saucer in his hand, his dark eyes suspicious . . . until he got a good look at Jack. Then he relaxed.
And started laughing.
“Well, well,” Clayton said, one eyebrow arching. “Look at what the cat has dragged in.”
“Fuck off and let me in.”
Clayton pulled the door open. “In a charming mood today, I see. I cannot wait to hear what this is all about.”
Jack stepped inside the plush top-floor apartments. Clayton was not officially living with Florence Greene yet, but there were feminine touches everywhere, from the bonnet casually tossed on a chair to delicate slippers by the door. Jealousy streaked through Jack, but not because he longed for Florence. It was the domesticity, the intimacy that he envied.
Two days he’d stewed over Rye’s words. In that time he’d been drinking more than sleeping, not eating. He knew he looked a mess. He lacked the energy to care, however.
“I’d offer you a drink but it’s not yet noon so—”
“Whiskey, if you have it.”
Clayton’s brows rose but he didn’t say anything before going to the sideboard. Jack rested his head in his hands, questioning the intelligence of this visit. He didn’t even know what kind of insight he hoped to gain from Clayton.
Yet, something had to give. He felt like he was losing his goddamn mind.
Rye wouldn’t speak to him, and Cooper remained at the club. Thoughts of Justine haunted Jack’s waking hours, and the dreams of her at night were so vivid, so real that he couldn’t bear to fall asleep.
He should be plotting O’Shaughnessy’s demise, yet he couldn’t focus on anything.
Whatever you said had her running out of here in tears.
“Here. You look like you could use it.” Clayton thrust a tumbler in Jack’s face.
“Thank you.” Jack accepted the glass and downed a quarter of it in one gulp. The whiskey burned all the way down his throat, chasing away the chill in his bones. “Is Florence here?”
Settling in the chair across from Jack, Clayton crossed his legs and took a sip from his china cup. “Not at the moment. She’s not due back for some time. You aren’t here to see her, are you?”
“No, I’m here to see you.”
“Let me guess. O’Shaughnessy.”
Before he retired, Clayton’s network of informants had always been impressive. “How did you know?”
“I stay abreast of things downtown. Glad to see you made it out alive.”
“Are you?”
Clayton shook his head. “Mulligan, we’ve established somewhat of an adversarial relationship but that was business. I’ve always admired and respected you.”
“And I you. Which is really why I’m here. I need advice.”
“Does this have to do with my sister-in-law?”
“I thought you and Florence weren’t married.”
“Semantics. We’re as committed as any two people in possession of a piece of paper. Which means I think of her sisters as my family.” He smoothed the fabric of his perfectly creased trousers. “I heard Justine rallied the boys to get you freed from O’Shaughnessy. I wish I could have seen it.”
A smile tugged at Jack’s mouth for the first time in days. “It was an amazing sight. Led them all the way down Bowery like the Pied Piper.”
“Or perhaps Boudica. She’s quite fearsome, from what I understand.”
“From Florence?”
“No, surprisingly. Florence and Mrs. Tripp worry incessantly over their youngest sister. I sense they still think of her as sheltered. Childish, almost.”
Justine was none of those things. She was stubborn and resourceful, brave and intelligent. “She’s a force to be reckoned with when she sets her mind on something.”
“A Greene family trait, I’m afraid.”
Jack downed another mouthful of whiskey. “I’m in love with her.”
“I figured as much. So, what is the problem?”
“Must you ask?”
“I suppose I must. The way I understand it, you’ve given everything away. There’s nothing preventing you from taking up with a woman like Justine Greene.”
“You can’t be serious. You really think it’s just that simple?”
“Yes, I do.”
Jack’s aching head pulsed with frustration. He threw back the rest of the drink and set the glass on the table as he rose. “I can see I’m wasting my time.”
“Wait. Hear me out.” Clayton pointed at the seat until Jack lowered himself down once more. “You are attempting to make this complicated, but it’s truly not. I assume you are plotting against O’Shaughnessy?”
“Yes.” Sort of. If he could stop thinking about Justine.
“It’s what I would have done in your shoes, were I unattached. Which you are not.”
“I am not what?”
“Unattached. You just said you love her and the feeling must be reciprocated if she launched a rescue mission on your behalf.”