Whispers in the Reading Room (6 page)

He suppressed a smile as well. If Miss Bancroft was going to pretend she didn’t, without fail, safeguard his current selection at the reading room until his return, so would he.

A line formed between her brows. “Robert Louis Stevenson’s works are tremendously popular.
The Wrecker
is reputed to be very exciting.”

“So far, yes, I am finding it to be exciting as well.”

“You should check it out, Mr. Marks, instead of simply reading books when you’re in the library. Then you won’t have to worry about it being there next time you stop in.”

As though he had to worry now.

“I won’t worry.” He went to the library to read for pleasure, to lose himself in the allure of printed pages without anyone in his world taking note. Of late, he had also gone there to watch her. It seemed the stories told in the books were only part of the lending library’s allure.

She frowned as she picked up a chocolate éclair. “Surely you didn’t finish
The Wrecker
already? It’s a rather large tome.”

She knew very well he had only started reading the book a week ago, the day she’d spilled a stack of books all over the floor.

“If it isn’t there, I’ll make do with something else.”

“But that makes no sense.”

“Many things don’t make sense, Miss Bancroft. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t done.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.”

He watched her lean back and pop another éclair into her mouth, her expression turning to bliss as the custard and chocolate no doubt came in contact with her taste buds.

Just as his thoughts turned in that inappropriate direction, Vincent Hunt approached. He wore a determined expression, much the way he looked around three in the morning when they were closing the gambling for the night.

When he noticed Sebastian was not seated alone, Hunt looked completely brought up short. “Um, excuse me, sir. Miss.”

“What is it, Hunt?”

“You asked me to get you if we heard from a, um, specific client. He arrived just minutes ago.”

“Very good.” He got to his feet, thinking that whatever had just come up had come at an opportune time. He was becoming entirely too comfortable with the young lady sitting across from him. “I’d best go see to that.”

Lydia set the cup she’d just raised to her lips back down. Looking from him to Vincent, she said, “It is time for you to go?”

“I’m afraid I must.”

Carefully, she folded her napkin and set it next to her plate. “I had better go as well.”

“Forgive me. I seem to have lost my manners.” While Hunt stared at him like he was a stranger, Sebastian continued, “Miss Bancroft,
may I present my assistant, Mr. Vincent Hunt. Vincent, this is Miss Lydia Bancroft.”

Hunt gave a small bow. “Miss Bancroft, a pleasure.”

She inclined her head. “How do you do, Mr. Hunt.”

“I was going to ask my maid, Bridget, but now that he’s here, Mr. Hunt is going to escort you home.”

Her blue eyes widened. “There is no need. I will be fine on my own.”

“Definitely not. The streets aren’t safe for young ladies like you.”

“I don’t think I will have any worries.”

“Pray, don’t tell me that you have already forgotten the fate of two ladies at the hands of the Slasher,” he bit out.

Before his eyes, Lydia paled. “I . . . I haven’t forgotten.”

Next to him, Hunt groaned, reminding Sebastian that he’d just made a terrible faux pas.

Sebastian clamped down on the inside of his lip. “Forgive me. I, um, forget myself and my company from time to time.”

“You forget your company?”

Now she was thinking that he hadn’t even been thinking about her. “Never mind. Please do accept Hunt’s escort.”

“It would be my honor, miss.”

“All right, then. Thank you, Mr. Hunt.” She smiled softly. “And Mr. Marks, thank you for the tea, and for your assistance earlier. I am indebted.”

The reminder drew his eyes to her bare right hand. “Please take care of your wrist and hand. If you have any need of assistance with . . . that, uh, problem, you need only leave a message for me here.”

“Thank you.”

He had to get out of there. He had to put as much space as possible between him and her innocence. “Hunt, I need a moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sebastian motioned for Bridget to stay near Lydia before leading Hunt to a shadowed alcove near the curved staircase. The moment they stopped, Vincent became all business.

“Sir, would you like to know about the problem? It seems Jeffrey Galvin has returned. You said if he did—”

“I’ll deal with him when I get to the Grotto. I have something else you need to address.”

“Sir?”

“You will escort Miss Bancroft all the way to her door,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“You will make sure she gets inside safely, and take special care to notice if she is favoring her right hand more than usual.”

“Her hand?”

“She had a nasty altercation with a gentleman here. I put an end to it.” At least he hoped so. And he saw no need to tell Hunt Lydia had had any association with the likes of Avondale.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. No matter what, you do not tell her anything about my line of work. Do you understand?”

Hunt’s expression continued to remain impassive. “Yes, sir.”

Just to make sure, he added, “Nothing about the Silver Grotto. Ladies like her don’t know places like mine exist.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

Sebastian noticed a thread of hope in his voice. It was suddenly obvious to him that his assistant was finding this whole situation to be especially amusing. “Nothing else.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then, because he didn’t dare speak to her again, he turned and walked up the stairs. But, perversely, he only waited at the edge of the
landing. He wanted to watch her for just a little while longer. He wanted to see if she was in pain from Avondale’s rough handling of her.

But all he did was watch Hunt very properly help her to her feet, offer his arm after helping her wrap her cloak around her shoulders, then smile at her softly while he walked her outside. Sebastian could see them through a window as they stopped for a moment on the sidewalk.

Lydia seemed to be perfectly at ease with him. Whatever Vincent Hunt was saying, it was everything proper—though, perhaps, he was standing just a tad too close and his fingers had brushed her shoulders a bit too intimately?

Sebastian felt the unfamiliar, curious grip of jealousy twist inside of him as he saw Lydia smile at Vincent before crossing the street by his side.

Irritated with himself, irritated with all of it, he stormed back down the stairs, intent on sliding out the back door of the hotel and going to his club.

He certainly hoped whatever was waiting for him was bad enough to use his fists. If he was lucky, perhaps a fight had broken out. It had been months since he’d worked up a sweat in a good fight.

“Excuse me, Mr. Marks?”

He paused, watching Bridget trot toward him, her uniform and brown hair tidy as usual. “Miss Bancroft forgot this.” She held out one long white kid glove. Lydia’s glove that he himself had peeled from her wrist. “Would you like me to try to catch Mr. Hunt and Miss Bancroft? I doubt they’ve gotten too far yet.”

“No, don’t bother.”

“All right. Um, would you rather I leave it with the concierge?”

“No.” He snatched it from her hand. “I’ll make sure this is returned to her.”

“Oh. Well then, very good, sir.” She gave a small curtsy.

He stuffed the glove in his pocket. As he was walking toward the door, the persnickety proprietor of the hotel stopped him. “I trust everything was to your liking, sir?”

Nothing had been to his liking. “Good enough.”

“Then if you would please tell us how to bill you for the tea?”

“You know you simply send the receipt to Hunt.”

“No, sir. I mean the first tea.” The man waved a cautious hand in the direction of the first table, where Lydia had been sitting with Avondale.

“Do you mean to tell me Avondale left without paying?”

“Regrettably, yes.”

Why should he have been surprised? “Give that receipt to Hunt as well.”

“Very good, sir.”

At long last, Sebastian exited the Hartman Hotel, turned right, and descended into the back alleys. Fifteen minutes later, he was in sight of the Silver Grotto, and the streets were shadowed and narrow, smelling of trash and unwashed bodies.

The moment he strode through the tall, heavy, silver-plated doors, he gestured to Parker, his man standing guard at the entrance. “Hunt said Jeffrey Galvin is here. Where will I find him?”

“He left, sir. I suspect he knew Hunt went for you.”

“Just as well. I’m in no mood to deliver my decision tonight. Find me a shot of gin. Keep it neat.”

“Of course, Mr. Marks.”

Feeling better already, Sebastian looked around, happy to see the bar starting to fill with customers.

Below, his workers were counting the hours until the sun set, when they’d open the doors to the basement gambling tables.

Here, Sebastian felt at home. He understood what was expected. He knew what should happen and what should not.

Most especially, there wasn’t an auburn-haired librarian in the vicinity wanting to discuss books, enjoy the taste of éclairs, or who assumed he was a far better man than everyone here knew he was.

A
fter observing Mr. Hunt escort the librarian out the front door like she was made up of spun glass, then watching her employer stalk out the back door of the hotel like a swarm of bees was pursuing him, Bridget O’Connell slipped through one of the lobby’s unmarked doors and into the servants’ hall. As she took a deep breath and looked around, Bridget felt like Alice stepping through the looking glass.

Instead of being surrounded by priceless artwork and beautifully crafted furniture, she was face-to-face with painted brick, exposed pipes, utilitarian cabinets, and metal shelving. Instead of genteel voices speaking in well-modulated tones, she heard the rushing of feet and the barking orders of the chefs and head of housekeeping.

“Is
he
gone?” Harold, one of the longtime waitstaff, paused next to her, a tray of china cups and saucers in his hands.

Bridget knew the waiter was referring to Mr. Marks. All the hotel staff was slightly in awe of him, and usually only referred to him as
he
or
him
.

“Yes. Just.”

He winked. “So you can take a few minutes rest now.”

Bridget smiled. “Not likely. I’ve got other things to do.”

Harold leaned forward, seemingly oblivious that he was holding a heavy tray. “Care to tell me what you’re going to be doing?”

“You know I can’t.” She smiled when she spoke, hoping that smile would take the sting out of her words. It was a long-running joke that she was never quite a part of the other servants at the Hartman Hotel. “But I wish you luck with the rest of tea service.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ever since the fair ended in October, we’re getting fewer foreigners in the restaurant and a whole lot more cranky, bored ladies. Never thought I’d say it, but I’d give my right eyetooth to serve supper to another delegation from Germany or Austria.” A dimple formed in his cheek. “They, at least, were lively.”

“If I see any Germans out and about, I’ll send them your way.”

“Just make sure they tip.” Harold winked again before lighting off, his smooth, easy glide making his job look far easier than it was. She’d seen some new workers still manage to make a racket when they were carrying half that much.

After nodding in the direction of two maids carrying silver candelabras, Bridget climbed three flights to the top floor, a good part of which was Mr. Marks’ private quarters. After passing through another door, she was standing on a thick carpet runner and surrounded by gilt-framed mirrors. Taking care to step lively, she strode down the hall. Just as she rounded the corner, she spied Mabel and Gwen waiting for her.

She braced herself for their company.

By all accounts, she should consider them friends. And they were her friends, to a degree. However, her past and circumstances were far different from theirs. And her secrets kept her from lowering her guard too much around them. She had secrets that would shame her if revealed.

And nowhere else in the world would she feel as safe as her rather solitary existence as Mr. Marks’ personal maid.

But still she pretended to be more open than she was.

“Hi, girls.”

“Hi, yerself,” Mabel replied with a saucy smile. “About time you came upstairs.”

“Why were you waiting for me? Did you need something?”

“Only news,” Gwen said. “We heard
he
had you attending him down in the lobby this afternoon.”

She nodded. “Yes, Mr. Marks did.”

“Why did you have to be there?” Mabel asked. “There’s plenty of waiters to serve him tea.”

“Well, you know . . .”

“No, I really don’t,” Gwen pressed. “Why did he need you there?” A brash grin played on her lips. “Or was it your idea?” she mused. “Bridget O’Connell, were you not able to keep yerself away from the illustrious Mr. Marks?”

“Hardly that,” she said quickly, becoming flustered. “Mr. Marks asked me to fetch and carry for him. That is all.”

“It weren’t all,” Mabel said with a pointed look. “I looked down from the stairwell and saw him tending to that poor, lost-looking lady. Who was she? She don’t look near glamorous enough to be his sweetheart.”

Bridget had seen her boss squire a number of young ladies about, but never one so plain as Miss Bancroft. Mr. Marks had been focused completely on the librarian though. And Bridget had felt more than a bit sorry for her, seeing that she was engaged to none other than Jason Avondale. Bridget knew his penchant for brutality far too well.

However, though it was on the tip of Bridget’s tongue to correct Mabel’s assumption, she did not.

The reason she had been in Mr. Marks’ employ for two years was that she didn’t divulge his secrets. Not ever. She did not comment on anything he did. Not even things he did in broad daylight.