“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?”
“The Hartman Hotel on Michigan Avenue.” She waited for him to expound upon this, perhaps give her his business address. But he added nothing more.
Feeling rather foolish, she asked him her standard questions. “Do you promise to treat well any books you borrow?”
His lips twitched. “I do.”
“And to return them in a timely manner?”
“I will.”
“And if for some reason you lose or damage one of the books, will you promise to pay for the book to be replaced?”
A new light burned in his eyes. “I promise.”
“Very well then. You may have a library card.”
He stood up. “Now that that’s taken care of, when are you going to get The Wrecker for me?”
“I am afraid it has been loaned out. It should be returned in a week or two.”
“What if the person who took it does not follow the instructions to the letter?”
“I’ve yet to meet anyone who doesn’t follow through on their library promises.”
“Very well then.”
“Might I suggest another novel in the meantime?”
“Such as?”
She couldn’t resist teasing him. “Tess of the d’Urbervilles?”
As she’d hoped, he looked completely affronted. “No matter how much I may enjoy Hardy, I will not be reading that.”
“We just got in Wilde’s Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Full of men who should not have been trusted, no doubt. Tell me, Miss Bancroft, do your books whisper warnings about befriending men like me?”
Now he was surely teasing her. Clearly, he was a gentleman, no one she need rebuff, especially in the safety of a public library.
“I am certain I can be friends with patrons such as you, Mr. Marks, despite any such whispers.”
He leaned back into his chair. “Good. I’ll look at Wilde’s book. And then, I would like to escort you home.”
The last note had been so smoothly interwoven, she was sure she’d misunderstood. “Beg pardon?”
“I thought I’d walk you home, then after you check in with your mother, take you out to supper.”
“I . . . You have taken me by surprise.”
“Have I?” He looked pleased. “I can’t see why. My offer was a small thing.”
Not to her. To her it was as momentous as when her fiancé had shown his true colors and hurt her in public. “I’m not sure if my mother would allow your escort.”
“If your mother has not noticed your wrist and you have not told her about Avondale, I don’t think you’re really too concerned about what she might have to say.” After the briefest of pauses, he stared hard at her. “Are you?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Besides,” he said in his steady way, “some people even describe me as eminently suitable.”
“No, they would describe you as eminently marriageable.”
“Touché.”
What she couldn’t say was that he was suitable for someone else. She was neither beautiful nor wealthy. She had no illusions about her suitability to be a proper bride for a gentleman like him.
“Lydia, stop fighting me.”
“I am not doing that,” she sputtered, affected by his use of her first name but knowing she should protest his familiarity.
“No? Then allow me to be your friend.”
His request caught her off guard. Both because of the idea of him wanting to be her friend and because she feared she wanted that too much.
Therefore, she attempted to stifle both of them with one pinched statement. “Women and men do not form friendships.”
But instead of looking perturbed, his navy eyes glinted with amusement. “Why is that?”
She couldn’t actually recall any specific reason. Especially since she’d just made that up. “Well . . .”
“We both enjoy books. I find you intriguing. Surely there is nothing wrong with allowing me to walk you home from work every now and then? Especially if I promise my intentions are true and innocent?”
“No. I mean, I can’t think of any reason why that wouldn’t be acceptable.” Though, had she ever imagined that he would have any intentions that could be viewed as innocent?
His lips curved. “Very well then. It is settled.”
Had it been? “I don’t end my shift for another half hour.”
“Which should give me plenty of time to determine if I actually wish to read Wilde’s latest or not. He can be a bit wordy for my taste, you know.”
She didn’t know all his tastes. But she wished she did.
Suddenly feeling as if they were surely the focus of every other patron’s scrutiny—though they might all be pretending not to observe them—Lydia elected to give Mr. Marks his way.
It would be foolish not to anyway, she decided. The fact of the matter was that she wanted to be near him. Wanted to get to know him better. Wanted a friend.
He would be as good a friend to have as any. And, she suspected, a better one than most.
CHAPTER 8
Sebastian had had only one goal in mind when he entered the reading room, and that had been to gain the trust of Lydia Bancroft. He needed her trust to gain more useful information about Jason Avondale. After everything that had happened in the lobby of the hotel, he was more determined than ever to see the man ruined both publicly and socially.
However, when he’d sat across from her and noticed how blue her eyes were, just how injured her wrist was, and just how, well, appealing she was, he’d realized he was going to have to think of any way he could to keep her near him. She appealed to him in a way he didn’t know anyone could. Made him act a little less harsh. Made him want to be a little bit better.
Now, as he walked by her side toward her home, he found himself wondering more and more about her personal life.
He also couldn’t help but wonder how a woman like her had become so educated. Most women of her station went to finishing school. He was also confounded by her apparent lack of admirers. Except for Avondale, it seemed she was ignored by the rest of society.
“My home isn’t v
ery fancy,” she reminded him for the second time as they turned right and ventured a little farther away from the most fashionable residences in Chicago. “It’s actually a townhouse.”
“Do you want a fancy residence?”
She blinked as if the idea had never occurred to her. “Goodness, no. Our townhouse suits me perfectly. I just, um, didn’t want you to be shocked.”
“I’m rarely shocked.” Definitely never about one’s living conditions.
“I misspoke,” Lydia said in a rush. “Disappointed would be a better descriptor, perhaps.”
“I will not be disappointed.”
“I have a feeling it is far from what you are used to.”
“You might be surprised about what I am used to,” he countered. He knew he was confusing her, but he couldn’t help himself. Just as she feared he might bolt if he knew her exact address, he feared Lydia would run if she knew how disreputable he actually was.
She said nothing, merely allowed a small pair of lines to mar the center of her forehead before she looked forward again and continued walking.
Sebastian kept his pace even with hers, taking care to glare at anyone who stepped too close to her person.
At last they arrived in front of a row of smallish-looking brownstones. “This is it,” she announced as she stopped at the one in the middle.
She bit her lip as she looked at the empty flowerpots and some raggedy bushes on either side of the front door. “Like I said, it’s nothing impressive.”
“I want to be your friend, Miss Bancroft. Friends don’t judge on appearances,” he explained, just as if he were an authority on the subject. As if everything he knew about friendship hadn’t been learned from the pages of books.
However, his words served to make the lines of worry around her eyes ease. “Give me your arm. Let’s enter and inform your mother of your plans for supper.”
“Yes, Mr. Marks.” She tucked her hand in the curve of his elbow as they walked up the three steps to the front door.
Just as he was about to knock a second time on the door—obviously her servants were on the sluggish side—Lydia started, reached into her bag, and pulled out a key.
“Sorry,” she said around an embarrassed smile. “For a moment I thought the door would simply open when I arrived.”
He took the key from her and turned the bolt himself, then led her inside. He would ask later why she even possessed a key to her home. No woman of good birth handled such things.
When they entered, Sebastian was struck by the clean lines of the structure as well as the simplicity of the décor. It was by no means the height of fashion, but he couldn’t say it lacked charm.
What it did lack was any servant at all.
Obviously, she didn’t lack only a ladies’ maid and a butler. No one greeted her, and no one stepped forward to take her coat. Actually, the house seemed as empty and quiet as a tomb.
To his dismay, she held out her hands to him to do the honors. “May I take your coat, Mr. Marks?”
“Allow me to assist you instead,” he said, then leaned forward and began unfastening the three buttons on the front of her pelisse.
She tensed but he ignored her. After he pulled the pelisse from her frame, he glanced around for a coatrack, then ultimately decided to simply lay it on the table gracing the center of the small entryway. After a pause, he placed his own coat on top. He wasn’t going to be staying long anyway.
“Lydia, where is your mother? Is she not at home?”
She blinked. “She often rests in her room.” Gesturing in a vague way to a rather cramped-looking receiving room, she said, “Please, make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
Good manners meant that he should sit down and pretend her situation wasn’t irregular in the slightest. He should patiently wait for her to go up the narrow staircase and wander about an empty house by herself.
But a lifetime of trusting no one led him to take her arm again. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”
“Mr. Marks, there is no need.”
“I’m not going to allow you to wander around an empty house while I sit on a couch, Lydia.”
“It is not empty. My mother is here.”
He doubted that. “Then I am sure she will be happy to see you arrived in my care. Now, lead on.”
With slow, grudging steps, she ascended the stairs. Following behind her, he took notice of the patches on the ceiling, the dark spots on the papered walls where paintings had once been hung. Sebastian began to fume.
Obviously she and her mother were in worse financial straits than he’d realized. Were there no men in their family to find Lydia a good match?
Had Jason Avondale—blackguard, abuser, gambler—truly been the best man her mother had been able to find for her daughter?
Once at the top of the stairs, Lydia looked at him helplessly, then turned to the first closed door and knocked twice.
When there was no answer, she knocked again. “Mother, are you awake?”
After a pause and rustling, her mother replied sleepily. “I am now, Lydia. Are you home already?”
“Yes,” she said. “May I come in?”
“I suppose.”
Sebastian clenched one of his hands. He knew enough about society’s fresh girls to be affronted on Lydia’s behalf. Did she have no one who put her needs first?
Still hesitating, her hand firmly gripping the doorknob, Lydia cast another awkward look his way. “I’ll be right out, Mr. Marks. As I said downstairs, you really should go sit down.”
“I’ll be fine right here,” he replied as he watched her brace herself, then open the door and slip inside. She left the door partway open.
Sebastian leaned against the opposite wall of the hallway, allowing himself to peek into the room.
And there he saw a thin woman reclined on a chaise lounge. “Lydia, you are home early.”
“Yes. Mother, I thought you would be downstairs this time of day.”
“There was no reason to get up.”
“I think there is. I’ve brought a gentleman home.”
“Oh? Is Mr. Avondale here?”
“No. Mother, this isn’t the time to go into it, but . . . I suppose I have no choice but to tell you now. Um, he and I decided to not see each other anymore.”
“Surely not.”
“It is true. We are not after all . . . a suitable match.”
Panic slid into her mother’s voice. “Lydia, you must get him to take you back.”
“I’d rather we didn’t speak about this now. See, I brought a friend of mine whom I met at the library.”
“A friend from the library.” Her voice was thin. Full of consternation.
“Yes. His name is Mr. Marks. He is going to take me to supper.”
“What about me? What am I going to eat?”
Finally forgetting that Mr. Marks lounged right outside the door, no doubt hearing every word of the conversation, Lydia winced as her mother’s familiar whine tugged at her heart. “Didn’t Cook come in today?”
“No. I had to let Ethel go.”
“Pardon?”
“I wasn’t able to pay her this week.”
This was very bad—and made her wish once again that her mother would allow her to manage their finances. Lydia not only wanted to make sure her mother ate, but she needed to be sure a loyal servant like Ethel hadn’t been let go like an old piece of furniture. “I’ll visit Ethel and see that she gets paid.”
“I hope you will not.”
“We have to pay her.”
“With what?” Wearily, her mother sat up, the pale peach silk of her nightdress cascading around her hips. “There’s nothing left unless we sell more of our belongings, Lydia. Your salary will buy us food and not much else. We had one chance to secure our future and you ruined it. You needed that marriage to Mr. Avondale. I needed it.”
“I’m sorry.” Lydia felt terrible about that. She did. But with each hour that passed, she’d felt even more sure that ending
the engagement had been the right thing to do. She couldn’t allow herself to be abused.
“Mother—”
“I have a dreadful headache. Don’t worry. We can pawn something else. There’s still the painting in your room.”
Lydia liked that painting. It was of the ocean, much like one of Turner’s dramatic landscapes. It wasn’t worth much, she didn’t think, except in her heart. “Perhaps there’s something else—”
“Now fix me something to eat. I’ve been so hungry all day, waiting for you to remember me.”
“All right. I’ll bring you a tray shortly. Is there anything else you need?”
As her mother gave Lydia more instructions, Sebastian remained motionless, wondering what Lydia would do or say next. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised by her mother’s disinterest, but he still found himself disheartened by it.
With some surprise, he even found himself comparing her mother’s actions to his own mother’s. And while his own mother had been the lowest form of grace, selling herself to strangers, he suddenly realized that because of what she did, he had rarely gone hungry.
He couldn’t imagine his mother lying about if she’d had a daughter as pretty and smart as Lydia.
When Lydia exited the room, her cheeks were bright red. She closed the door behind her. Then, to his immense satisfaction, she straightened and looked directly at him. He liked this hint of a backbone.
“My mother is under the weather at the moment. I think it would be best if we postponed our supper.”
“No.” If he allowed her to push him away now, he was sure he’d never be allowed to become close to her again.
She halted on the stairs. “Pardon?”
“You heard me, Miss Bancroft. I have no wish to reschedule. We will be going to supper this evening.”
“I’m sorry, but I must—”
“But first I will help you see to your mother’s supper.”
She appeared flummoxed. “Help?”
“Assist. Work along with.”
“I did not need your help defining the word, sir. I meant I cannot let you assist me in the kitchen.”
Her tone was so tart he almost smiled. But he knew she would likely take it the wrong way. Therefore, he kept ordering her about. She responded to that.
Whispers in the Reading Room Page 7
