He closed the wall and darkness descended. Before she could grow concerned he took her hand. “Come along. It’s not far. Watch, these are stairs.”

Down they went. At the bottom of the steps, he held her hips briefly to steady her. Almost as soon as his touch appeared, it vanished and another door opened. A few steps later he closed them in. Then she heard a pull chain. Soft yellow light illuminated a tiny passageway, one so small that Clay had to bend over to fit. She plucked a cobweb off her sleeve and followed him steadily through the gloom. His large shoulders shifted under his black topcoat, his movements lithe for a man so large. It was a routine he was well familiar with, clearly. “Where are we going?”

“To the brothel next door.”

A brothel? Excitement simmered in her veins. This was turning into some remarkable evening. “Do you go back and forth often?” She held her breath, unsure why his answer mattered. Yet somehow, it did.

“No, not since I had it built. Annabelle uses it often, however.”

Annabelle. There was that name again. Florence’s lungs deflated like a popped balloon. Of course he would have women come to him. The great Clayton Madden wouldn’t visit a brothel like a common plebeian.

Why do I even care?

She didn’t. Just because her heart beat a little faster in his presence didn’t mean there was anything between them. She wasn’t foolish enough to develop an interest in him—or any man—when her goal was in sight. In less than two years her choices would disappear, along with her independence. So good that Clay had a paramour. The information would help her maintain perspective throughout her tutoring.

“If you do run your own casino,” he said, “remember to build in an escape route just in case.”

“Of a raid by the police?”

“That or anything else that might require a quick getaway. You’d be surprised the number of people who’d rather not part with their money—even after losing it fairly.”

Another set of stairs awaited. At the top, he gave three short raps. A click sounded just before the wall opened. “Took you long enough,” a feminine voice said.

Clay grabbed Florence’s hand, his skin rough and warm against hers, and pulled her into what turned out to be a tiny closet full of clothing. A woman with a gorgeous head of red hair and large blue eyes shut the panel behind them. “So much for having Big Bill under control,” she muttered before facing Florence. “Miss Greene, a pleasure. I am Annabelle Gallagher, the owner of this fine establishment.”

Florence blinked at the familiar greeting. How did this woman know her name? Had Clay been speaking about her? “It is nice to meet you, Miss Gallagher.”