“For a while? How long was I unconscious?”
“Can’t rightly say,” he said as he pulled out a timepiece. “We only found you a half hour ago, when one of our group came around on patrol. The woman, I mean Miss Bancroft, was just coming to when we got here. Took us a while to calm her down, it did.”
He’d brought Lydia to this place and had foolishly led her into the abandoned building. Because he’d wanted to entertain her.
No, that was a lie. He’d brought her to the abandoned building because he’d wanted to show off, to show that he could make her happy by doing something daring. She hadn’t wanted to be there, but she’d done it to please him.
To appease him.
He’d known the risks. And instead of heeding them, instead of keeping her safe, he’d let down his guard. And because of that he’d nearly gotten her killed.
But what had happened? Every awful scenario rushed through his head as he imagined her being in pain. And worse, being at the mercy of a gang.
Bracing himself, he pushed up to a sitting position. The new pose pierced his head, making him grimace with unease. Queasiness. With a glare, he grabbed the soiled handkerchief and pressed it to his own chest. “I can see to myself now.”
The officer sighed. “Not hardly. I know you’re impatient, but it’s really better for you if heed my warnings. It’s for your own good, you see.”
“I’d save your breath, Carrew. Sebastian Marks is the last man in Chicago to abide by another’s rules.”
Sebastian saved himself further pain by keeping his head in one place. But he didn’t need to turn his head to know who had just arrived. “Captain Ryan. It seems you are constantly witnessing me at my worst.”
Ryan moved so Sebastian could see him. “I would rather not be seeing you like this, if you want to know the truth. It’s lucky that you’re alive.” He knelt down. “You look pretty bad.”
“I’ll be fine. I need to go check on Miss Bancroft.”
“Howard is with her.”
“I need to see how she is faring.” It was driving him mad to not be able to pick her up and carry her someplace safer.
“I’m afraid you can’t do that.”
“Surely you don’t think I had something to do with this.”
“At last,” Ryan said, standing up. “Doctor, he’s conscious now.”
Sebastian forced himself to lie still when the doc knelt down beside him. “Easy now, Mr. Marks. When I stopped by here a few minutes ago, you were practically dead to the world.”
“As you can see, I am alive. Go attend to Miss Bancroft.”
“I have. She’s going to be fine.”
“She was shot,” he pointed out. Obviously, she was going to be anything but fine.
“It was merely a graze. Little more than a severe burn. I cleaned it well and bandaged her. After a day or two of rest, she will be feeling right as rain.”
He was surrounded by fools. She’d been attacked. “Doctor, please help me up. I need to see to her.”
Instead of helping him to his feet, the physician pressed a hand to Sebastian’s chest. “Men in love are truly the most foolish. Lie down.”
“Love?” Ryan asked from where he hovered, his tone disbelieving.
“To be sure,” the doctor replied with a smirk, just as if they were in the building for a party. “He and Miss Bancroft are engaged.”
Ryan stepped closer. “Is that true?”
“It is.” He also was in no hurry to discuss said engagement, but if it was going to help him get his way, he attempted to look beseeching. “Obviously Lydia is in distress. I need to get to her.”
“Sir—” the doctor began.
“I am fine.”
“You are bleeding. Your shirt is sporting a sizable stain,” Ryan pointed out.
“Sebastian?” Lydia called as she rushed to his side. The moment she knelt by him, tears formed in her eyes. “Oh Sebastian, what did they do to you?”
Now, of course, he wished he would have kept his peace. It seemed that the only thing worse than knowing she was hurt because of him was having her see him looking so poorly and worrying about his welfare when she should be having someone look after her.
This was all his fault. All of it.
If he’d ever needed a sign from the good Lord above, telling him that he was single-handedly ruining Lydia Bancroft’s life, this was it.
“I am fine, Lydia. Please, go rest.” Of course, his words were at odds with every protective instinct that was coursing through him.
She reached out and carefully brushed back a lock of his hair from his forehead. “Of course I am not going to leave your side. You need me here.”
“I will rest easier if you are resting. You’ve had a fright.”
Her eyes widened. Just then, he realized how he could see them so well. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles. “Where are your glasses?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not exactly sure. I think they’re broken.”
It was yet another thing he’d done to hurt her. “Do you have another pair?”
“I have some old ones at home.”
It was time to do something, anything to make things right again. “Ryan, is there someone available who can take Miss Bancroft home? Immediately?”
“Of course. If that is what you would like.”
“I would.”
Lydia leaned forward, bringing with her the faint, fresh scent of her perfume. “Sebastian, I do not wish to leave. Please, let me stay with you.”
“Absolutely not.” He needed her as far away from him as possible—as quickly as possible—so he wouldn’t do something foolish and tell her that he loved her.
“But—”
“Lydia, this is difficult enough without you being in the way,” he interrupted. “Please, do as I say.”
She stared at him for one long moment, her beautiful blue eyes cloudy with hurt and unshed tears. Then she stood up. “Captain Ryan, I’ll wait over by the wall until someone is free.”
“There is no need to wait. I’m sure Lieutenant Howard won’t mind seeing you home.”
When they left, the doctor leaned forward. “I think it would be best to simply cut off your shirt, sir, so I can see to your wound.”
Closing his eyes, he said, “Do whatever you need to do.”
The man fished in his kit and pulled out a small glass bottle. “Would you care for laudanum first?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’ll take the sting off the pain.”
Sebastian knew the pain he was feeling was not going to be eased by any opiate. “I won’t flinch. I promise I’ve suffered far worse.”
After the doctor cut off his shirt, he studied Sebastian’s bare chest. “It seems you have, sir,” Then, opening his black bag, he pulled out a number of instruments.
As he promised, Sebastian never flinched.
But then, of course, he didn’t know if it was possible to feel anything at all. Losing Lydia, he might as well be dead to the world. He certainly felt as if his future was gone.
CHAPTER 30
After suffering through seven stitches to his chest and leg, and a careful examination of the cuts and bruises on his head and arms, Sebastian was allowed to stand.
By this time, Lieutenant Howard had returned. Luckily for Sebastian, the officer was in no mood to share any news about Lydia. Instead, he stood by Ryan’s side as Sebastian approached.
“Anything else?”
“We would like you to come down to the station with us. We would like you to give us a statement about your attack.”
Sebastian ached to refuse but didn’t dare. It was obvious with each passing minute that the Lord had had enough of his ego and selfish ways and was finding multiple ways for him to pay his dues.
“Very well. Lead on.”
He slowly followed them to the awaiting carriage and climbed inside it with the greatest reluctance. The carriage didn’t look well sprung, which meant the ride to the precinct was
going to be full of jerks and bumps. No doubt his head was going to feel as if it were going to explode before they were halfway there.
He was not wrong. By the time they’d gone a mile, Sebastian felt as if he were in a medieval torture chamber and was tempted to say anything to put an end to his misery.
Both Ryan and Howard looked at him with expressions of sympathy.
“I’ve grown to hate riding in a horse and carriage,” Howard said. “It feels outdated and thoroughly inconvenient. Sorry for the ride, Marks.”
“Not your fault.” Truly, even saying those words felt like too much.
After gazing at Sebastian for a moment, Ryan turned to his partner. “Did you encounter any problems taking Miss Bancroft home?”
“No.” After pausing to ascertain how Sebastian was faring, Howard continued. “Miss Bancroft seemed fairly upset of course. Today’s events were traumatic. Luckily, her maid was there.”
“That’s Bridget O’Connell, yes?” Ryan asked.
“Bridget has a kind heart. She will see to her needs,” Sebastian said before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to care about Lydia anymore.
“For what it’s worth, Miss Bancroft certainly seems to care about you. I would say that you two are a very unlikely couple, but it’s not any more surprising than my courtship of Eloisa,” Ryan said. “It seems our hearts develop minds of their own.”
Sebastian grimaced, then used his pain as an excuse to end the discussion. He had no desire to dwell on the multiple reasons he should have never said even one word to Lydia. He especially didn’t want to hear how happy the other men were with their supposedly opposite women.
He certainly didn’t want to think about how anyone but him would have known that he was so far below her on the social and moral scales that it would have been ludicrous to even think they should try to make a life together work.
So he sat and stewed and prayed that the rocking, uncomfortable coach would cease rocking before the new century.
It seemed no matter what happened to him, he couldn’t stop hoping.
“Oh, Miss Bancroft,” Bridget gasped as she helped Lydia undress and step into the deep, white-footed bathtub in the small bathing room off the kitchen. “Look at your poor arms and legs. And the rest of you! I fear that you have become a dozen shades of black and blue.”
As she stood with only her feet, ankles, and calves covered by water, Lydia looked down at herself with a bit of trepidation. Her hips were rather bruised. As were her thighs. And arms. “Indeed, I am looking fairly multicolored. Isn’t that something?”
“It’s a shame, that’s what it is.”
“Well, it’s over now.” Gingerly, she sat down into her half-filled, cast-iron tub, then stretched her legs out with a sigh of relief. The warm water felt so soothing. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself to be one of Jane Austen’s cosseted heroines, reclining in her bath without a care in the world.
“Of course you hadn’t noticed anything,” Bridget said as she poured more warm water into the tub. “You are suffering from a gunshot wound.”
Lydia eyed her heavily bandaged arm. It was starting to feel like an awful lot of trouble when compared to Sebastian’s injuries. “Hardly that. It is a very small wound, you know. In fact, the physician said it was merely a graze.”
“I don’t think there is such a thing as a small gunshot wound, miss,” Bridget said as she poured the last pitcher of warm water into the tub. “You are lucky to be alive, you are.”
“I am. Lucky and blessed.” With a ragged sigh, she at last allowed herself to let down her guard. “However, my nicks and bruises are nothing compared to the injuries Mr. Marks sustained.”
Bridget’s voice floated through the bathing room, sounding as if it came from a long, deep, and dark tunnel. “Miss Bancroft, what did happen to Mr. Marks?”
“He sustained many wounds.” Still keeping her eyes closed, Lydia tried to catalog all of the injuries. “Though he wasn’t shot, he was stabbed in several places and may have some cracked and broken ribs, and most likely has sustained a concussion.”
The maid gasped. “A concussion? That is an injury to his brain, isn’t it?”
“His brain? Oh, yes. The word concussion is derived from the Latin word concutere and it means to shake violently. It’s a traumatic brain injury.” The feeling of pleasure that had come from remembering that tidbit faded as the memory of seeing Sebastian lying so still on the floor returned with a vengeance.
She blinked hurriedly as her eyes began to tear up. After pressing one wet hand to her face, Lydia attempted to compose herself. “It was a very frightening experience. He was unconscious for a time. Even the police were worried about him. The physician made me wait before I could go by his side.”
“Did he wake up?”
Bridget’s voice had a tremor. Opening her eyes, she was stunned to notice the maid sitting on a stool next to the white tiled wall. She had her arms wrapped around her body and was biting her bottom lip while staring out into space.
Though her image was blurry, on account of the fact that she was without her glasses, Lydia could tell Bridget was obviously troubled.
Her pain was vivid enough to make Lydia forget her own. “Yes,” she said at last. “He did awake.”
“Where is he now? At the Hartman?” Bridget’s voice had turned frantic. “Does Vincent—I mean, Mr. Hunt—know about this? Is he attending to Mr. Marks?”
“I’m so sorry, but I have no earthly idea. Mr. Marks wanted me to leave the fairgrounds as soon as possible. And though I protested, I soon realized that my presence was only making him more agitated.” She ached to tell Bridget more. Ached to describe how it had felt to be ignored and pushed away as if there was nothing between them and had never been.
But those hurts were even more painful to come to terms with than her bandaged arm or many bruises. “I am sorry I don’t have any more information.”
Bridget got to her feet. “Yes, miss.” Looking studiously above Lydia’s head, she said in a monotone voice, “Would you like me to help you wash your hair? My mother used to swear that a thorough hair wash was the answer to most any problem.”
It had been far too long since anyone had helped her take care of her long hair. And Bridget’s mother’s promise was so very tempting.
At the moment, she would do just about anything to ease her mind.
“Thank you, Bridget. I would like that very much.” Seconds later, Bridget began to soothingly massage the soap into her hair, then helped her rinse it and massaged some oils that smelled delicately of lavender and lemon into her scalp.
The massage was relaxing and rejuvenating. And very much appreciated.
Closing her eyes, Lydia soon forgot everything but the warm water, the heavenly scent, and the fact that both she and Sebastian were safe.
That wasn’t everything she needed, but it was certainly enough for now.
CHAPTER 31
CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER
From December 1893
Reported by Benson Gage
It should be noted that the Columbian Exposition of 1893 has been closed for some time. This is for good reason. The abandoned buildings have been ravaged by fire and are in various stages of disrepair. One should only enter at his own risk.
The minute Bridget knew Miss Bancroft was asleep, she went to her small room, pulled on a fresh dress, donned a coat, and hurried out the back door.
She knew if Miss Bancroft or her mother discovered she was leaving without saying a word she would be in very big trouble. But they were both asleep, and she owed no one other than Mr. Marks her loyalty. He’d saved her life, and he was continuing to save it, time and again.
Though the streets were now dark, she hurried along the quickest paths and alleys to the Hartman. It might have been safer to stay on Michigan Avenue, but Bridget only cared about helping Mr. Marks as soon as possible.
When she reached the Hartman, she let herself in the servants’ entrance, turned a sharp l
eft, and pattered up the stairs. It was bad form to enter in that manner. Common courtesy dictated that she stop and say hello to any of the staff that was milling around, but she didn’t dare take the time. Her heart was pounding as she continually imagined the worst. She’d heard of a gentleman who had fallen asleep when he was concussed and never woke up.
What would she do then? She’d never forgive herself!
By the time she reached the third-floor landing, she was nearly out of breath. Only habit allowed her to take the last few steps toward Mr. Marks’ door in a calm and dignified way. When she thought her face was not quite as flushed, she unlocked his suite’s main door and stepped inside.
“Mr. Marks? Are you here, sir?”
No voice replied, but she heard faint footsteps. This was not like Mr. Marks. Not at all.
She stiffened and braced herself. She needed to be ready for anything.
“Bridget,” Vincent said. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” she retorted. “I came to check on Mr. Marks.” Craning her neck, she asked, “Is he sleeping?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why don’t you know? Will he not let you inside his bedroom?” She knew he was notoriously private, but surely even Mr. Marks knew when it was time to accept help.
Vincent flinched. “I’m sorry, Bridget. It seems that you have not heard.”
“I haven’t heard what?”
“Mr. Marks was taken to the police station.”
“Why? He was injured!” She was beyond incredulous. “Surely they don’t imagine that he’s tried to hurt himself?”
“Of course not. I believe it is simply to make a statement about today’s attack.”
“You’d think the police could wait for that.”
“One would think. However, we both know Mr. Marks is also a man to fear. He is also known to not always follow the law.”
“That could be said of half of Chicago.”
Whispers in the Reading Room Page 25
