Jack and Anna both had railed at him, begging him to reconsider. That no revenge was worth destroying his one chance at happiness. Clay disagreed. What’s done was done. Florence hated him and he could not undo the past. Besides, women like Florence Greene married rich, entitled swells, the kinds with blood bluer than sapphires. Soon she’d forget the criminal she had slummed with for a few months and move on.

He, on the other hand, would always remember her. The woman had slid under his skin and clawed her way into his cold, dead heart. Something had unlocked inside him the day he met her, and he was man enough to know he’d never have that again. With anyone.

He exhaled and reconsidered this outing. A summons had arrived today from the home’s current occupant, Florence’s grandmother. Hell if Clay knew why he’d agreed to come. Undoubtedly, she would try to talk him out of the sale.

Too late. What’s done was done.

So why was he here?

Because you’re desperate for any news of her, any mention of her name.

In other words, because he was a goddamn idiot.

Stabbing his walking stick at the ground, he started up the front steps. A very proper butler answered the knock. “Mr. Madden. You are expected. Come in.”

He crossed the threshold and removed his derby. The entrance was exactly what one expected of a home such as this, all elegance and understated wealth. Nothing gaudy. Tasteful art and gleaming wood. A large crystal chandelier hung overhead. This was Duncan Greene’s world, built off the backs of the less privileged, people like Clay’s parents.

The butler took Clay’s things and showed him to a drawing room. As the butler announced him, an older woman rose from a sofa and folded her hands. She has Florence’s eyes. The realization nearly caused Clay to stumble. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t prepared himself for any resemblance between the two women. It almost felt unfair.

Yet, a punishment you deserve.

“Mrs. Greene,” he said and offered a stiff bow.

“Mr. Madden. Thank you for coming to see me. May I offer you tea? Or something stronger?”

“Definitely something stronger. Bourbon, if you have it.”

The butler went to the sideboard and Mrs. Greene extended a hand toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

He lowered himself slowly into a delicate French armchair likely older than Broadway itself. For a second he wondered if it would even hold his bulk. But hold it did, and soon the butler presented him with a crystal tumbler of bourbon. Surprisingly, Mrs. Greene took the same.

“I wouldn’t have assumed you a bourbon drinker,” he said.

“There is much men incorrectly assume about women. And your gender underestimates mine at your peril.”