They struggled on the hard ground. Bill got the upper hand for a split second, and he took advantage by punching Clay’s throat. Clay was stunned just long enough for Bill to roll Clay on his stomach and pin his arms.

“You assaulted me. Now I am arresting you.”

Clay tried to break free but Bill had a bruising grip on his arms, not to mention a knee in the small of his back. “I will do more than assault you when I have the chance,” he snarled. “I will—”

“Are you threatening me, as well? Because I will add that to the list of charges.”

Clay roared and tried to throw Bill off, but it was halfhearted. She was gone. Gone. He’d imagined the scene many times, but this hurt so much worse than he could have ever predicted.

Anger withering, he stilled, which earned him a punch to the kidney. His vision wavered for a long second as the pain rolled through him. When Clay could breathe again Bill had them both on their feet.

Not letting go, Bill marched Clay toward a waiting hack. “Oh, I am going to enjoy this. The notorious Clayton Madden, spending the night in the holding cells. You’ll be a bona fide celebrity.”

“You pompous prick,” Clay said, not bothering to put heat in the words. They could try to humiliate him, but this wasn’t Clay’s first arrest. Likely not his last, either. He knew how the system worked. The more noise he made, the rougher the coppers became, as they were able to justify the violence. If he stayed cool then he could send for his lawyers and get released quickly.

Though really, what was the hurry? Other than his pride, of course.

When freed, he’d return to a cold bed—a bed that would stay in that pitiful state now that Florence was gone. The Bronze House would only remind him of her mischievous smile, those laughing eyes. He’d hear her around every corner, a whisper to torment him from now until eternity. It was too depressing to contemplate.

Perhaps Bill had done him a favor. Spending the night in a cell was a hell of a lot better than trying to dodge memories of the woman he’d lost.

The ride uptown was made in terse silence.

Florence could practically feel her father’s anger as they drove home. He stared out the window, jaw tight, silent, as the homes grew larger and more spaced out, his fury rolling off him in waves. The quiet suited Florence just fine. The last thing she needed was for her father to yell at her in this enclosed space.

It gave her time to think. Her mind whirled with questions and recriminations, going round and round every bit as fast as the carriage wheels. Anger and sadness warred inside her.

Everything that happened between us was honest.