The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  She’d been burned by lust before, making questionable choices when desire took over her brain. Like showing Billy Palmer her drawers in an alcove at the Metropolitan Opera House. Kissing the Webster twins in the Vanderbilt gardens. Sleeping with Chester McVickar at the Astor Place Hotel . . .

  Florence had thought it all harmless fun, a rebellious form of experimentation. The men, however, had formed assumptions based on her actions, and had pursued her. Doggedly. Daddy still couldn’t understand why Florence had turned down several marriage proposals.

  Because I cannot allow someone else to control my future.

  Indeed, try getting a father to understand that.

  Just then, Clay’s gaze locked on the peephole, as if he could see straight through the wood and into her soul. Her breath caught, the blood rushing in her ears.

  Oh, my. Would he notice? She nearly shook herself at the ridiculous question. Of course he would notice. Nothing slipped past Clay.

  She had to get out of this place. Right now. Before he discovered what she had been thinking.

  Shooting to her feet, she lunged for the door. The light in the corridor stung her eyes as she stumbled in the opposite direction from Clay’s office. A hand suddenly wrapped around her arm and she smothered a squeak.

  Bald Jack stood frowning at her, his brows knitted. “Miss Greene, everything all right?”

  “Fine, fine. Everything is just fine. I’m fine. I need to leave, though. Will you tell him . . . ?” She drew in a steadying breath. “Please tell him it was late and I had to return home. I’ll visit again in a few days.”

  Jack nodded and released her. “Stairs are around the corner, behind the third door. Boys at the front will fetch you a hack. Don’t wander the streets alone at this hour.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.” She hurried along the hall, eager to find some peace and put her thoughts back together. Because the next time she faced Clay, she had to be in control of herself.

  Clay heard the keyhole door open and he paused, waiting. Had he driven her away for good? Half of him prayed that yes, she’d been appalled at the nature of his business. God knew it would make his life easier. Florence’s presence in his club only complicated everything.

  And yet . . .

  Well, there was no reason to finish that thought. Only fools wished on stars.

  He exhaled a long stream of smoke, enjoying the sting to his eyes, when the outer door opened. Only, it wasn’t who he expected.

  Jack strode in, his face thunderous. “What in Hades did you say in here?”

  Clay hadn’t a clue as to why Jack was so angry. “Bill demanded a larger share. Thinks he’s got me over a barrel.”

  “I assume you set him straight.”

  “Of course. Showed him the banknote.” He took a long puff. “He was displeased.”

  Jack lowered himself into the armchair vacated by Bill. “No doubt that’s true. He’s been spending money as soon as it comes in.”

  “You mean his wife has been spending money.”

  “She does love to shop, apparently. Add her store bills to the renovations and the vacation house, and Bill’s skating on thin ice.”

  “Well, I’ve made our position clear. I suspect he’ll calm down.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Let’s worry about it if the time comes. Was that why you stormed in here like you wanted to punch me? Because of Bill?”

  “Hell, no. I saw Miss Greene tear out of here like the building was on fire. Couldn’t imagine what you’d done to affect her in such a manner.”

  He braced himself. This was the part where Jack relayed how much Clay had scared her. “Horrified, then.”

  “No, it didn’t seem like it. She didn’t come across as scared. Just anxious to get out of here.”

  Clay picked through the papers on his desk and tried to sort out the jumbled mess inside his brain. “So she’s not coming back.”

  “Wrong. Said she’d return in a few days.”

  Clay couldn’t wrap his head around it. He hadn’t scared her off? At every turn she had surprised him.

  “The two of you certainly were cozy in the training room.”

  Clay leaned back in his chair and glared at his friend. “Worried for her virtue, Jack?”

  “Seeing as how you’ve sworn off women, no, not particularly. But that doesn’t mean it’s right.”

  “She’s asked me to mentor her. I cannot do it by letter or telegram.” He shrugged. “No one’s forcing her to come here.”

  “I know there’s no convincing you to do the right thing and refuse her entry, so I won’t even try.”

  “Good. Let’s move on and discuss more important matters. Where are we with the architect?” On the advice of one of the city’s top attorneys, Clay had decided to carry on building his casino on East Seventy-Ninth Street, whether Mrs. Greene sold her house to him or not. Surely once construction started, she would wish to escape the neighborhood—at which point Clay would swoop in and buy the house for far below what he’d first offered.

  Then he’d smash the house to the goddamn ground.

  Everything comes full circle, Duncan, you miserable bastard.

  Jack said, “He’s bringing the final plans over the day after tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. The sooner those plans are filed, the sooner I get my hands on that house.”

  Jack came to his feet. “And the sooner Miss Greene finds out what you’re up to. Something tells me she isn’t going to like it.”

  Clay stubbed out his cigar in the tray and reached for a stack of paperwork. “It’s none of her business.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.” He started for the door. “Listen, Mike has everything under control downstairs, and it’s mostly cleared out. I’m headed over to Anna’s for the night.”

  “Ah. Mrs. Gregson?” Jack had been seeing Anna’s widowed cook for the better part of six months.

  “Yes. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  Enjoying the tender attentions of his lover, no doubt. “I won’t. See you tomorrow.” Clay would cut off his own arm before disturbing Jack’s tiny slice of happiness.

  When they met, Jack had been traveling on the boxing circuit. Clay had offered Jack three times his yearly boxing earnings to quit and oversee the poolroom’s security, back when Clay operated just the big one on the Bowery. Jack agreed, and the two had soon become business partners. It was the best decision Clay ever made. Jack was smart and fair, respected by employees and good with customers. Clay had no patience for dealing with either; he scared just about everyone. Helpful when taking on corrupt coppers and cheaters, but undesirable in every other situation.

  He couldn’t help his prickly nature, though. He’d been burned too many times by associates, customers—even bed partners. Elizabeth, his only longtime lover, had presented herself as a widow, eager for some fun with a younger man when Clay was nineteen. But she’d been jumpy around him. Even after seven months of seeing her she’d tensed each time he made a sudden movement. She hadn’t stayed for conversation, either. Once they got off together, she would dress and hurry from his apartments.

  Then he’d found out her secret. Elizabeth wasn’t a widow. Her husband was quite alive . . . and one of Clay’s investors. Curiosity had driven Elizabeth to Clay’s bed, where she’d told him lies about her background and family. Clay didn’t hate her for it, though. Most marriages were unhappy, and unhappy spouses tended to stray. He owed no loyalty to the husband, even if the man was an investor. Clay turned away investors weekly. Finding money was never a problem.

  But he’d learned a valuable lesson about trust. People lied to get what they wanted, if they wanted it badly enough. And Clay hated liars.

  From then on, he never slept with married women. The hassle wasn’t worth it, not in a city where beautiful unattached women were every which way one turned. Moreover, he made damn certain he knew exactly who came into his bed. He wouldn’t get fooled twice.

  I am not i
nnocent.

  Jesus, that was not an image he needed right now. What had Florence meant by that? Had she lost her virginity to some straw hat–wearing imbecile who probably couldn’t find a clitoris even with directions? He almost felt sorry for her if that were the case.

  I could show her real pleasure.

  Clay swallowed hard. Yes, he certainly could . . . but where would that get him? No place good, that was for certain. Better to return to the business at hand.

  There was a haven of vice and sin to oversee, and it had no place for a Knickerbocker princess.

  Chapter Six

  God, would this dinner party never end?

  Florence stifled a yawn and tried not to fall asleep in her plate of roasted duck. She’d accompanied her parents to the Van Alans’ for dinner and the crowd was positively ancient, full of Daddy’s cronies and Mama’s charity ladies. The only single man near her age was her sister Mamie’s almost-fiancé, Chauncey. And there was dust more interesting than Chauncey.

  Mamie was supposed to attend this evening, as well, but she’d backed out at the last minute with a headache. Stupidly, Florence hadn’t done the same. She assumed there would be at least one young man here. The Van Alans must have planned for Chauncey to fill that position and hadn’t bothered to invite anyone Florence actually wished to talk to.

  Everyone had been polite, even if she could tell they all wondered about her. It was no different than any other event she attended. She never fit in with high society, mostly because she didn’t care what they thought. Their strict rules and traditions were ridiculous. Two girls Florence had debuted with four years ago had already been ostracized by society: one for divorcing her philandering husband and the other for daring to criticize Mrs. Fish’s hat within earshot of the older woman. Florence wanted no part of a world where women were not free to speak and do as they pleased.

  If only I had been born a hundred years from now.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” The older gentleman on her right, Mr. Connors, had leaned in to ask the question. Cologne assaulted her nose with the subtlety of a charging elephant.

  She angled away and tried not to draw a deep breath. “Merely enjoying the duck.”

  “You haven’t taken one bite that I’ve noticed.”

  Why was he watching her so closely? Connors was in his late forties or early fifties, his wife having died some fifteen years prior. She had met him many times since her debut, as New York high society wasn’t that large. Everyone knew everyone, really. This was the first time she had been seated next to him at dinner, however. Thank you, Mamie.

  She put down her wineglass and picked up her fork. “It’s impolite to call a lady a liar.”

  “Fair enough,” he said through a chuckle. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Of course. Are you?”

  “I’ve been observing you, Miss Greene. Though you appear beautiful as always, I don’t believe you’re having much fun this evening.”

  “I just have a lot on my mind, is all.” What else could she give as a reason? Certainly not the truth, as Mr. Connors matched the age of almost everyone here.

  “And what would a young woman like you need to worry about?”

  She didn’t care for his patronizing tone. “Oh, I wouldn’t wish to bore you.”

  “That’s just the thing.” He angled toward her and lowered his voice. “I find it hard to believe anything about you would ever bore me.”

  “I . . .” Her voice trailed off. Was he flirting with her? Coming from a man her own age the answer would be yes. But Mr. Connors was much older. Perhaps he was merely terrible at making polite conversation.

  She cleared her throat. “My father certainly wishes I were more boring.”

  If she thought the mention of her father would put a stop to this awkwardness, she was proven wrong when Connors said, “Well, I’m not your father and I find you rather refreshing.”

  “That is kind of you to say,” she mumbled and snatched her wineglass. The man on the other side of her was in a deep discussion with another guest, and Florence had no way out of this interaction short of bolting from the table. She tried to catch her mother’s eye but she was listening to Mr. Van Alan. When Florence’s gaze swung to her father, she found him watching her closely. She lifted her brows meaningfully, hoping he would understand her need for rescue.

  Duncan shook his head once, as if to say, Whatever it is, do not make a scene.

  The little kernel of hope in her chest popped. Why on earth had she thought anyone would help? Her parents had instructed her time and time again to fit in. Not to offend or be impolite. Be someone else, Florence. Wasn’t that really what they meant?

  When her casino opened, she wouldn’t have to worry about all of this nonsense. She’d support herself, without the need for a father or husband to dole out pin money each month.

  Ages ago she’d considered causing a scandal to ruin herself, therefore ending the need to attend any of these events. Two things had stopped her. First, a scandal would hurt her mother and sisters. Neither Mamie nor Justine was married yet and Florence hated the idea of ruining their prospects. Second, Florence needed the women of society to patronize her casino once it was finished. If she offended all of them by flouting their conventions now, she hadn’t a prayer of getting some of them in the casino later.

  “I’m quite serious,” Connors was saying. “You are different than the other girls your age. I see a spark in you that they lack. I’ve always admired that in a woman.”

  She took two swallows of wine, nearly gulping the contents of her glass. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve turned down three proposals, haven’t you? I cannot blame you. Men your age are nothing but boys. Silly and immature. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t found someone yet. Perhaps you’d prefer someone older instead.”

  A heavy leg pressed against hers and Florence didn’t wait to hear any more. She pushed back from the table and stood. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said to no one in particular and hurried into the corridor. When she was alone she leaned against the far wall and put a hand on her chest, hoping to ease her racing heart. Connors was her father’s age. The idea of marrying him caused her stomach to turn over.

  And had he touched his leg to hers intentionally?

  “Florence.”

  Her head snapped up at that familiar voice. “Daddy, what are you doing out here?”

  Duncan approached, his frown fully in place. “I was about to ask you the same thing. You bolted from the dinner table as if you were ill.”

  “I’m fine. I just needed a moment.”

  He shoved the sides of his dinner jacket apart and put his hands on his hips. “Why?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I should hope it’s something after you just put yourself at the center of everyone’s attention. Again.”

  She hadn’t done anything but excuse herself and come into the hall. How on earth could that disappoint her father so fiercely? Anger slid across her skin, radiating from deep inside. She was tired of being a disappointment, of feeling so wrong all the time, especially when it was undeserved. Daddy wished to know what happened? Fine, she would tell him. “Mr. Connors made me uncomfortable. I wanted to get away from him.”

  Brows knitted, her father rocked back on his heels. “Connors? I’ve known him forever. What on earth would he say to make you uncomfortable?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Tell me exactly, Florence. None of your dancing around a topic this time.”

  Another barb. She mentally brushed it aside. “That he admired me, that I’m different from the other girls my age. That perhaps I’d prefer an older husband, one more mature.”

  “And?” her father prompted when she stopped.

  “And that he’s been watching me.”

  “That’s it?”

  Her father’s expression was stern and forbidding yet she forged ahead. “His leg brushed mine under the table.”

  “Which cou
ld have been an accident.”

  She blew out a long breath. “Combined with what he said?”

  “Let me understand. He complimented you, made an observation about the possibility of an older man for you—a possibility I happen to agree with—and accidentally brushed your leg under the table. Because of this, you caused a scene by bolting from the table.”

  “I did not cause a scene, Daddy.”

  “Don’t argue with me, young lady. It’s always the same with you. You’re not happy unless you’re causing a stir or the center of everyone’s attention.”

  Florence pressed her lips together and folded her arms across her chest. He wouldn’t listen to her anyway, he never did, so why bother trying to explain herself? No one cared how she truly felt on the inside.

  “Now, get back in there and sit down,” her father ordered. “I expect you to be quiet and polite for the remainder of dinner. Ignore Connors if what he says bothers you. He’s harmless, and I won’t have you snubbing our friends.”

  She lifted her chin, impotent fury burning so brightly in her chest that she couldn’t speak.

  “Do you understand me?” he asked in his sternest voice, one she’d heard a thousand times.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  She marched past him and headed to the dining room. From behind her, she heard him mutter, “I swear, that girl’ll be the death of us all.”

  Clay picked up his fists and continued smacking the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. Jab, punch, hook, repeat. Sweat poured off his forehead, down his bare chest. His lungs struggled to pull in air but he kept going.

  The casino was half-full tonight. A decent crowd, from his early calculations. The plans for the east side casino had been to his liking, which meant the architect would file them with the city to get the permits. Things were moving forward. Thriving.

  Still, he felt restless. Unsettled. He knew why; he just didn’t want to admit it. But the truth kept staring him in the face.

  She hadn’t returned in two days. He told himself it was for the best, but he couldn’t help thinking about her. Wondering what she was doing. Probably attending some fancy dinner party where a young buck groped her thigh under the table.