Whispers in the Reading Room (16 page)

It seemed even a rich and powerful and exceptionally handsome man like Sebastian Marks had dreams too.

She didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse.

But she did know she believed Jason and Galvin were gamblers and angry, vindictive men because they lost and owed money. If Jason had been beaten, however—though she did not like to think of anyone being hurt—she did not believe Sebastian had anything to do with it.

Perhaps whoever Jason was convinced had been following him had also beaten him.

She didn’t know. There was so much she didn’t know.

“How can I make this up to you, Lydia? I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

“You can take me to your Grotto.”

His eyes widened. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I am asking to know the place that helped you become the man you are. I am asking to see the place where Jason became a desperate man.”

“It is no place for ladies.”

“We both know I’m not much of a lady.”

“You are.”

“That Mr. Galvin thought I was your mistress.”

“His words were meant to hurt me, not you.”

“Mr. Marks, take me there tonight, or I will go home, tell Bridget to leave my house, and ask you never to enter my reading room again.” Of course, the moment she heard her threat, she felt her skin flush. What kind of threat was that, really?

“You will go hungry—or at least lose everything you have.”

The fact that he focused on her circumstances instead of her feelings broke her heart. Did he really think his disappearance from her life would be easy for her to recover from? “I would make do. What do you say, Mr. Marks? Are you feeling brave enough to show me your club tonight?”

“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Bancroft.”

“Does that mean you will?”

Time became suspended between them again as waiters arrived with the meat course. “First, you must eat.”

Now that she’d gotten her way and was feeling the novel excitement of being just an hour or so away from somewhere a little dangerous and forbidden, her appetite was back.

Picking up her fork, she said, “I will clean my plate, Mr. Marks. Suddenly I’ve found I’m almost ravenous.”

“Suddenly I’m finding that you are incorrigible.”

When she popped a piece of steak in her mouth, he stood up. “Please excuse me for one moment.”

Seeing that Mr. Hunt was lurking over by the dining room’s entrance, she nodded. “Of course, Sebastian.”

“Absolutely incorrigible,” he muttered under his breath as he strode over to the man who was staring at him with a solemn expression.

Sebastian greeted Vincent Hunt, then led him to a quiet spot down the hallway. “Glad you’re here, Hunt,” he blurted. “Something has come up. I need you—”

But instead of looking attentive, Hunt looked pained. “Sir, I am sorry to interrupt, but there has been a new development. Another gambler was stabbed last night.”

“So? People are dying like flies these days.”

“This one was a foreigner, someone well-known in Belgium. The police are combing the area for suspects, and for some reason they seem focused on the Grotto.”

Sebastian barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “Perhaps because we are the finest establishment, one well-off foreigners know. They’ll either find nothing or commandeer some poor sod no one will miss even as he is hanging from the gallows. The fact is, we have more important things to focus on.”

Hunt stilled. “What is it, sir?”

“I need you to go to Miss Bancroft’s home, summon Bridget, and bring her here. Immediately.”

To his surprise, Hunt’s posture changed. If Sebastian didn’t know better, he could have sworn that Hunt looked a bit disappointed with the request.

“Is Bridget returning to work for you at the hotel?” he asked.

“No. The two of you are going to accompany me and Miss Bancroft to the Silver Grotto tonight.”

Hunt stared at him incredulously. “Sir?”

“Do you now require explanation to do as I bid?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now, go get Bridget and bring her here. Immediately.”

Staring directly in front of him, Hunt nodded. “Yes, sir.” He then turned and walked away, his gait stiff and indignant.

Obviously his assistant did not approve of Sebastian’s treatment of Bridget. It was interesting. Worth noting.

But as he crossed back into the dining room, where Lydia was sitting, looking more lost than ever, Sebastian realized he was going to have to wait to have that conversation with Vincent as well.

Currently, there was only one person on his mind, and that was a lady with auburn hair, perfectly proportioned lips, and a better vocabulary than the average man.

The lady who had not even asked if he was responsible for Avondale’s beating.

“Forgive me for leaving you,” he said as he returned to his chair.

“Is something wrong?”

“Perhaps.” Everything was wrong. “You remember Hunt. He went to get Bridget so you will have a chaperone this evening.”

For the first time since that idiot Galvin arrived, Lydia smiled.

“So you really are going to let me go see your club tonight. Go to the Silver Grotto.”

“I suppose I am.” Suddenly, he hated the name. Whereas it used to amuse him and make him think of all things dark and otherworldly, the thought of viewing it through her eyes made it seem rather sordid.

Her pretty eyes shone. “I’m so glad.”

“I can imagine. You got your way.” Where was his little mouse?

“You know that’s not the only reason I want to see it, Sebastian. I am eager to learn more about you.”

“You may regret that goal. But if you do, pray, don’t remind me. After all, you didn’t give me much choice in the matter.” Still feeling rather put upon, he added, “Rather none at all.”

But instead of looking appropriately chastised, a smile played on her lips. “I think I would like some coffee now, Mr. Marks. I need to be at my best because it’s going to be a busy night.”

“Of course.” He gestured to the waiter to bring coffee for the both of them and a chocolate soufflé for Lydia. The soufflé would occupy her until Hunt returned with Bridget.

And she did enjoy her sweets.

She pressed her hand to his arm then. “Please don’t worry, Sebastian. I know my visit will be slightly inappropriate, but everything is going to be all right.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I am, because you will be with me.” Her voice suddenly sounded musical. Light and sweet.

The selfish survivor in him knew he should bask in the sweetness of the comment. After all, when she knew the whole truth about him, she wasn’t going to be thinking anything other than the need to stay away from him.

Far, far away.

In the meantime, he needed to keep her inquisitive mind at bay and her beautiful figure in one piece.

Right in the middle of Camp Creek Alley. Most likely until the wee hours of the morning.

It was going to be a very, very long night. He was also sure he was going to regret every moment of it.

H
earing a brisk knock at the door of the Bancrofts’ townhouse was unusual. Hearing it after dark, at almost nine o’clock at night, was unheard of.

During the few days since she’d become Lydia’s maid and her mother’s nurse, Bridget had already learned quite a bit about the regular routines of the two women.

It seemed they lived just about the quietest existence in the city of Chicago. Lydia arose early, insisted on seeing to her own needs for her first hour, then after a solitary cup of coffee or tea began preparing for her day. Her breakfast consisted of toast.

She often read to her mother for a few minutes before getting dressed. Her voice melodic and sure, she would read each page with great enthusiasm. Bridget was fairly sure Lydia enjoyed the story time with her mother far more than Mrs. Bancroft did.

After she read, Lydia would dart into her bedroom and hastily don one of her four rather plain shirtwaist dresses if she was going to the reading room. Unlike her mother, she had several fashionable day and evening gowns. They were of good quality but not especially notable. However, Bridget assumed they had kept up Lydia’s
appearances in her search for a husband. Knowing what Mr. Marks expected, Bridget vowed to keep Lydia’s clothes pressed and mended. She had even offered to update an old evening gown she’d seen in Miss Bancroft’s wardrobe, though Bridget feared any efforts she made would be wasted. Miss Bancroft had merely stared at her blankly when Bridget had suggested an addition of lace. Perhaps her mother had chosen all her clothes.

After she dressed, Lydia would grab her coat and tote bag, and because it was what Mr. Marks wanted, Bridget accompanied her to the library before returning to see to Mrs. Bancroft.

The evenings were quiet as well. Though she was having supper out with Mr. Marks this evening, on previous evenings Lydia had read a chapter from a book while Bridget made supper for the ladies. Then Bridget helped both Bancroft ladies brush out their hair before bed.

Other than light cleaning and catering to Mrs. Bancroft, who liked to complain but wasn’t especially demanding, that was the extent of Bridget’s days and evenings.

She had not received a single visitor yet.

When the knock came again, Bridget was brought back to the present and opened the door. Perhaps Lydia had forgotten her key? Or perhaps Miss Bancroft at last had a caller?

She hoped it was not Avondale—though Mr. Marks seemed to think he could show up.

Instead, she came face-to-face with Mr. Marks’ personal assistant. He also happened to be her own special brand of purgatory. Ever since he’d walked her from the Grotto back to the hotel, he had made her think about her former life. Made her remember when she’d thought she had choices and could one day have a relationship. A husband. Children.

Immediately her cheeks flushed. “Mr. Hunt!”

“Miss O’Connell,” he said as he walked right inside. “I need to speak to you.”

“What happened? Is something wrong with Miss Bancroft?” A new fear bubbled forth. “Is it Mr. Marks? Has something happened to him?”

Vincent’s lips thinned. “Not exactly.”

Before she stopped herself, she reached out and gripped his arm. “Please tell me. Don’t make me think the worst. Is he all right? Is he hurt?”

He stared hard at her hand before his gaze skimmed her body, at last resting on her face. She might have imagined it, but he looked a bit hurt. “He is fine, Bridget. Don’t worry so.”

Feeling foolish, she swallowed. Then remembered she was still holding on to him and hurriedly pulled her hand away. “Why are you here?”

“Marks wants us to accompany him and Miss Bancroft to the Silver Grotto.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry. I believe I misunderstood what you just said?”

“I don’t joke about our employer’s whims and wishes,” he said stiffly. “You know that.”

“So you came here to retrieve me?”

He nodded. “Time is ticking away. Go do whatever you need to do to get ready.”

Glancing down at her plain gray dress, she wondered why he thought anyone would notice what she was wearing. But instead of pestering him with more questions and comments, she nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

She turned and ascended the staircase, stopping briefly outside of Mrs. Bancroft’s door, but ultimately deciding to keep her departure secret. Chances were good that she wouldn’t even wake up and would therefore never know Bridget had left the house.

If she was awake, then Bridget would be forced to lie about her errand. She didn’t want Miss Bancroft to feel as if she were being betrayed. More importantly, she didn’t want Mr. Marks to imagine that she was talking freely about his private interests.

Once she got to her small and tidy yet comfortable room in the attic, Bridget changed into one of her old evening gowns, grateful that Mr. Marks had had the rest of her belongings sent over. It wasn’t anywhere near fashionable, but the fabric was good and the cut flattered the slim lines of her figure. With gloves, she could fit in most anywhere. At the Grotto, no one would be looking at her dress, only the rest of her person.

After taking down her hair, she pinned it up again, smoothing it carefully and securing it with a couple of jet-embedded combs that had been her grandmother’s. They were pretty but had never been considered valuable enough to fetch a pretty penny.

After picking up her carefully cleaned and neatly mended gloves, she slipped them on as she descended the stairs.

The moment she came into view, Vincent stood up. As he watched her approach, she was enough of a woman to notice that true appreciation glowed in his eyes.

“Need help?” He reached out a hand, obviously intent on fastening the trio of buttons at her wrist.

“Thank you.” She placed her hands in his and watched as he carefully fastened the buttons. “When I lived at the Hartman, I would simply get one of the girls there to help me.”

Obviously, it wasn’t the first time she’d been so close to him. But it was definitely the first time he’d performed such a service for her. The intimate chore made her cheeks heat and her mind drift.

What if he had come to see her by choice? What if he yearned to make their relationship about more than duty and obligation? Then
she’d feel like a woman of worth again. Not because of money or status or privilege. But because a good man had decided that she was worth his time and attention.