tried to sound casual as she refilled her coffee cup. “Did you see the evening edition, Daddy?”
“No. Why? Were you mentioned in the gossip columns again?”
“Nothing like that.” She took a deep breath and forged ahead. “There was a mention about some problems in the Tenderloin. A casino there, I think.”
He grunted in response, clearly not interested, then reached for his book and began thumbing through the pages.
“The name was . . . the Bronze House. Yes, that was it. Have you ever visited it?”
“No, I’ve never been one for gambling. You know that.” He looked up from his book. “Florence, why on earth are you asking me about the Bronze House?”
“Curiosity. The newspaper said all the wealthiest men of the city frequented there. I thought maybe you’d visited or knew the owner, Clayton Madden.”
“Well, I haven’t been there and I don’t know this Madden person. Moreover, you should steer clear of any young man who does. Those places are filled with the worst types. They are cesspools of degenerate behavior. I wish you would find a proper fellow, like Mamie’s Chauncey. He’s from a good, decent family—not like these slick rascals you seem to favor.”
Fabulous. Another lecture when she was merely trying to dig for information. Irritation burned in her chest and she put her coffee cup down with a snap. “Chauncey is no prince, Daddy.”
“And what does that mean, young lady?”
Her sister’s almost-fiancé was a bore. Self-absorbed. Vapid. Florence wouldn’t be surprised to hear he carried on conversations with himself in an empty room. He knew nothing of hard work or survival. Everything had been handed to him since birth. He would make Mamie a terrible husband. “It means I don’t wish to marry a man like Chauncey.”
“Then what type of man would you like to marry? I would really like to know, because if you think I’ll approve of a match between you and some two-bit ruffian, you are sorely mistaken.”
She instantly wanted to protest that some two-bit ruffians were fifty times the man Chauncey could ever be—not that she and Clay would ever marry. But the idea that her father wouldn’t approve of it rankled. “Perhaps I’ll never marry. Perhaps I have no interest in coddling some overgrown toddler-man who expects me to do his every bidding.”
“Yet, you prickled at marrying an older man, such as Mr. Connors.” He tossed his book on the table and stood. “I’ve stopped trying to understand you. You don’t want young, you don’t want old. You don’t want a man like Chauncey but you don’t want someone mature and responsible, either. Hear me now, Florence. You had best choose someone because you cannot live in this house indefinitely.” He strode out of the parlor without another word.
She rubbed her eyes with her fingers. That had not gone as expected. But then, when did any conversation with her father begin and end reasonably?
“He doesn’t mean that,” Justine said gently as she sat on the sofa next to Florence.
Actually, Florence had forgotten her younger sister was in the room. She laid her head on Justine’s shoulder and sighed. “Yes, I rather think he does.”
Her father’s patience was running out for unmarried daughters, which was why Florence had to get her own future secured—fast.
Chapter Eleven
Clay paused, his pencil hovering over the ledger. Numbers blurred in front of him as he waited, unmoving. There it was. Another faint thump sounded directly above him. That made no sense. No one was allowed up there. The entire third floor was Clay’s private space, his sanctuary inside the club.
Yet, someone was definitely moving around upstairs.
He threw down his pencil and pushed away from the desk. It wasn’t Jack. The club was full tonight and would remain so for another three or four hours. Until they closed, Jack would stay on the main floor, watching and managing, while Clay did the day’s books. That meant a maid or club employee had dared to wander into Clay’s domain.