“Well, I haven’t been there and I don’t know this Madden person. Moreover, you should steer clear of any young man who does. Those places are filled with the worst types. They are cesspools of degenerate behavior. I wish you would find a proper fellow, like Mamie’s Chauncey. He’s from a good, decent family—not like these slick rascals you seem to favor.”

Fabulous. Another lecture when she was merely trying to dig for information. Irritation burned in her chest and she put her coffee cup down with a snap. “Chauncey is no prince, Daddy.”

“And what does that mean, young lady?”

Her sister’s almost-fiancé was a bore. Self-absorbed. Vapid. Florence wouldn’t be surprised to hear he carried on conversations with himself in an empty room. He knew nothing of hard work or survival. Everything had been handed to him since birth. He would make Mamie a terrible husband. “It means I don’t wish to marry a man like Chauncey.”

“Then what type of man would you like to marry? I would really like to know, because if you think I’ll approve of a match between you and some two-bit ruffian, you are sorely mistaken.”

She instantly wanted to protest that some two-bit ruffians were fifty times the man Chauncey could ever be—not that she and Clay would ever marry. But the idea that her father wouldn’t approve of it rankled. “Perhaps I’ll never marry. Perhaps I have no interest in coddling some overgrown toddler-man who expects me to do his every bidding.”

“Yet, you prickled at marrying an older man, such as Mr. Connors.” He tossed his book on the table and stood. “I’ve stopped trying to understand you. You don’t want young, you don’t want old. You don’t want a man like Chauncey but you don’t want someone mature and responsible, either. Hear me now, Florence. You had best choose someone because you cannot live in this house indefinitely.” He strode out of the parlor without another word.

She rubbed her eyes with her fingers. That had not gone as expected. But then, when did any conversation with her father begin and end reasonably?

“He doesn’t mean that,” Justine said gently as she sat on the sofa next to Florence.

Actually, Florence had forgotten her younger sister was in the room. She laid her head on Justine’s shoulder and sighed. “Yes, I rather think he does.”

Her father’s patience was running out for unmarried daughters, which was why Florence had to get her own future secured—fast.

Chapter Eleven

Clay paused, his pencil hovering over the ledger. Numbers blurred in front of him as he waited, unmoving. There it was. Another faint thump sounded directly above him. That made no sense. No one was allowed up there. The entire third floor was Clay’s private space, his sanctuary inside the club.

Yet, someone was definitely moving around upstairs.