“He hardly ever leaves the Bronze House,” Florence explained. Now that she thought about it, the possibility of Clay waiting for her seemed far-fetched. And considering the assault of the doorman last night, whoever waited downstairs could have a nefarious purpose. “And there have been some strange happenings of late. It could be someone else hoping to trick me.”

“Then we should come with you,” Mamie said. “I won’t allow either of my sisters to be hurt.”

“Nor will I,” Justine added.

Florence was touched by this show of familial solidarity. “Come along, then. We may stab any ne’er-do-wells with hatpins together.”

The three sisters left the salon and descended the staircase to the main floor. The restaurant was crowded, a mix of high society, theatrical folk and political cronies. Black-coated waiters hustled about and diners carried on loud, animated conversations. Florence ignored the chaos and headed straight to the front door.

She could hardly breathe once on the sidewalk. Justine and Mamie were right behind her, but Florence didn’t wait. She started walking up Fifth Avenue to search the carriages. Whoever was waiting for her would not find her trembling in a corner. Show no fear.

“Might I offer you a ride, miss?” a deep voice said from behind her.

Whirling, she gasped. Clay stood there, dressed in the finest black evening clothes. A silk top hat sat on his head, a walking stick in his hand. He even wore a crisp white shirt, a sharp departure from his usual all-black attire. Hell’s bells, the man was sinfully attractive. He was thunder and electricity, a shock of raw heat and masculinity. The words died in her throat. All she could do was stare at him, frozen, like a painting.

They’d find her in a museum one day, the title of the work simply listed as “Woman Gobsmacked.”

“I knew it was you,” Justine said. Her youngest sister, unafraid of anyone or anything, came right up to Clay. “You’re Clayton Madden.”

“I am. You must be Miss Justine.” He bowed—bowed!—over her sister’s hand, and Florence felt her eyes nearly bulge from her skull. “And Miss Greene,” Clay said to Mamie. “Nice to see you again.”

Mamie smirked. “We didn’t officially meet before.”

“True, but I do keep tabs on everyone and everything in my club. It’s not often a woman is nearly drugged at my roulette table.”

“What are you doing here?” Florence said quietly. Her initial shock had receded, but she was having a hard time believing Clay was here on Fifth Avenue, chatting with her sisters. “Shouldn’t you be at the club?”

His dark eyes sparkled with a teasing light she hadn’t seen before, one that melted her insides like a hot knife through butter. “I took the evening off,” he said. “I thought I might surprise you.”