Whispers in the Reading Room (2 page)

“Marks? Marks, yes. I thought that was you.”

He turned and eyed Sergio Vlas, one of his longtime contemporaries, with a practiced look of contempt. “You weren’t sure?”

“Not at first. No. There was something about your gait that didn’t look right.”

“Perhaps you should get your eyes examined.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” The Russian grinned as he fell in beside Sebastian, displaying a mouthful of gleaming but crooked teeth surrounding one gaping hole where an incisor had once been. “How’s business?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Good enough. Why?”

“No reason.” Vlas inhaled, then gave him a reason anyway. “With the recent rise in crime around here, the cops’ve been breathing down my neck lately something awful.”

“Now that the fair is closed, the police seem to care about the number of suspicious deaths.”

Sergio grunted. “It ain’t the police who care, it’s that blasted reporter from the
Chicago Times-Courier
. He’s making it seem like every poor sod who’s been mugged or stabbed is worth something.” Illustrating his disdain for the reporter’s interference, he spit on the ground.

Sebastian shrugged. “Murder is murder.”

“Not at all. These men aren’t society debutants. They’re men who are gaming and drinking away their time. And worse.”

Sebastian knew Sergio was referencing the Society Slasher, the man who had put the upper echelons of society on alert when he’d attacked some of the season’s most eligible debutants. “Things will settle down soon. They have to.”

“I imagine they will. I just was kind of hoping my place wasn’t the only club that is suddenly swarming with police.”

“It isn’t.”

What Sebastian didn’t bother to point out, however, was that his club catered to a far different crowd from the Russian’s. Sergio’s gaming hall was a bit more than two rungs down from his own club and gambling institution. Sergio also dealt in women, which was something Sebastian never had the stomach for.

He far rather wished to put his efforts into making money from legal liquor and illegal poker tables. Somehow, becoming rich off of other men’s vices didn’t bother him. Making a cent at the expense of a desperate woman was a whole other story.

Besides, it was his luck that fools on the police force enjoyed visiting his gentlemen’s club, not the Bear and Bull. Therefore, he was sure
Sergio’s problems had nothing to do with him. “The police are always combing the backstreets. Pay ’em off.”

“It ain’t as easy as it used to be.” Sergio sneered. “There’s a fair contingent of cops who are on the straight and narrow.”

Sebastian laughed. Partly because he didn’t believe in anyone being completely on the straight and narrow, partly because he knew even if Sergio was indeed right, the cops would go after the Russian’s business dealings before they’d touch his own. “Rotten luck.”

They were now in the center of Camp Creek Alley, the aptly named path to both of their establishments. Old-timers said it was once the site of a number of brothels servicing trappers and frontiersmen back before Chicago was more than a swamp-infested town.

Now the alley was a main thoroughfare leading from booming businesses and socially acceptable sites to businesses better known to most in the dark. A left turn would eventually lead one to Sergio’s Bear and Bull. Taking the second right led to his own club, the Silver Grotto.

“If I hear something about the coppers, I’ll let you know,” Sebastian said.

This time it was Sergio who smiled with disdain. “Yeah, right. I weren’t born yesterday, Marks, and not even the day before. You’re not gonna share anything you don’t have to.”

Sebastian didn’t bother to deny that fact. “You’re the same way. However, I don’t blame you for that. We both know what happens to people who talk too much.”

Abruptly, Sergio’s grin vanished. “Don’t get yourself killed today.”

Sebastian nodded. That was something they all said to each other. It had started as a joke between two rivals. Now the joke was on all of them, since the recent crime wave had put many of their associates in danger or in the earth well before their time.

After they parted ways, Sebastian stopped a newsboy and purchased
a paper, then entered the Grotto. All was quiet, seeing as it was still early in the day, not quite four o’clock.

Vincent Hunt, his personal assistant and club manager, greeted him at the door. After taking Sebastian’s hat and coat, Vincent followed him through the main saloon, up two flights of narrow stairs, and at last into a spacious third-floor office. Once there, Sebastian took his chair behind a mahogany desk he’d won from a toff years ago. Then, at last, his manager presented the daily report.

For the next half hour, he listened as Vincent reported on everything from the kitchen staff, to menu choices, to items recently purchased for the poker rooms. As usual, Vincent waited until the very end to discuss any problems with recent customers or employees.

This was their usual routine, and they had perfected it into a fine art over the last two years—ever since Hunt’s predecessor had been stabbed to death in the middle of a bar brawl and Sebastian had promoted Vincent to replace him.

Rarely did Sebastian take any notes. It was Vincent Hunt’s job to analyze and investigate problems. Sebastian, on the other hand, decided matters quickly and concisely. He didn’t want to spend any precious moments of his spare time pondering over decisions. As far as he was concerned, only fools procrastinated or fretted about things that had to be done or couldn’t be changed.

At the end of their time together, Vincent looked up from his notes. “That’s the extent of it, sir.”

Sebastian looked at the gilded timepiece on his mantel. They had finished right on schedule. “Sounds fairly quiet.”

Hunt nodded. “It has been. Well, except when Mr. Avondale paid us another visit.”

Sebastian leaned forward, vaguely irritated Hunt hadn’t mentioned this right away. “When was this?”

Hunt curled his lips in distaste. “Around two this morning, just in time to gamble before the rooms closed at three.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch, but he privately shared his manager’s opinion of the man. If Avondale was on the property that time of night, he was no doubt three sheets to the wind. And while he didn’t especially care how much his guests at the bar imbibed, with Avondale it continually meant only one thing. The gentleman would be loud, sloppy, unruly, and a sore loser. “Did he lose again?” he asked, thinking it was a rhetorical question.

“He did, sir.”

“Did he cover all his losses for the night?”

Looking pleased, Hunt nodded. “He did. Of course, he still owes you thousands.”

Of course he did—just as several wayward men from influential families did. He allowed it, to a point, because being indebted to him meant they would do his bidding should he need them in other matters.

But unless there was a problem Hunt couldn’t—or shouldn’t—handle himself, Sebastian didn’t care to know anything about what men did in his club, not even the ones who owed him money. He paid Hunt to relay information that mattered to him, not to watch gents come and go and then report back to him like a gossiping old woman.

His blond-haired, too-often-wound-tight manager should know that.

And because he didn’t, it tore a hole through Sebastian’s carefully crafted and controlled diction. “Then what’s yer problem?” The last thing he wanted was to start his workday reviewing gossip from the night before.

“Apparently he took out his displeasure about the night’s losses on a girl.”

“Girl?”

“Prostitute. Young one. Down at Jack’s Last Stand.” A pained look crossed his features. “He beat her severely. She almost died.”

That was unfortunate.

However, he’d learned long ago that no good came to the man foolish enough to dwell on the darkness in life. And his control of those emotions let his diction settle once again. “You getting a soft heart, Hunt?”

“No, sir.” He grimaced. “Maybe.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

“I have Mary, you know. The thought of someone beating her up is pretty hard to stomach.”

Vincent was a single father, his wife having died of scarlet fever when his daughter was barely a year old. Now Mary was about four, and he knew Vincent was excessively fond of her.

But that didn’t mean Hunt needed to let the child make him vulnerable. Summoning up his self-schooled vocabulary again, he warned, “Then don’t think about it, Hunt. Just like with the recent beatings and murders around town, Avondale’s proclivities and some Bear and Bull girl’s misfortune don’t affect us.” He hardened his voice to make sure his point was taken. “At all.”

Vincent shifted, lifting his shoulders as though they were suddenly stiff and sore. “It isn’t always that easy to ignore when someone does something evil though.”

A chill crept up Sebastian’s spine. Was it because he’d done his share of shameful things in the past? Or because he was so used to turning a blind eye to evil that he’d forgotten what it was like to care?

“You’re going to have to ignore things like this if you want to work here for any length of time, Hunt. I essentially told you that when you first interviewed.” A memory surfaced of Vincent arriving three years ago, still grieving over the death of his wife, just let go from his job as a clerk in a law office. He’d been earnest and needy.

Sebastian hadn’t been sure the man would last a full month, but he had been an exceptional employee.

That is, when he wasn’t wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Hurt shone in his assistant’s eyes. “Mr. Marks, surely some sympathy wouldn’t be misplaced.”

“It is not misplaced, but it’s also not welcome.”

“But have you never come across a woman you imagine being too good for the likes of Avondale?” Lowering his voice, he added, “A lady who is too good for the likes of any of us?”

A certain freckled, blue-eyed, auburn-haired librarian who favored silver-rimmed spectacles came to mind.

Ruthlessly, he pushed her image from his mind. “I don’t think about women,” he bit out, knowing it was almost the truth. “You know that.”

Hunt looked as if he was barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

“But if I did, I would only think of them in terms of pity. It’s a woman’s lot to be at the bidding of the men in her life.” He would hate a life like that.

“It isn’t always that way, sir,” Hunt replied in his middle-class accent. “I treated my wife like she was a treasure.”

A treasure. That was more than a bit effusive. Rather laughable. But even Sebastian wasn’t cruel enough to make light of Vincent’s love for his deceased wife.

Exhaling, he placed both hands on the surface of his desk, enjoying the satin-smoothness of the highly polished wood, as he always did. “My point, Hunt, is that many women, especially prostitutes, are at men’s mercies. It’s the way of the world, and there’s nothing you nor I can do about that. But I will say that hearing about Avondale’s latest misadventures makes me thank my lucky stars I don’t deal in prostitutes just to make more money. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Yes, sir. Do you need anything else now?”

Disappointment flickered in his manager’s eyes before he lowered them. Sebastian knew Vincent didn’t agree with everything he’d just said about some women’s lot in life, but it didn’t exactly matter. Only one person owned the Silver Grotto and that was him. That made him right. Always. “Not at the moment. Thank you for the report.”

Only when he was alone again did Sebastian dare to let his mind drift back to Miss Lydia Bancroft. The way she rarely chattered on like most females of his acquaintance. The way she shelved books like they were old friends. How she seemed to be more at ease with a room full of books than with people.

Something about that little mouse spurred feelings of protectiveness he didn’t even know he possessed.

He’d only recently learned her name, when he’d overheard one of the women borrowing books speak to her. He’d been surprised—not at her name, but at the realization that he’d even wanted to know it. That he needed to know it.

He was going to have to guard himself the next time he visited the library. He pigeonholed people in his life, and she needed to firmly stay in the small, very narrow expanse of his brain that focused on obtaining a few hours of peace in a worn and quiet reading room. He would not dwell on the faint scents of lavender and lemon that lingered there or the way he sometimes felt her steady gaze linger on his form.

It would not do for him to get to know her too well.

If that happened, she might seek him out. Attempt to talk to him. Worse, want to know his name.

And that would be a disaster. Few people knew how much he liked to read, and no one—besides her and that assistant of hers—knew just how much time he spent with his nose in books.

The lending library gave him some solace. For a few hours’ time, he was able to be the man he had wished to become—back before he
realized life in the slums wasn’t about being smarter than the bullies on the street, but about being stronger. Meaner.

Now that he owned the Grotto, however, he knew success in his world meant he needed to be both—strong
and
smart.

Turning his chair, he stared out the window, watching the people below him hurry about their business. They all looked so busy. So intent. So purposeful.

Indeed, the regular populace, no matter in Camp Creek Alley or on Michigan Avenue, continued on their merry way during daylight hours, while he generally did all he could to merely while away the time until the sun went down and his club began to fill.

But when he saw two women walking in cheap, ill-fitting dresses on the way to the worst parts of Camp Creek, something inside of him twisted painfully.

Obviously, they were prostitutes. Very far from the refined Miss Lydia Bancroft. Far from Hunt’s treasured, middle-class wife, even.

Now, perhaps because of Hunt’s melodramatic story, he found himself viewing those harlots as something more than their occupation. As something more than a hurtful reminder of his own mother . . . and the way she’d been forced to ply her trade to keep him fed.