Whispers in the Reading Room (19 page)

But the only thing worse was knowing that it would never—in all likelihood—be repeated.

A
fter throwing back a sizable amount of rye whiskey, Sebastian stepped back in the corner between the quickly filling bar and the rest of the room. When he’d first opened the Silver Grotto, before he’d learned to trust Hunt completely, he stood in this spot for hours at a time.

It afforded him an excellent view of the main room of the club but also was enough in the shadows that most never even glanced his way.

Back in those days, he’d lived his life in a haze of bitterness mixed in with paranoia that it was all going to go away within hours. He’d made friends with the cops who patrolled the area and soon learned they were understaffed and underpaid. They had no true desire to arrest a man for enjoying a few card games when so many more serious crimes occurred just outside the club. Sebastian had found that a couple of dollars, laced with a word or two of kindness, went a long way.

He’d also given generously to the widows and orphans fund.

Because of that, Sebastian had ruled the Silver Grotto with a mixture of care and disdain. He’d watched men drink themselves silly, count change to see if they had enough to venture downstairs. Or if their pockets were empty, they’d eye the infamous silver doors with a growing sense of defeat.

Sebastian had soon learned which men—even some on the police force—spent all of their paychecks on drink, forgoing the needs of their wives and children for a few hours of oblivion.

After hearing about the conditions in the various slaughter-houses, docks, and other factories, Sebastian had never blamed them. Men were maimed or died on the job every day, and no one but their family cared.

He had vowed that he would never be one of them.

That was why he’d used as much of his brain as he could to outsmart and trick any men in his way. He’d stayed up late, with only the cheapest candles for company, not only laboriously attempting to improve his reading, but practicing reciting the words he heard gentlemen saying on the streets.

That had been some time ago—almost a lifetime ago.

But not quite.

After he’d hired Hunt, after he’d hired floor managers to report to Hunt, he had spent far less time in the bar and more time walking among the gamblers down below. But of late, even watching that action had grown stale. For the last year, he’d begun to spend even more time in his private office in the back of the third floor.

He’d even begun to pretend that his life was much different than it used to be. It had become almost easy to forget how it felt to be cold and hungry, dirty and illiterate.

Now he slept in the best suite at the Hartman. His clothes were custom tailored, his hair trimmed by a private barber who visited his suite every three weeks.

He employed a woman to tend to his clothes and his room so he could keep his privacy.

Every so often, when he lounged in a fine dining restaurant or when he was visiting the Columbian Exposition, he’d known that
to one and all, his transformation was complete. No longer was he the poor boy named Samuel Marx, sleeping on a flea-bitten mattress. Instead, he was the gentleman Sebastian Marks, the man who lived on the edge of polite society. Who sometimes was seen escorting ladies languishing in the fringes of society.

And had developed an unlikely but mutually satisfying relationship with a rather shy, rather beautiful librarian.

But this evening’s short walk from the hotel to the Grotto had been nothing if not a revelation. He’d suddenly seen his life and its surroundings through her wide, scared eyes, and he had been the one who had been afraid.

It was time he remembered the truth. He was only a sham, a propped-up figment of a pitiful boy’s hopes and dreams.

Looking at the factory worker standing at the bar, his clothes smelling faintly of blood and sweat, his ragged expression and desolate eyes revealing that tomorrow he would be doing the same things yet again, Sebastian knew without a doubt which of them was the better man.

At least that man was honest and could sleep at night, knowing he hadn’t been living a lie. And worse, subjecting innocent women to that lie.

He was about to offer to buy the man a drink, or even pass him a few dollars to pass on to his wife, when he spied Hunt striding his way.

He pushed off from his spot and met him in the center of the room. “Do you have a report?”

Hunt nodded, his eyes as alert as they always were, carefully scanning each person, looking for trouble. Again and again, he met other men’s looks directly, never flinching, always cool and calculating.

Once he seemed satisfied with what he saw, he turned to Sebastian. “The gambling is going well. Tables are filled and bets are high. You
should be pleased with this evening’s profits. Turner is doing a fine job of keeping a handle on things. It was right to promote him.”

Sebastian was pleased with the news, though he could barely summon the interest in the tables. “What about Miss Bancroft? How is she faring?”

“Her?” he asked in a dismissive way. “Bridget told me Miss Bancroft is no worse for wear.” His lips twisted. “She’s also promised to stay in your office and out of trouble.”

The tone in his assistant’s voice was troublesome. With a jerk of his head, he directed Hunt to follow him toward a quiet place near the front door. “What is it that bothers you about her, Hunt?”

“What doesn’t? That woman is far too impetuous and naïve. She doesn’t listen either.”

That woman? “All those things are true. But I still fail to understand the basis for your tone.”

“Sir?” Vincent’s lips curved up in a tentative smile, glanced Sebastian’s way, then turned appreciatively more somber. “You know I meant no disrespect to you, sir. It’s just that, well, it’s obvious she is playing you.”

Hunt’s new desire to have an opinion on most everything was beginning to grate on his nerves. “I, for one, don’t believe it was obvious, or that she was doing anything of the kind. In fact, I’m afraid you need to reevaluate your opinion of Miss Bancroft.”

Vincent’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I don’t want to ever hear you refer to her as ‘that woman’ again.”

“I understand, Mr. Marks.”

“If I ever get the sense that she feels that you are not her friend, you and I will have a problem.”

His eyebrows rose. “You wish me to be her friend?”

“She needs one. She needs more than one, Hunt.”

As his assistant was staring at him, his skin now tinged with gray, Sebastian noticed that Bridget was standing with two of the girls who served drinks and food in the basement. He had no idea why she was now standing in the middle of the room when he’d taken such pains to keep her from the club.

Worse, if Bridget, Hunt, and he were here, that meant Lydia was upstairs in his office by herself. Completely by herself.

Anyone could accost her, and he would have no knowledge of the fact.

“See to Bridget.”

“What do you want me to do with her? Send her to your office?”

“No. I am going to see to Miss Bancroft. I want to make sure she is all right. We will not need a chaperone. Instead, take Bridget down to the kitchens and see that she is fed.”

“Fed.”

Pleased with the idea, Sebastian nodded. “Yes. Feed yourself, too, if you’re hungry.”

“And then?”

“Then keep her by your side,” he continued, thinking quickly. It was too crowded to allow Hunt to leave. “I’ll decide when it’s time for you to escort them both home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sebastian turned away without another word. After fishing in his pocket for a few dollars, he walked to the bar and pressed them into the slaughterhouse worker’s hand.

“What’s this for?” The man looked at him suspiciously.

“Take it home to yer missus,” Sebastian said. “Let her use it on coal or food for a change.”

The worker rolled his eyes. “What would you know about needing coal or food?”

The bartender coughed. “Watch it, Pete. That’s Mr. Marks.”

The man paled. “Beg yer pardon.”

Sebastian shrugged. “I learned over the years not to question good fortune. But do as I say. That money is no good here.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Sebastian brushed off the thanks and quickly strode up the stairs. As he walked up each step, his heart started to pound. What if someone knew Lydia was alone?

What if she hadn’t decided to listen to Bridget and ventured out on her own?

What if he lost her? What if she was hurt?

He fairly raced up each step, ignoring a pair of his workers as he rushed past them in the hall.

Only when he was outside his office door did he take a fortifying, calming breath. It would be foolhardy to enter in the state he was in. She was so intuitive; she would notice his unease immediately.

After closing his eyes and relaxing the muscles in his neck and shoulders, he opened the door.

“Lydia, forgive me,” he began, intentionally keeping his voice light and easy. “I didn’t mean to keep you sitting alone up here for so long.”

As he closed the door behind him, he listened for her light laugh.

But he heard nothing.

Warily, he glanced at his desk, half thinking she would have decided to occupy his desk chair. But there was no one. Neither were the chairs facing the desk occupied.

The sense of panic he’d barely been able to control reared forth, causing a trickle of sweat to slide down his back. “Lydia?” he called out more loudly. He turned on his heel, scanning the rest of the room.

Then, miraculously, he rested his gaze on his lovely librarian. She’d somehow found his hidden stash of novels in the wooden crate
under the couch and had opened a copy of what looked like
Robinson Crusoe
. Then, she’d fallen asleep.

Her spectacles were perched lopsided on her nose, and more than a few strands of her glorious auburn hair had fallen from her combs. One hand was hanging down, the other curved around the tome protectively, as if that book was all that was important.

A lump formed in his throat.

Stealth-like, he approached. Crouching on his knees, he gently pried the book from her grip and placed it back in its crate. Then, he pulled off her spectacles, folded the wire arms, and slipped them inside his suit pocket. That way he would know where they were at all times, in no danger of getting lost or damaged.

After debating the pros and cons of rearranging her figure, he decided not to move her. He didn’t want to risk waking her. Instead, he walked to his coat rack, pulled off one of his older overcoats that he kept for whenever he felt the need to roam the area streets, and carefully laid it over her.

She mumbled under her breath, sighed, and to his amusement, curled into a ball.

Contentedly, he watched her sleep for a long moment. Happy that she was safe and sleeping soundly. Happy that he could watch her without her observing him staring too long.

A bump sounded down the hall. He stared at the door, half expecting Hunt to pound on it, alerting him to yet another fight or drunk or the appearance of someone too disreputable.

But the noise drifted off in a sigh, leaving the area quiet.

Sebastian walked to his desk and pulled out the day’s folder of messages and receipts. After getting out his ledger, he settled in for three hours of paperwork.

As far as he was concerned, there was no place else to go. There was certainly nowhere else he’d rather be.

“You need to stay by my side,” Vincent said as he approached.

Vincent looked so ill at ease, so different from his usual implacable self, Bridget eyed him curiously. “Why?”

“Because Mr. Marks ordered it, that’s why.”

“What is wrong with you? Has something else upset you?”

He blew out a harsh breath of air. “Why would anything be wrong? Other than, you know, we’ve got a lady librarian in our midst.” To her surprise, his voice turned even more caustic. “In a few hours, we’re going to have to go fetch her and escort her back home.”

“All right.”

“All right?” he snarled. “Aren’t you just the least bit resentful of the fact that you should be sleeping right now?”

“I’m not tired.” She shrugged. “To be honest, I’m having a good time.”

“You shouldn’t be here. Especially not in here.”

“Mr. Marks must be thinking otherwise if he told you to stick to my side.” She scanned the area, but saw no trace of his indomitable presence. “Where is he, by the way?”

Hunt motioned to the dark entryway of the back stairs. “He went to go check on her.”

Bridget sighed, glad her instincts about the two of them had been correct. “Ah. Well, that’s telling, don’t you think?”

“Not really.” He scoffed. “I bet Marks is afraid she ran off. I am.”

“That is doubtful.”

“Or is about to start wandering about the place like it’s one of those white palaces at the fair.”

“Those burned down,” she retorted, unafraid to keep both her skepticism and a healthy amount of tartness from her voice.

Hunt waved off her protests with a hand. “For Pete’s sake, Bridget. You know what I mean. She doesn’t belong here.”