Whispers in the Reading Room (12 page)

“You’re respectable.”

“Of course I am. But it’s at the very far edge of respectability.” Before he could comment on that, she picked off her day dress from one of the pegs by her small desk. “Keep your back turned. I need to change.”

“Absolutely not. Wait until I go back outside to disrobe.”

If Bridget hadn’t been so surprised by Vincent’s dismayed expression, she would have laughed. Honestly, she would have thought nothing could shock him after working for Mr. Marks for as long as he had. After all, women loitered outside the Silver Grotto in all forms of dress.

“Mr. Hunt, you may not loiter in my hallway. If you left this room, you’d have to go out into the alley, and then I’d have to go out there to find you. Just stand there and give me a few seconds, if you please?”

“I don’t like this.”

“For goodness’ sake. You have a young daughter. You were married. I’m sure I have nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“I’ll do as you wish, but I’m not happy about it,” he said as he stood motionless, staring at the wall. “And it’s bad form to speak of such personal things.”

“Duly noted.” As she quickly unfastened the row of buttons down the front of her nightgown, it occurred to her to wonder why she
wasn’t more nervous about changing clothes while in the same room with him. She should be uncomfortable.

But instead of any of that, she felt completely safe.

Was it because she knew he feared the wrath of Mr. Marks?

Or was it because Vincent Hunt was the only man besides Mr. Marks she was coming to trust?

“Are you almost done?”

“I’m hurrying,” she called out as she pulled the stays on her corset as tightly as she could. “You were married,” she reminded him again. “Women’s clothes, as you know, are made up of entirely too many fussy layers.”

He blew out an impatient burst of air. “I don’t need to hear about your garments, Miss O’Connell.”

“It won’t take me much longer now.”

Vincent sighed. “Never thought I’d end up doing this tonight.”

She wondered what he thought he would be doing. Did he expect to still be working? Or had he had his own plans?

After a pause, she secured her stockings, then pulled a chemise over her head, followed by a petticoat and a small bustle. After smoothing all the fabrics into order as best she could, she stepped into her gray dress.

Vincent planted one hand on his waist. “Are you almost done? Please say you are.”

“Not yet. I still have to fasten my gown.”

“This is taking too long. One would have thought you’d be used to getting dressed more quickly, what with you being a maid and all.”

“Usually I can move around the room. You being here takes up quite a bit of my space.”

“I did offer to leave.”

“I did ask you to be patient.”

He didn’t deign to reply. Merely grunted.

Now that her dress was on, she said, “You can look now. All I have to do is fasten my boots.”

“Good. He’s not going to be liking us taking so long.”

Bridget noticed he was watching as she fastened her boots. She supposed he was biting his tongue, since she was showing him her ankles and all.

After smoothing back her hair and fashioning it into a low chignon, she grabbed her keys and coat. “I’m ready.”

“Almost.” To her surprise, he deftly took the coat from her hands and held it for her to slip her arms in. Just like a gentleman would for a lady.

Also to her surprise—and secret amusement—she found she still remembered how to accept a gentleman’s help. She wondered how he’d ever learned.

She didn’t have any time to reflect on it, however, because he was already peeking out her door and gesturing with one hand to follow him.

Five minutes later she was following him down the alleyway. She was confused. “Where are we meeting Mr. Marks?”

“At the club, of course.”

“Really? At this time of night?” She hoped he didn’t hear the tremors in her voice.

“Yes. Where else? He wanted me to bring you to the Grotto as quickly as possible. Therefore, I am.”

“Did he say why he wanted to see me so urgently?”

Vincent frowned at her. “Of course not.”

“He gave you no sign?” She really wanted to be prepared for the meeting.

“No. You know how things go with Mr. Marks. He doesn’t deign to explain himself.”

“No.” She learned some time ago he did not. Realizing that Vincent was waiting for her to finish her thought, she blurted, “I mean, of course he does not.”

Vincent nodded. They picked up their pace, darting around the few men who were about. Most looked exhausted and were obviously coming home from late hours working at the factories, but there were a few men who seemed to only be dallying. A couple of them glanced her way with an interested expression. But when they caught sight of Vincent, with his cold eyes and large, muscular frame, they promptly skittered away.

Just before they turned into the narrow, winding street that would eventually lead them to Camp Creek Alley, they passed under the steady glow of a burning gaslight that illuminated much of the block they were on.

Bridget saw two men she recognized.

One was Sergio Vlas, Mr. Marks’ competition. He owned the Bear and Bull and had approached her once or twice when she’d delivered something for Mr. Marks at the Grotto. He’d offered her both his protection and a job, apparently unafraid of any retaliation from Mr. Marks. Though he’d actually seemed kind, she would never want to work for him. Unlike her employer, Vlas made money using women.

He was standing alone, and as if he felt her gaze resting on him, he lifted his chin, looked directly at her, and smiled. She averted her eyes. He seemed more intimidating at night than in broad daylight.

Which brought her to notice Jason Avondale. He was standing not far from Vlas with a man she thought, though Bridget couldn’t be absolutely sure, was Mr. Galvin. She’d heard him speak to Mr. Marks once or twice outside the Hartman. She could just make out the gold pocket watch clutched in Avondale’s hand, a sapphire catch gleaming
under the streetlamp’s glow. She remembered seeing him with it at the Pinter home.

Bridget couldn’t help but wonder if he was courting his demise, holding that expensive watch in plain sight in such a place.

Before he could catch her staring at him, Bridget averted her eyes again, choosing to focus on Vincent’s profile instead. He seemed unconcerned about any of the men she’d seen, and she supposed he was relieved she’d finally stopped asking him questions he couldn’t answer.

Suddenly, she knew. It was perfectly clear. Now she understood why he sent Mr. Hunt to get her in the dead of night. Why he’d summoned her to the club.

She was no longer going to be Mr. Marks’ maidservant. She was going to be asked—no, told—to do what she’d once offered but always had feared the most. Mr. Marks had changed his mind. Like Sergio Vlas, he had decided to use women for profit at the Silver Grotto.

And somehow she had earned his disfavor, and he was sending her there.

A slow, sick feeling knotted her stomach when she realized she had no choice about it either. She had nowhere else to go and no one to look to for help. She had to do whatever he asked. Even though the area seemed to be in the middle of a terrible crime spree, making the thought of working there all the more frightening, the consequences for refusing Mr. Marks’ directives were too dear.

It was simply too bad that she was different than she’d been when she first shakily stood in front of Mr. Marks’ desk. Over the past two years, she’d become used to being treated with respect. She’d become used to feeling safe.

Worse, she’d begun to have expectations.

When she’d shown up at the Silver Grotto for the first time, she’d been traumatized by thoughts of being fired. She’d experienced the
sharp tang of fear that could only come after spending a night alone on the streets of Chicago.

She’d been willing to do almost anything to have some protection.

But now “almost anything” brought forth more feelings of dread than hope. She had begun to feel as though she was someone of worth. She had begun to foolishly imagine that she was something more.

No doubt many women in the city could have reminded her. No good ever comes to girls like her who dare to dream.

For better or worse, they lived with the consequences of their choices every single day.

More than ever, it seemed she was completely alone. Even Vincent Hunt did not seem to care at all about her fate.

S
ebastian was indulging in one of his favorite pastimes—standing on the third-floor balcony of the Grotto and watching the guests below spend money—when Vincent arrived with Bridget.

Their arrival drew no notice. He was glad to see Bridget was wearing her plainest, darkest gray dress and that her hair was styled plainly as well. She looked drab against the Grotto’s gold walls, vivid paintings, and dark woodwork.

He was pleased about that.

While it wasn’t common for women to frequent the Grotto, it wasn’t unheard of either. Vincent employed several women to serve drinks and food in the gambling den. Every now and then one of the gambler’s ladybirds visited as well.

Most of the Grotto’s customers knew better than to accost a woman on the property. The women in Sebastian’s employ were at his beck and call, not the customers’.

Vincent, of course, drew no notice whatsoever.

Sebastian’s assistant had on his serviceable, thick black overcoat. It was well cut and obviously expensive, being fashioned of a particularly fine wool fabric. So much so, the quality of the article of clothing was apparent even from two floors above.

And reminded Sebastian that the insecure, fumbling man who was down on his luck when he’d entered Sebastian’s life was much changed.

Now Vincent looked almost as well-heeled as the majority of the men who frequented the establishment. Only his rather tight expression and business-like manners gave away the fact that he came to the Grotto for business and not pleasure.

After spying Sebastian leaning on the railing, Vincent started walking up the back staircase. Bridget following behind.

He met them at the landing. “Good evening, Bridget,” he said quietly before facing Hunt. “Took you long enough. I expected you to arrive fifteen minutes ago.”

Bridget blanched. “I’m sorry, sir. It was my fault.”

He was rather surprised to see that she looked scared to death. Gentling his voice, he said, “No worries, Bridget. You, of all people, know my bark is worse than my bite.” At least with her, it was. “Wait in my office, will you?”

Looking rather relieved to be allowed out of sight, Bridget scurried off down the hall. Only when he heard his office door open and shut did Sebastian raise a brow toward Vincent. “What happened?”

“I’m sorry you were waiting, sir. She was asleep when I knocked on her door. I had to wait for her to get dressed.”

She’d been asleep? He pulled out his pocket watch, then inwardly winced. It was now half past one in the morning. Action barely began at the Silver Grotto before eleven. But he should have recalled that the real world kept a far different schedule.

And that most people required far more sleep than his usual four hours. Still contemplating Bridget’s odd behavior, he asked, “Did something untoward happen on the way here? She seems out of sorts.”

“No, sir. Though she did seem taken aback by your request to see her here.”

He was at a loss. “Where would we have met if not here?”

“I could not say, sir.”

Sebastian should have known better than to ask such a thing. It was obvious that the whims of women were just as foreign to his assistant as himself. “Thank you for fetching her. Go downstairs and check in with the floor managers. Tables were running high an hour ago.”

“Yes, sir.” Hunt nodded, then headed back down the stairs. After walking toward the railing and watching a few of the executives from one of the packing companies head down to the basement level, obviously in search of a poker game, Marks strode to his office.

There he found Bridget nervously standing in the middle of the room, wringing her hands. “Bridget, why are you standing there looking scared to death?”

She paled. “Sir?”

“You should have sat down. Sit.”

“If you don’t mind, I, um, don’t much feel like sitting, sir.”

Her words hit him as he was about to sit down behind his desk. Her tone was just agitated enough that he decided to sit in one of the uncomfortable chairs that flanked the front of his desk instead. “Join me over here. If you please.” He kept his voice firm and his request a command.

“Yes, sir.” Not looking at him, she sat, then plucked at her skirts.

He supposed some kind of explanation was in order. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

“It’s all right.”

It wasn’t, really. He had no boundaries, but even he knew that. “It isn’t all right. I should have been more considerate. I fear these hours I keep sometimes make me forget how the rest of the world lives.”

“Don’t worry about it, sir.”

He scanned her face, noticing the strain around her eyes. Her
pursed lips. And decided that no good was going to come from delaying the inevitable. “Bridget, I asked you to come here this evening because I want to talk to you about your job.”

She seemed to brace herself. “Yes, sir?”

Thinking about what he wanted her to do, he decided the best course of action would be to speak bluntly. “Starting tomorrow, you will no longer be working for me at the hotel.”

She bit her lip. Then, to his dismay, he realized she was actively struggling to hold back her tears.

This was absolutely something he could not bear. While he usually had no patience for women’s weaknesses, he felt a wave of tenderness for his reclusive employee. “Bridget, please do not say you are crying.”

After swiping at her eyes with the side of her hand, she shook her head. “Of course not, sir.”

“As much as I would like to believe you, I’m fairly certain those are tears.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.”