“No, so stop complaining and follow me.”

Mulligan left the room and Clay trailed him into the corridor. They continued toward the back of the building, where a hall led to another set of stairs. Once on the bottom floor Clay could hear the sounds of laughter and talking, the clinking of glass. Were they approaching the saloon?

“I don’t have time for a drink,” he told Mulligan’s back.

“You do, actually.”

What did that mean? Before he could ask, Mulligan threw open a door and they ended up inside the saloon. Round wooden tables dotted the floor, men clustered around each one. A stage took up the far end of the room.

“Beer?” Mulligan asked over the noise.

“It seems I have no choice.”

Mulligan lifted his hand and signaled to the man behind the bar. Within seconds two glasses of beer arrived, the well-endowed server peering at Mulligan hungrily, as if he were a lobster tail slathered in butter. He didn’t return her interest, merely thanked her and turned his attention to Clay. “Next show’s about to start. We’ll watch while you wait.”

“Mulligan,” Clay growled. “I want to see Florence. Now.”

“Patience, Clay.” He propped a shoulder against the wall. “It wouldn’t hurt you to relax.”

Clay couldn’t relax, not while Florence Greene was somewhere on the premises. Had she any idea of the hazards inside this club? Mulligan hadn’t risen atop a criminal empire by twiddling his thumbs. He had fingers in all sorts of illegal activity, all of it dangerous and organized under this roof.

Clay studied the men in the audience, the thieves and cutthroats, dockworkers and laborers that made up Mulligan’s crew. Had Clay not hustled and schemed to get out of this neighborhood, he might have been one of these men, desperate for a respite from the drudgery of his life. Desperate to see beautiful women reveal their drawers on stage.

Notes from a piano started from somewhere off stage and the crowd cheered. Every eye swiveled to the front, except for Clay. He stared at the beer in his glass and debated how to apologize. She wouldn’t be anxious to forgive him, no matter what he told her.

But he’d faced long odds before. He would persevere—

“You might want to look up,” Mulligan muttered. “You won’t want to miss this.”

The girls were coming out on stage. They wore colored skirts that matched their wigs, their lips painted a bright red. Each wore a low-cut bodice with ruffles. He struggled not to sigh with impatience. This was a waste of his—

He froze. One dancer, a girl in a bright orange wig, caught his eye. The curve of her mouth, the sparkle in her eye . . . Fucking hell. He knew that curve and that sparkle. It couldn’t be her, though. The uptown princess, dancing on stage? She wouldn’t dare.

Would she?