Whispers in the Reading Room (8 page)

Vincent had needed respect in the worst way.

He still wasn’t sure why Sebastian had hired him. Vincent would guess that the man had felt sorry for him, but
pity
wasn’t in Sebastian Marks’ vocabulary.

If Vincent had to take a guess, it was his answer to one of the interview questions that had gotten him the job.

“You’re a quiet man, Hunt,” Mr. Marks had said, looking over him as if he were a strange, scientific experiment. “You’ve also got no experience with drink, gambling, or the men who frequent my club. What makes you think you could offer me anything I need?”

Vincent had thought about that. Thought about it hard. Finally, he answered. “I don’t drink or gamble or spend my evenings in the company of men who do. That is true. But it is precisely because of those reasons that you need me.”

Mr. Marks’ eyes had narrowed. “Why is that?”

“You need someone who will not be tempted by vices. You need someone you can trust.”

“And you feel I’m going to be able to trust a man like you?” His voice had been thick with sarcasm.

Marks’ disdain had hurt. At once, Vincent realized he wasn’t very strong, and he wasn’t very confident around men who used their muscles to get their way. He felt weak and useless.

But then he’d remembered what really mattered in life. “I don’t steal or cheat, sir. I don’t lie.”

For the first time a spark of interest appeared in his eyes. “Ever?”

“Never. I can also keep secrets. I will keep your secrets, sir. If you are ever made aware that people are gossiping about you, you will know beyond a doubt that whatever rumor is circulating didn’t begin with me.”

Suddenly, Mr. Marks had looked at him with a spark of approval. “You’re hired, Hunt.” He then named a weekly pay that was more than Vincent had made working at the law office for a whole month.

Vincent had walked out of the club feeling empowered for the first time in his life. And until lately, he’d never looked back.

With a clang and a jerk, the car stopped, bringing Vincent back to the present. And, he realized, to his stop. He quickly moved forward, hardly noticing the other passengers as they squeezed aside to get out of his way.

After the car clanged again and shot down the street, he walked the two blocks home. Only when he got to the front walkway of his modest but well-appointed brownstone did he dare let down his guard.

A window upstairs opened. “Daddy!”

His sweet girl’s dark-blonde curls matched his own. But her smile was the spitting image of Irene’s. “Hi, Mary. Have a care now. Don’t lean out so far. You’re going to fall.”

She giggled. “You say that every time.” She giggled again before disappearing, only to burst through the front door mere seconds later. “You’re home!”

“I am.” After holding out his arms so she could launch herself into them, he hugged her tight. Breathed her sweet, clean, innocent scent. Enjoyed the feel of her little-girl arms wrapping around his sides.

After giving her cheek a kiss, Vincent sat down next to her on the stoop. “Where’s Aunt Janet?”

“I’m right here,” Janet said from the doorway. “You say that every time too.”

He gave her a pointed look over his shoulder. “I simply want to make sure you’re safe.”

“You’re silly, Daddy,” Mary said, giggling again.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“We don’t have to worry about being safe,” she declared in that confident way he was learning only four-year-olds could. “You’re the strongest and toughest man on the whole street.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, looking completely serious. “Everyone says so.”

He attempted to laugh. “Little Mary, you’ve been telling tales about your old man?”

She shook her head solemnly. “No. I only heard some of the boys on the corner talk about you.”

“Oh? What did they say?”

“That no one should disrespect you.”

That made him mildly uncomfortable, though he wasn’t sure why. “Well, remember how Daddy works for Mr. Marks? The man at the fancy building I told you about?” When she nodded, he explained, “That’s why the boys said that. It’s because I work for a very important man.”

Mary giggled. “That’s not why, silly. The boys said if they made you mad, you’d break their knees. Or worse.” She giggled again before scampering back into the house.

As Vincent felt Janet’s gaze settle on him, he shrugged. “Don’t know what to say about that.”

“Nothing you can say, Vincent. The boys were simply stating the truth.” She raised an eyebrow, pretty much daring him to deny her words.

But because he couldn’t, he kept his silence. He was a lot of things now. A lot of things he’d never dreamed he’d be or had ever wanted to become. But he still wasn’t a liar.

At least, not most of the time.

CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

January 16, 1894

Reported by Benson Gage

It seems the police have been called down to Camp Creek Alley not once but twice in the last week. The bodies of two more men were discovered outside one of the most notorious clubs. It should be noted that at the time of this publication’s printing, neither body has been identified. There have also been no leads.

It seems a man can be stabbed within the bowels of Camp Creek Alley without the crime being seen or properly investigated.

L
ydia couldn’t help but gape as she watched Mr. Marks approach the circulation desk from across the room, two days after the disastrous tea. When his gaze flickered to hers, she quickly closed her
mouth and took care to keep her own expression as calm and serene as possible. A mask, for sure.

Standing by her side, her assistant, Priscilla, didn’t even attempt to act indifferent. “He’s approaching! He’s going to speak to us.”

“Priscilla, decorum.”

Immediately Priscilla buttoned her lips. Her silence lasted a full three seconds before she chattered on again. “Oh. I mean, yes, of course, Miss Bancroft.”

Lydia felt her cheeks heat just as Mr. Marks stopped in front of her. Staring directly ahead only gave her a close look at his chest. It was a very fine one.

But not at all what she should be looking at.

Inch by inch she raised her chin. As she studied him, Lydia was struck yet again by how intriguing his eyes were. Dark navy blue, so dark and magnetic they seemed almost black. And framed by thick lashes. Only the faint scar near the corner of his left eye marred their beauty.

Mentally, she shook herself. Men did not have beautiful eyes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Marks.”

“Miss Bancroft.” His gaze settled on her lips before drifting upward again.

She shifted awkwardly. “May I be of assistance to you in some way?”

He bowed slightly. “You may. I have recently discovered that I am in need of a library card.”

She almost told him that what she’d warned would come to pass had happened.
The Wrecker
had been checked out on Monday. She’d forgotten to tell Priscilla why it was in the cabinet. When Priscilla found it, she not only put it back on its shelf but let another patron have it.

But there was something in his bearing that made her keep her distance. “This is Miss Johnstone. She will be happy to help you with that.”

“I think not.”

“Pardon?”

“I want your assistance. No one else’s.”

Well, this was completely irregular. While Priscilla made little distressed sounds, Lydia nodded. The truth was that she actually did want to be the one who helped him.

Pulling out a form and a pen, she leaned toward him. “First of all, I will need some information from you.”

“I have no desire to talk to you from the other side of a counter. How about we do this over coffee or tea?”

She was tempted.

But duty prevailed. “I’m sorry, I cannot leave at the moment.”

“Pity.” He searched the room. “At least sit with me. I would rather not give my personal information out in such a public way.”

There were currently seven people in her lending library. Two ladies at a desk, one gentleman reading periodicals, another gentleman perusing a collection of works by Dickens, and the three of them.

All of that meant, of course, there really was no need for the two of them to go anywhere in private.

But she couldn’t have denied his wishes even if she wanted to. “Shall we go to where you were sitting the last time you visited?”

His voice warmed. “You remember where I was sitting, Miss Bancroft?”

Unfortunately, she remembered too much about him. “It’s a habit of mine. I’m, uh, particularly good at remembering people and places.”

“Lead on then.”

She led the way to a collection of four chairs in the far corner. They were paired, like Noah’s animals, and situated across from one another. She decided to take the one closest to the wall. Instead of electing to sit across from her, in the chair he always selected, Mr.
Marks took the chair next to her, bringing with him the scent of cigars and cold weather and something that she could only assume was the smell of spirits.

She didn’t mind it though. Actually, she liked his scent. He smelled masculine and solid. Tempting.

“Miss Bancroft?”

“Hmm?” His coat was dark gray and looked very fine. She wondered if it was cashmere. She knew how soft the sheep’s fleece was. And how exorbitantly expensive.

“Are you going to put my words to memory?”

Only then did she realize that she had neglected to bring over the form and pen. “Forgive me. I’ll be right back.”

But instead of allowing her to go, he reached out and curved two fingers around her left elbow. “Not yet.”

“But—”

“I will get a card. But I came here to see how you are faring. How are your hand and wrist?” He nodded to her right hand, which she’d taken to practically hiding in the folds of her skirts.

Looking down at it, she said, “It is healing.”

“May I see it?”

She didn’t want to put it on display. Especially not in the reading room. But they were sitting in a corner. And they weren’t attracting notice. The other patrons were either perusing the stacks or had their noses in books. Even Priscilla was busy helping the two women who had just walked in.

Without a word, she placed her right hand on the armrest of her chair. It was ungloved, of course. She was also wearing one of her more fussy blouses. Its frilled and lace cuffs helped conceal the dark bruises and healing blisters on her wrist and knuckles.

Mr. Marks reached out, and with a flick of his fingers unfastened
three buttons, then smoothed back the linen. It seemed he wasn’t deterred by a profusion of lace in the slightest.

Then, far more gently than she would have ever given him credit for, he ran his thumb along the faint outlines of the veins on the inside of her wrist.

It was highly inappropriate. She managed to hold her tremble at bay through a force of will.

He, on the other hand, had chosen not to remain impassive. As his calloused thumb made contact with her skin, a look of true anger flashed in his eyes. His lips hardened into a thin line. The muscles in his jaw clenched. He looked ready—if not eager—to injure someone.

She didn’t have to ask why. Jason’s grip had been so hard and abusive that her wrist was still swollen. But more noticeable than the swelling were the four dark fingertip bruises that marred the pale skin above her wrist.

On her knuckles two unattractive scabs had formed. Remnants from the blisters caused by the scalding tea. No doubt they would leave scars.

“He hurt you terribly.” His voice was low. Thick. Almost a whisper.

“It isn’t so bad.”

“I beg to differ. What, pray tell, did you tell your parents?”

“About this? Nothing.” She pulled her hand back to her lap. “I only have my mother, and luckily, she didn’t notice.”

“No?”

“She doesn’t, um, have time to notice such things as my wrists.”

“I see. What about your maid?”

“I don’t have a ladies’ maid.” She felt her cheeks blush as she realized she’d given far too much away. “I mean, when my father died, I’m afraid he left us in something of a difficult financial situation.”

“I see.”

She doubted it. He had to be the richest man she’d ever met.
Only a man of extreme wealth could afford to live in a hotel like the Hartman. “Now, may I assist you with a library card?”

“Have you heard from Avondale again?”

“No.”

He fired off another question. “Did you tell your mother about the broken engagement?”

“I have not. Though I don’t believe it’s any concern of yours.”

His dark eyes searched her own. “You aren’t still contemplating marriage to him, are you?”

“I don’t know. My mother needs me to marry well.”

“Jason Avondale’s financial situation is precarious at best.”

She pulled her hand away from his. “No, he has a carriage. He belongs to the best of society.”

“His life is much like the White City. Outwardly impressive while structurally unsound.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Much like an earnest debutant, Avondale is merely looking the part. He was looking for an heiress.”

She pushed away the thought that she, too, had pretended wealth to marry a man with money.

“How do you know this?”

“It’s my business to know such things.”

“What is your job? Mr. Hunt wouldn’t say a word about you.” She stared at him, wishing that for once she could read his mind.

“I have varied interests.”

“I see.” But of course, she did not.

Just as she moved to rise, he held out his hand. “One moment. I need to button you back up.”

Resigning herself to his assistance, she did as he asked. But as she watched his fingers carefully fasten the edges of her sleeve, Lydia
couldn’t help but notice how gentle he was. “Now you may get what you need to take down my information.”

She darted back to her desk, pointedly ignored Priscilla’s speculative look, and then returned to his side, a quill and her notebook firmly in hand. “Name?”

“Sebastian Marks. M-a-r-k-s.”

“Address?”