“I think Daddy is capable of taking care of himself. Sleep with Clay—or don’t—but do it for the right reasons. It’s not as if you’re going to marry the man. We’re talking about a few hours of pleasure, not a wedding.”

Florence considered this. “I don’t know if I trust him.”

“Has he ever lied to you?”

“No.” Quite the opposite, actually. “He’s hard to read sometimes but he hasn’t lied that I know of.”

“Why not ask Daddy if he knows Clay? Perhaps you could get the story from the other end.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? ‘Daddy, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Clayton Madden down at the Bronze House and I’m wondering if you two have ever shared a cigar or brandy at the club?’ He’d disown me on the spot.”

“Give yourself a little more credit, Florence. I think you’ll come up with something. Just hint at it.”

“That is the stupidest idea you’ve—”

“What are you two whispering about over there?”

They both jerked slightly at the sound of their father’s voice. Coffee sloshed out of Mamie’s cup and onto her evening gown. “Dash it,” she said.

“Marion,” their mother exclaimed on a gasp. “Language, please.”

“I apologize, Mama. I had best go and take this off straightaway.” She put her cup down. “Perhaps you’d come and help me?”

“I am a bit tired,” their mother said before leaning over to kiss Duncan’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a little while, darling. Florence, please get some sleep tonight. There are bags under your eyes.”

Mamie snickered and added under her breath, “Yes, please stop sneaking out until all hours. Now, ask him.”

Soon Florence was alone with her father, except for Justine still tinkering at the piano. Her father reached for a book on the table by his elbow and Florence tried not to be hurt that he’d rather read than talk to her. She tried to sound casual as she refilled her coffee cup. “Did you see the evening edition, Daddy?”

“No. Why? Were you mentioned in the gossip columns again?”

“Nothing like that.” She took a deep breath and forged ahead. “There was a mention about some problems in the Tenderloin. A casino there, I think.”

He grunted in response, clearly not interested, then reached for his book and began thumbing through the pages.

“The name was . . . the Bronze House. Yes, that was it. Have you ever visited it?”

“No, I’ve never been one for gambling. You know that.” He looked up from his book. “Florence, why on earth are you asking me about the Bronze House?”

“Curiosity. The newspaper said all the wealthiest men of the city frequented there. I thought maybe you’d visited or knew the owner, Clayton Madden.”