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?”
She cleared her throat. “Poker.”
“Wrong.”
“Roulette?”
“Wrong again. Twenty-one has the best odds for winning, at about fifty-fifty. It’s also an easy game to learn.”
Light moved over his harsh profile, the scars dark slashes in the gaslight. She liked listening to him. Watching him. Soaking in his vast amount of knowledge. Pay attention, Florence. You’re here to learn, not to ogle. “Should I be writing this down?”
The side of his mouth hitched as he cut her a glance. “Having trouble keeping your attention on the topic at hand? Is that a female problem . . . or am I too distracting for you?”
“Female problem?” Fury sparked in Florence’s gaze, just as Clay had known it would. He liked seeing her riled up, a cool blond beauty instantly transformed into an avenging angel. Fierce. Ready to eviscerate. A lesser man might even cover his balls at that look.
Not Clay. He preferred his women with a backbone.
He paused, muscles locked in disbelief. His women?
Clayton Madden, gone soft for a fancy uptown debutante.
He frowned at the reminder of Anna’s words. He was better than this, a man slavering after a woman he’d never have. Yes, he was attracted to her, but any man of a certain age would find himself feeling the same after spending a few moments with Florence. She was magnetic. However, she was also young and from a class that forbade casual liaisons.
Clay had nothing but casual liaisons.
Get this over with. Teach her and then send her home. “It was a jest,” he told her. “Do you know how to play?”
“Of course.” She appeared affronted that he’d even asked.
He hid a smile as he moved behind the table to stand across from her. He dealt them each two cards, one down and one faceup. “Then let’s play. Those chips are yours.” A wooden box of Bronze House chips had been placed on the table, per his instructions.
“If I win, will you abandon this idea of ruining my father?”
Cocky girl. “No, that’s not up for discussion. However, if you do end up besting me, the house, then the money you win is yours.”
“What if I lose?”
Thoughts of her naked, spread out on his bed, her golden hair like a halo around her head, flickered in his mind. Holy Christ, he wanted that. His skin heated just imagining it. But he wouldn’t take her quickly. He’d torture her for hours until she begged—
Jesus, what was he doing? He had to be at least ten years her senior and much too rough for the likes of an uptown heiress. Perhaps he should’ve taken Anna up on her offer last night. That way, he could have fucked off some of this . . . steam and kept his wits about him tonight.
“No harm if you lose,” he forced out.
“Even better.” She rubbed her hands together. “Come now, dealer. Don’t keep me waiting.”
The cards moved quickly. She won the first two hands then lost the next six, down in her stake by twelve dollars. “What will you do now?” he asked.
“If the odds are nearly even, I must be due for a winning hand.” She pushed a twenty-dollar chip into the pot. “There.”
Biting off a comment, he dealt the cards. Dealer had sixteen. She ended up with twelve. She took two more cards and busted at twenty-two. She drummed her fingers on the table, irritation on her face. “Dash it. I’m normally better than this.”
He put the deck down. “Your mistake is trying to reason each hand based on the last. Each hand has the same odds, no matter what came before it. You’re never ‘due’ for a win or a loss. Now, how might a player gain an advantage over the house in twenty-one?”
“Tracking the cards.”
“Yes, but that takes considerable skill and is rare. How else?”
“A dealer on the take?”
“Good, yes. That is why we have several men walking the floor at all times. They watch the games to ensure our dealers and croupiers are on the level and that players are not working in conjunction with another guest. Anything else?”
She stared at the cards, an adorable crease deepening on her forehead. “I don’t know.”
He dealt himself two cards, keeping one facedown. “Stand there.” He pointed to the seat farthest to the right. “Watch the bottom card.” When she was in position he lifted the hidden card to check it.
“I saw it,” she exclaimed. “Six of clubs.”
“Correct.” He flipped the card over. “Some dealers are sloppy and check their cards before the betting ends. It’s not malicious, just idiotic. Now, let’s move on to the craps table.”
Over the next two hours, they moved between the other games. She was an adept pupil, asking all the right questions and giving him her full attention. He stopped thinking of her as Duncan Greene’s daughter, a rich Knickerbocker princess, and more like a comrade. A confidante that understood the inner workings of a casino. He hadn’t been this frank with anyone other than Jack in a long time.
When they finished, he wasn’t quite ready to end their intimate lesson. He propped a hip against the roulette table. “I’m curious. What do you do with your considerable winnings? Buy a new dress or hat or diamond?”
Delicate fingers curled around the edge of the empty roulette wheel and flicked it. The wheel spun, a mesmerizing blur of red, black and metal. “No, I donated it to a charity that helps families in the tenements.”
His jaw fell open. A . . . charity? Of course. God knew she didn’t need the money. Her family was obscenely wealthy. No doubt Duncan spoiled his three daughters.
Only, Florence didn’t seem spoiled. A spoiled girl didn’t go into business for herself—a dangerous business that certainly would cause her ruination. A spoiled girl didn’t donate her casino winnings to charity. And a spoiled girl didn’t hire the king of the city’s gambling trade to corrupt her.
A rare exception, indeed.
“Have you always wanted to own a casino?”
Her question caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected her to return his personal inquiry with one of her own. “No, but I had an aptitude for it. My uncle operated one of the most popular saloons east of the Bowery. When my family moved to Delancey Street, I spent a lot of time in that saloon, learning numbers and doing the books. I started organizing games on the street around thirteen. At sixteen, I expanded to poolrooms and policy shops. By twenty-two, I’d found Jack and the two of us went into business together.”
“And the rest of your family?”
Clay paused, unsure how to respond. His mother now lived in Philadelphia, away from the filth and bad memories of Manhattan. His father had walked out when Clay was eleven, after their house had been stolen and destroyed by Duncan Greene. A year later, cholera stole Clay’s brother, Franklin, from them. But he didn’t wish to share that with anyone, especially not Florence Greene. To her, gambling was a lark. Something exciting and forbidden to dabble in.
For Clay, gambling was everything. His very lifeblood. Hundreds depended on him to keep the games running, the drinks flowing, the cards turning. And he’d done it, happily, for more than a decade to gather wealth and power. Soon he’d have enough of both to ruin Duncan Greene.
Once he did, he’d be free of his need for revenge. Free to pursue a future just for himself, perhaps one not so dangerous.
Absolutely free.
The possibility of it was dizzying.
“Clay.”
Clay’s head snapped up to find Jack in the open doorway. “What is it?”
“Big Bill is here.”
“Shit.” Why would the assistant superintendent visit tonight? Payouts had been taken care of yesterday, Clay’s network of coppers and politicians well compensated for looking the other way on his empire. This was the very last thing he wanted to deal with now. “Where?”
“I put him in your office.”
“Any ideas?”
He and Jack had been friends for so long they were able to communicate in a few words. Better for Clay, as he’d never been exactly loquacious. Jack shook his head. “None. No reports of any trouble yesterday.”
So all the payments had been made, no complaints shared by their couriers. “I’ll come down.”
“What would you like to do . . . ?” Jack tipped his chin toward Florence.
Clay clenched and relaxed his hands, thinking. If she was going to open a casino, she’d need to know how to deal with those in power. New York City was a cesspool of corruption and one must wade through the muck to get anywhere here. There was no downside to giving this lesson so early. Hell, it might even scare her off this entire venture.
“Let’s give her the eyehole.”
Jack’s gaze widened then he scowled. “Are you certain? That seems like a bad idea.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Jack cast a pointed look at Florence, then back at Clay, as if to comment on how close the two of them were standing. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Fuck off.”
“What are you two talking about?” Florence asked.
“Allow me to apologize for Mr. Madden,” Jack said to her. “He sometimes forgets his manners.”
“That’s quite all right. I’ve heard worse.”
Jack’s expression held a note of warning as he looked back to Clay. “I’ll return to the floor, if you don’t need me.”
“No, you’ve done enough.” Clay waited for Jack to leave before glancing at Florence. “Do you still plan to open a casino in the city?”
“Of course.” Her brows drew together. “I’ll not change my mind.”
Time would tell on that. “Then you’ll need to learn the most important lesson, one that isn’t taught in any book.”
“Oh? And what lesson would that be?”
“How to successfully bribe the police. Come along. You’re about to get a demonstration right now.”