Whispers in the Reading Room (7 page)

“What are you two doing up here anyway?” She eyed the pair curiously. “I already cleaned Mr. Marks’ suite.”

“We were waiting for you. Obviously,” Gwen said.

A mite cheekily
, Bridget thought.

“I was telling Mabel here, if you have spare time, you always come up here. We have a couple of hours off, so we thought you might want to go out for a bit.”

Though a part of her was warmed by the invitation, she didn’t dare take them up on it. She would lose her job if Mr. Marks came back, needed something, and she wasn’t available to procure it for him.

“I’m afraid I cannot. I need to iron Mr. Marks’ shirts.”

Mabel frowned. “Why don’t he send them to the laundry? The girls do everyone else’s.”

At that moment another maid found the two women, asking about their afternoon plans. That gave Bridget time to think before answering—or evading—Mabel’s question.

But that was the difference
, Bridget reflected. Mr. Marks didn’t want anything of his being touched by everyone else. He demanded privacy for both his personal life and his belongings.

As the maids’ chatter became more animated, now focusing on a certain boot boy Bridget had never heard of, Bridget let her mind settle on her employer.

Just like it usually did.

Mr. Marks was not like anyone else. From the moment she’d walked into his office, begging for a job in his private club, and he’d stared at her in silence, she’d known that.

Especially since all he’d done was glare at her when he’d given her bedraggled, hungry self an audience and heard her whisper that she’d even be willing to work among the gentlemen gamblers.

She’d been sure he was about to send her on her way. And she
knew when he did she was either going to be forced to go somewhere worse than the Silver Grotto or go to the workhouse. Tears had flooded her eyes.

He noticed. Then he did the most curious thing. He snapped his fingers.

Bridget still remembered how she’d jumped at the sound. But barely a second later, out came Vincent Hunt from a hidden panel in Mr. Marks’ office. She later learned that Vincent Hunt was Mr. Marks’ very own personal assistant and club manager.

“Take Miss O’Connell to the Hartman,” he’d directed. “Once there, take her to the washroom in my suite.”

“Um—” She’d attempted to interrupt.

He’d ignored her. “While she is bathing, locate some decent clothes for her.”

Hunt hadn’t looked dismayed by the request in the slightest. “Any special color or design, sir?”

“I don’t care.” Then, when he’d stared at Bridget with her brown hair and brown eyes, he reconsidered. “Maybe something in blue or green?”

“Green, sir?”

“Green. Like the meadow. Or violet.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Hunt had replied.

An awful, sick feeling had settled in her stomach when she’d heard Mr. Marks’ wishes. She realized that not only did he plan to use her for his own base desires, he wanted to make sure she was clean before he touched her. She’d been more ashamed than she could ever remember.

Still ignoring her standing in front of him, Hunt asked, “What do you want me to do after I get her outfitted, sir?”

“Order her some food.” Mr. Marks had looked her over like she’d been a flea-bitten dog. And a half-starved one at that. “See that she eats.”

Mr. Hunt had nodded. “Of course.”

Mr. Marks had then glared at her. “The skin under your eyes looks almost bruised. Have you slept?”

She hadn’t known whether to apologize about her haggard appearance or merely answer. She opted to simply answer him honestly. “Not recently, sir.”

“Get some rest then. You may have use of my private sitting room.”

She was suddenly very, very confused. “Where do you want me to await you?” Deciding to stop pretending he saw her as anything but a fallen woman, she swallowed. “Do you want me to await you in your bed? Sir?”

His eyebrows had risen, and Mr. Hunt had uttered a noise that had sounded suspiciously like he was choking on his own tongue.

She’d felt her body flush with embarrassment but held her head high. After all, she knew her life would be forever changed when she walked through the doors of the Silver Grotto. Though she feared the future, it sounded as if she was going to have the opportunity to bathe, eat, and wear clean clothes for the first time in a long while.

Her life had been very hard after her employer had seen her slap Mr. Avondale when he tried to force his attentions on her. Rather than hold the cad accountable, Mr. Pinter had fired her without references.

She was smart enough—and desperate enough—to make sure she didn’t lose a bath, clothes, and food right away.

But when Mr. Marks at last spoke, his voice was as gentle as if he were coaxing a newborn foal to its feet.

“Miss O’Connell, I beg your pardon. I am hiring you to be my personal maid at the Hartman Hotel, not to be my paramour. Hunt will secure your own room at the hotel. I simply wanted to go over my expectations after you had bathed, eaten, and rested in my suite until Hunt can make that arrangement. But I see we should begin here.”

“Oh.” She was so surprised, she couldn’t think of another word to say.

“You will find I am not a difficult taskmaster as long as you adhere to my three basic tenets.” Looking her over, he continued. “I don’t put up with liars, thieves, or gossips.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That means you will not steal from me.”

“No, sir.”

“You will not make up stories about why you are late for work.”

“I will not be late.”

Impatiently, he brushed off her words. “If something spills, a dish breaks, a button gets lost and you are unable to replace it, tell me.”

“Those things won’t happen.” She would make sure of it. “I was an excellent ladies’ maid for the Pinter family.”

“Quiet now,” Mr. Hunt ordered from behind her back.

Embarrassed by her inability to refrain from blurting every little thing that popped into her head, she straightened and attempted to heed Mr. Hunt’s advice as her new employer continued on.

“To continue, I am willing to hire you because I am weary of the hotel maids and attendants discussing my habits.” Cool, dark indigo eyes met her own. “Do you feel you can avoid that, Miss O’Connell? Can you keep my secrets?”

His voice was silky. Filled with dreams of everything she hoped to have and hinting of things she’d never imagined. And in that moment, she knew she’d do whatever it took to keep this job. She would be fiercely loyal to one man and one man only. To Mr. Sebastian Marks.

She’d nodded slowly.

And in that quiet nod, his eyes had lit up with something that looked much like happiness. “Very well. You may go now. Hunt will discuss your pay and sleeping arrangements after you have an
opportunity to bathe and eat and rest. On my couch,” he added with the faintest of smiles.

“Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

Picking up a thick ledger, he nodded. It was obvious that to him, their discussion was over. But she hadn’t been able to simply leave.

“Mr. Marks? I’m sorry. But, if I may?”

“Yes?” Already his voice was impatient.

“Why?” When his stare turned blank, she swallowed and forced herself to continue. “I mean, sir, um, why did you decide to have me be your servant instead of working in your club?” Her cheeks heated. Was she really such a ninny that she couldn’t even say the word
prostitute
?

A muscle in his cheek twinged. “I rarely explain myself, Miss O’Connell.”

“Oh. Um—”

“But even if I did have women working, as you say, in my club—which, unlike Mr. Vlas at Bear and Bull, I do
not
—I think you would be better suited to work for me in the capacity of a personal maid, Miss O’Connell. I trust you agree?”

After she’d nodded, Bridget had turned and scurried out of the room. Trailing behind Mr. Vincent Hunt and his polished good looks.

When they’d stepped outside, he’d slowed so that she could walk by his side. “Well, that’s over.”

“I still can’t believe it.”

Mr. Hunt had said nothing more. Only kept his hand on her elbow in a proprietary way the whole time they weaved their way through Camp Creek Alley, turned into a maze of even more back alleys, then at last veered onto a main street.

Only when they were on Michigan Avenue and standing in the fresh air and bright light did Mr. Hunt give her an answer to her
unspoken question. “Mr. Marks does this from time to time. He takes in a poor, unfortunate soul and seeks to change his or her life.”

“He’s a benefactor.”

Mr. Hunt had smiled, though it looked rather ironic instead of amused. “He is not that, miss. He doesn’t do a single thing without a goal in mind or a reason behind it.” Quietly he added, “And I promise you this. If you do steal, lie, or gossip, you will be back on the streets before you can say ‘Bob’s yer uncle.’ He doesn’t offer second chances. Ever. It would serve you well to commit that to memory.”

A chill had crept up her spine. “I will.”

“I pray you will.” He frowned as he lazily scanned her too-thin figure. “Women don’t live very long when they make their living on their backs.”

She shivered at his crude reminder of what she’d offered herself up for. But perhaps she should never forget how close she’d come to being one of the many women forced to live that way.

“Well, he may not be a benefactor, but he certainly saved me.”

“For now, he did.”

“Did he save you as well, Mr. Hunt?”

He’d looked at her then, surprise and something like a guilt-ridden sadness slipping into his expression. “No. It was too late for that.”

And it was right then and there that she became infatuated. Oh, not with Mr. Sebastian Marks. He only inspired her fear and awe.

But Vincent Hunt was different.

“Bridget? Bridget!” Mabel called out, waving a meaty hand in front of her. “What’s wrong with ya? You looked like you were millions of miles away.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I was.”

“Well, answer my question. Why does
he
insist on only you seeing to his laundry? It don’t make no sense.”

“It does. Perfectly,” she said, as she pulled out her key ring and unlocked Mr. Marks’ door. She gave a weak smile to Gwen and Mabel before waving them off.

Only when she closed it firmly behind her and bolted both it and the extra latch, did she speak. “I do his laundry so then no one will ever know anything about him. So no one who can hurt him will ever know how much of a gentleman he actually is not. I do his laundry because I promised myself I would.”

Taking a deep breath, she uttered her last confession. “I do his laundry and do anything he asks because he’s a better person than anyone realizes.”

Silently, she added,
And because I promised myself to never forget how it had felt to be at his mercy, to be willing to let him do his worst.

Instead, Mr. Marks had given her the best he had.

A
fter escorting Miss Bancroft home, Vincent climbed aboard a grip car. By his estimation, he had four hours before he needed to return to the club and act as his employer’s eyes and ears for the majority of the night.

That gave him two hours to spend with Mary, then two hours to nap. Working for Mr. Marks did not allow him the luxury of more than a few hours rest at any one time.

As the grip car rattled along, stopping frequently to let people off and even more people on, Vincent made sure to remain in the back corner. There was far less chance of being pick-pocketed there. It also allowed him to observe everyone without being too obvious.

Since he’d begun working for Sebastian Marks, he’d learned a great many things. He was no longer weak nor a fool.

As the grip car swung to a stop with a shriek, another dozen or so men and women climbed aboard, bringing with them the odors of pickles and heavy perfume. A rather rotund lady next to him pressed a fine linen handkerchief to her nose.

“Aboard!” the attendant called out.

More people hopped on as everyone else crushed together, making Vincent feel like a sardine in a tin. He took care to look straight
ahead and not make eye contact with anyone he was pressed against. It was best to remain aloof.

As the car started forward with a sluggish jerk, a portly gentleman with a flowing gray mustache knocked into him. “Sorry, chap,” he said with a friendly smile. “Can’t be helped though.”

After making sure the man hadn’t just picked his pocket, Vincent treated him to a cool stare.

The gentleman’s eyes widened. “Beg pardon,” he wheezed before looking away.

Obviously, Vincent had frightened him.

He waited for the small feeling of satisfaction that used to rise up inside him when he’d inspired fear in others. The first time it had happened, Vincent had been so shocked, he’d almost started laughing. Until he realized it wasn’t him who was feared, but his illustrious employer.

But Vincent had coveted that feeling of power.

When he’d first been hired by Mr. Marks, he’d been a lonely, downtrodden individual. His wife, Irene, had fallen ill and died, and he’d had to take time off from his law office to see to the funeral. And care for his baby.

The lawyers he clerked for, however, hadn’t been pleased with his absences and had promptly fired him. The loss of his job had been yet another painful blow in an already excruciating month. He’d had little money, spending most of his savings on Irene’s casket, headstone, and burial fees.

And though his sister, Janet, had taken Mary in, Vincent knew it wasn’t fair to ask her to watch a baby for months or even years with no pay. He’d needed to make some money, and he’d needed to make as much as he could.

Then he had remembered the lawyers talking about the Silver Grotto and the owner, a man just about everyone in the city either
knew or knew about. The proprietor had a fearsome reputation. But there was something in the lawyers’ voices that had made Vincent gather just enough courage to walk down Camp Creek Alley and ultimately knock on the door of the infamous club.

One thing had propelled him. Not only had they feared Sebastian Marks, they’d respected him.