That had been some time ago—almost a lifetime ago.
But not quite.
After he’d hired Hunt, after he’d hired floor managers to report to Hunt, he had spent far less time in the bar and more time walking among the gamblers down below. But of late, even watching that action had grown stale. For the last year, he’d begun to spend even more time in his private office in the back of the third floor.
He’d even begun to pretend that his life was much different than it used to be. It had become almost easy to forget how it felt to be cold and hungry, dirty and illiterate.
Now he slept in the best suite at the Hartman. His clothes were custom tailored, his hair trimmed by a private barber who visited his suite every three weeks.
He employed a woman to tend to his clothes and his room so he could keep his privacy.
Every so often, when he lounged in a fine dining restaurant or when he was visiting the Columbian Exposition, he’d known that to one and all, his transformation was complete. No longer was he the poor boy named Samuel Marx, sleeping on a flea-bitten mattress. Instead, he was the gentleman Sebastian Marks, the man who lived on the edge of polite society. Who sometimes was seen escorting ladies languishing in the fringes of society.
And had developed an unlikely but mutually satisfying relationship with a rather shy, rather beautiful librarian.
But this evening’s short walk from the hotel to the Grotto had been nothing if not a revelation. He’d suddenly seen his life and its surroundings through her wide, scared eyes, and he had been the one who had been afraid.
It was time he remembered the truth. He was only a sham, a propped-up figment of a pitiful boy’s hopes and dreams.
Looking at the factory worker standing at the bar, his clothes smelling faintly of blood and sweat, his ragged expression and desolate eyes revealing that tomorrow he would be doing the same things yet again, Sebastian knew without a doubt which of them was the better man.
At least that man was honest and could sleep at night, knowing he hadn’t been living a lie. And worse, subjecting innocent women to that lie.
He was about to offer to buy the man a drink, or even pass him a few dollars to pass on to his wife, when he spied Hunt striding his way.
He pushed off from his spot and met him in the center of the room. “Do you have a report?”
Hunt nodded, his eyes as alert as they always were, carefully scanning each person, looking for trouble. Again and again, he met other men’s looks directly, never flinching, always cool and calculating.
Once he seemed satisfied with what he saw, he turned to Sebastian. “The gambling is going well. Tables are filled and bets are high. You should be pleased with this evening’s profits. Turner is doing a fine job of keeping a handle on things. It was right to promote him.”
Sebastian was pleased with the news, though he could barely summon the interest in the tables. “What about Miss Bancroft? How is she faring?”
“Her?” he asked in a dismissive way. “Bridget told me Miss Bancroft is no worse for wear.” His lips twisted. “She’s also promised to stay in your office and out of trouble.”
The tone in his assistant’s voice was troublesome. With a jerk of his head, he directed Hunt to follow him toward a quiet place near the front door. “What is it that bothers you about her, Hunt?”
“What doesn’t? That woman is far too impetuous and naïve. She doesn’t listen either.”
That woman? “All those things are true. But I still fail to understand the basis for your tone.”
“Sir?” Vincent’s lips curved up in a tentative smile, glanced Sebastian’s way, then turned appreciatively more somber. “You know I meant no disrespect to you, sir. It’s just that, well, it’s obvious she is playing you.”
Hunt’s new desire to have an opinion on most everything was beginning to grate on his nerves. “I, for one, don’t believe it was obvious, or that she was doing anything of the kind. In fact, I’m afraid you need to reevaluate your opinion of Miss Bancroft.”
Vincent’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I don’t want to ever hear you refer to her as ‘that woman’ again.”
“I understand, Mr. Marks.”
“If I ever get the sense that she feels that you are not her friend, you and I will have a problem.”
His eyebrows rose. “You wish me to be her friend?”
“She needs one. She needs more than one, Hunt.”
As his assistant was staring at him, his skin now tinged with gray, Sebastian noticed that Bridget was standing with two of the girls who served drinks and food in the basement. He had no idea why she was now standing in the middle of the room when he’d taken such pains to keep her from the club.
Worse, if Bridget, Hunt, and he were here, that meant Lydia was upstairs in his office by herself. Completely by herself.
Anyone could accost her, and he would have no knowledge of the fact.
“See to Bridget.”
“What do you want me to do with her? Send her to your office?”
“No. I am going to see to Miss Bancroft. I want to make sure she is all right. We will not need a chaperone. Instead, take Bridget down to the kitchens and see that she is fed.”
“Fed.”
Pleased with the idea, Sebastian nodded. “Yes. Feed yourself, too, if you’re hungry.”
“And then?”
“Then keep her by your side,” he continued, thinking quickly. It was too crowded to allow Hunt to leave. “I’ll decide when it’s time for you to escort them both home.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sebastian turned away without another word. After fishing in his pocket for a few dollars, he walked to the bar and pressed them into the slaughterhouse worker’s hand.
“What’s this for?” The man looked at him suspiciously.
“Take it home to yer missus,” Sebastian said. “Let her use it on coal or food for a change.”
The worker rolled his eyes. “What would you know about needing coal or food?”
The bartender coughed. “Watch it, Pete. That’s Mr. Marks.”
The man paled. “Beg yer pardon.”
Sebastian shrugged. “I learned over the years not to question good fortune. But do as I say. That money is no good here.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Sebastian brushed off the thanks and quickly strode up the stairs. As he walked up each step, his heart started to pound. What if someone knew Lydia was alone?
What if she hadn’t decided to listen to Bridget and ventured out on her own?
What if he lost her? What if she was hurt?
He fairly raced up each step, ignoring a pair of his workers as he rushed past them in the hall.
Only when he was outside his office door did he take a fortifying, calming breath. It would be foolhardy to enter in the state he was in. She was so intuitive; she would notice his unease immediately.
After closing his eyes and relaxing the muscles in his neck and shoulders, he opened the door.
“Lydia, forgive me,” he began, intentionally keeping his voice light and easy. “I didn’t mean to keep you sitting alone up here for so long.”
As he closed the door behind him, he listened for her light laugh.
But he heard nothing.
Warily, he glanced at his desk, half thinking she would have decided to occupy his desk chair. But there was no one. Neither were the chairs facing the desk occupied.
The sense of panic he’d barely been able to control reared forth, causing a trickle of sweat to slide down his back. “Lydia?” he called out more loudly. He turned on his heel, scanning the rest of the room.
Then, miraculously, he rested his gaze on his lovely librarian. She’d somehow found his hidden stash of novels in the wooden crate under the couch and had opened a copy of what looked like Robinson Crusoe. Then, she’d fallen asleep.
Her spectacles were perched lopsided on her nose, and more than a few strands of her glorious auburn hair had fall
en from her combs. One hand was hanging down, the other curved around the tome protectively, as if that book was all that was important.
A lump formed in his throat.
Stealth-like, he approached. Crouching on his knees, he gently pried the book from her grip and placed it back in its crate. Then, he pulled off her spectacles, folded the wire arms, and slipped them inside his suit pocket. That way he would know where they were at all times, in no danger of getting lost or damaged.
After debating the pros and cons of rearranging her figure, he decided not to move her. He didn’t want to risk waking her. Instead, he walked to his coat rack, pulled off one of his older overcoats that he kept for whenever he felt the need to roam the area streets, and carefully laid it over her.
She mumbled under her breath, sighed, and to his amusement, curled into a ball.
Contentedly, he watched her sleep for a long moment. Happy that she was safe and sleeping soundly. Happy that he could watch her without her observing him staring too long.
A bump sounded down the hall. He stared at the door, half expecting Hunt to pound on it, alerting him to yet another fight or drunk or the appearance of someone too disreputable.
But the noise drifted off in a sigh, leaving the area quiet.
Sebastian walked to his desk and pulled out the day’s folder of messages and receipts. After getting out his ledger, he settled in for three hours of paperwork.
As far as he was concerned, there was no place else to go. There was certainly nowhere else he’d rather be.
“You need to stay by my side,” Vincent said as he approached.
Vincent looked so ill at ease, so different from his usual implacable self, Bridget eyed him curiously. “Why?”
“Because Mr. Marks ordered it, that’s why.”
“What is wrong with you? Has something else upset you?”
He blew out a harsh breath of air. “Why would anything be wrong? Other than, you know, we’ve got a lady librarian in our midst.” To her surprise, his voice turned even more caustic. “In a few hours, we’re going to have to go fetch her and escort her back home.”
“All right.”
“All right?” he snarled. “Aren’t you just the least bit resentful of the fact that you should be sleeping right now?”
“I’m not tired.” She shrugged. “To be honest, I’m having a good time.”
“You shouldn’t be here. Especially not in here.”
“Mr. Marks must be thinking otherwise if he told you to stick to my side.” She scanned the area, but saw no trace of his indomitable presence. “Where is he, by the way?”
Hunt motioned to the dark entryway of the back stairs. “He went to go check on her.”
Bridget sighed, glad her instincts about the two of them had been correct. “Ah. Well, that’s telling, don’t you think?”
“Not really.” He scoffed. “I bet Marks is afraid she ran off. I am.”
“That is doubtful.”
“Or is about to start wandering about the place like it’s one of those white palaces at the fair.”
“Those burned down,” she retorted, unafraid to keep both her skepticism and a healthy amount of tartness from her voice.
Hunt waved off her protests with a hand. “For Pete’s sake, Bridget. You know what I mean. She doesn’t belong here.”
“I daresay you are right. But what I think matters even more is that he didn’t send me back up to sit with Miss Bancroft.”
“He probably is feeling sorry for you.”
“Mr. Marks doesn’t feel sorry for his workers. He pays them to do a good job.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Listen to what I am saying, Vincent. Mr. Marks is upstairs himself keeping her company. He wants to be with her. He cares about her.”
“Don’t know why. Or do you think there’s more to her than meets the eye?” He waggled his eyebrows.
She deliberately chose to misunderstand. “Miss Bancroft is not stuffy at all. She’s actually really very kind. And she has quite a nice sense of humor. You would like her, if you ever decided to unbend enough to give her half a chance.” After a pause, she warned, “And you should really give her a chance. Mr. Marks is not going to take kindly to you being disrespectful to her.”
“That is not what I was talking about.” He smirked. “Maybe she’s more of a light skirt than she lets on?”
Bridget glared at him, slightly shocked that he was determined to think poorly of Miss Bancroft. “Of course not. She is a lady, Mr. Hunt.”
“Ladies don’t always act like ladies. Surely you’ve seen enough at the hotel to know that.”
“What do you know?” she taunted.
“I know more than you might think.”
Her cheeks heated as she began to get the idea he was implying that he was experienced. Very experienced. Suddenly, she thought less of him.
And, in doing so, she thought less of herself for ever imagining that he could be something special to her. She stepped a bit away from him, needing that physical distance to remind her of why the two of them ever having a relationship of the romantic kind would be so very wrong. “Whatever you are insinuating, you would be wrong. I promise you that Miss Bancroft is everything proper. And you have got yourself an attitude about her that you should consider readjusting.”
“You and Mr. Marks,” he scoffed. “He practically bit my head off just now when I didn’t act like she caused the sun to shine.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing that wasn’t the truth.”
She shook her head. “And here I thought you were a smart man.”
“I am smart. And in this instance, I’m smarter than our boss. He’s blinded by her tomfoolery, and he’s going to pay for it, he is. She’s going to get him hurt or killed.”
“I fear that is your fault, Vincent,” she replied, realizing they had both been using Christian names. “You are blinded by a prejudice against a woman who has done nothing to you.”
“But—”
“Furthermore, we are not Mr. Marks’ friends. Or his equals. We are his employees.”
“We are just as worthy as he is.”
“I know that. You know that. He knows that. But that is not the point. The point is he didn’t hire you to be his conscience. He hired you to do what he wants you to do. When you start forgetting, that is when you are going to get into trouble.”
“Maybe I already have.”
Fear burned inside her. “What if that is the case? Have you saved so much money that you want to get fired? And how will you get rehired without a reference? No one is going to hire a man whose employment was terminated because he disapproved of his employer’s romantic interests.”
Bridget held her breath, certain that she had been so disapproving that he would never forgive her.
Or that he would never, at the very least, feel he could confide in her again.
She watched him gather himself, take a deep breath, then at last stare at her blankly.
“Excuse me, Miss O’Connell. I have some business I need to take care of. Mr. Marks wanted you to go down to the kitchens and get something to drink and eat and rest a bit. I trust you can see to yourself without my assistance? You are, of course, just the maid.”
Though it was completely true, each word felt like a slap in the face. Instead of arguing, Bridget stared directly at him until he flashed her yet another cool look and turned away.
As the next few hours passed, she at first tried to help out the bartender, but that proved to be a mistake when the men surrounding the bar either ceaselessly cajoled her to keep them company or questioned her presence.
She ended up going to the small storage area in the back of the first floor, underneath the staircase. She found a small chair there, as well as a table, a lamp, and an old deck of cards. Obviously, this was some employee’s secret area to relax and while away his break time.
After thumbing the cards for a while, she attempted to shuffle them, failed helplessly, picked them all up
from the floor, and at last neatly rearranged them according to suit and number.
When she finished that small project, Bridget leaned her head back against the rough wall behind her head and closed her eyes. While doing so, she firmly resolved to think about everything and anything instead of replaying the awful conversation she’d had with Vincent.
She’d said things she shouldn’t have said. No doubt, he was feeling just as guilty. Therefore, she promised herself that before the night was over, she would make every attempt to make things right.
Just as soon as she rested her eyes. She was more tired than she’d let on to Vincent. But she would not rest for more than ten minutes’ time. Definitely no more than twenty.
But the feeling of warmth and security in that small closet was hard to ignore. As was the opportunity to completely relax. For the next couple of minutes, no one wanted her, no one needed her. She could worry only about herself.
Only herself.
She didn’t know how long she had been asleep when the scream tore through the building. Heart racing, she rushed out of the closet when another scream erupted, followed by the low rumble of men’s voices. Following the noise, she saw at least a dozen men and a few women crowded around the front doors.
Their voices were angry, concerned, in distress. She glanced around, quickly looking for Mr. Marks or Vincent.
She saw neither.
She let her natural instincts take over, pushed her way into the fray, and then had to press the edge of her palm to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
The trademark silver doors were flung wide open, and she could see policemen running toward the building. Lying on the front steps was a man, bleeding from what looked like multiple stab wounds. He was staring blankly at them all through unseeing eyes.
Bridget stifled a cry as she recognized him. It was none other than Jason Avondale. And kneeling at his side was Jeffrey Galvin.
She backed away so quickly, she wasn’t thinking about anything other than removing the sight of the bloody body from her memory.
“Hold on, miss. Don’t faint on me,” a rough voice whispered in her ear as he held her by the waist.
It seemed things had just gone from bad to worse.
Whispers in the Reading Room Page 15
