Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “No, sir.” He grimaced. “Maybe.”

  Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

  “I have Mary, you know. The thought of someone beating her up is pretty hard to stomach.”

  Vincent was a single father, his wife having died of scarlet fever when his daughter was barely a year old. Now Mary was about four, and he knew Vincent was excessively fond of her.

  But that didn’t mean Hunt needed to let the child make him vulnerable. Summoning up his self-schooled vocabulary again, he warned, “Then don’t think about it, Hunt. Just like with the recent beatings and murders around town, Avondale’s proclivities and some Bear and Bull girl’s misfortune don’t affect us.” He hardened his voice to make sure his point was taken. “At all.”

  Vincent shifted, lifting his shoulders as though they were suddenly stiff and sore. “It isn’t always that easy to ignore when someone does something evil though.”

  A chill crept up Sebastian’s spine. Was it because he’d done his share of shameful things in the past? Or because he was so used to turning a blind eye to evil that he’d forgotten what it was like to care?

  “You’re going to have to ignore things like this if you want to work here for any length of time, Hunt. I essentially told you that when you first interviewed.” A memory surfaced of Vincent arriving three years ago, still grieving over the death of his wife, just let go from his job as a clerk in a law office. He’d been earnest and needy.

  Sebastian hadn’t been sure the man would last a full month, but he had been an exceptional employee.

  That is, when he wasn’t wearing his heart on his sleeve.

  Hurt shone in his assistant’s eyes. “Mr. Marks, surely some sympathy wouldn’t be misplaced.”

  “It is not misplaced, but it’s also not welcome.”

  “But have you never come across a woman you imagine being too good for the likes of Avondale?” Lowering his voice, he added, “A lady who is too good for the likes of any of us?”

  A certain freckled, blue-eyed, auburn-haired librarian who favored silver-rimmed spectacles came to mind.

  Ruthlessly, he pushed her image from his mind. “I don’t think about women,” he bit out, knowing it was almost the truth. “You know that.”

  Hunt looked as if he was barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

  “But if I did, I would only think of them in terms of pity. It’s a woman’s lot to be at the bidding of the men in her life.” He would hate a life like that.

  “It isn’t always that way, sir,” Hunt replied in his middle-class accent. “I treated my wife like she was a treasure.”

  A treasure. That was more than a bit effusive. Rather laughable. But even Sebastian wasn’t cruel enough to make light of Vincent’s love for his deceased wife.

  Exhaling, he placed both hands on the surface of his desk, enjoying the satin-smoothness of the highly polished wood, as he always did. “My point, Hunt, is that many women, especially prostitutes, are at men’s mercies. It’s the way of the world, and there’s nothing you nor I can do about that. But I will say that hearing about Avondale’s latest misadventures makes me thank my lucky stars I don’t deal in prostitutes just to make more money. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you need anything else now?”

  Disappointment flickered in his manager’s eyes before he lowered them. Sebastian knew Vincent didn’t agree with everything he’d just said about some women’s lot in life, but it didn’t exactly matter. Only one person owned the Silver Grotto and that was him. That made him right. Always. “Not at the moment. Thank you for the report.”

  Only when he was alone again did Sebastian dare to let his mind drift back to Miss Lydia Bancroft. The way she rarely chattered on like most females of his acquaintance. The way she shelved books like they were old friends. How she seemed to be more at ease with a room full of books than with people.

  Something about that little mouse spurred feelings of protectiveness he didn’t even know he possessed.

  He’d only recently learned her name, when he’d overheard one of the women borrowing books speak to her. He’d been surprised—not at her name, but at the realization that he’d even wanted to know it. That he needed to know it.

  He was going to have to guard himself the next time he visited the library. He pigeonholed people in his life, and she needed to firmly stay in the small, very narrow expanse of his brain that focused on obtaining a few hours of peace in a worn and quiet reading room. He would not dwell on the faint scents of lavender and lemon that lingered there or the way he sometimes felt her steady gaze linger on his form.

  It would not do for him to get to know her too well.

  If that happened, she might seek him out. Attempt to talk to him. Worse, want to know his name.

  And that would be a disaster. Few people knew how much he liked to read, and no one—besides her and that assistant of hers—knew just how much time he spent with his nose in books.

  The lending library gave him some solace. For a few hours’ time, he was able to be the man he had wished to become—back before he realized life in the slums wasn’t about being smarter than the bullies on the street, but about being stronger. Meaner.

  Now that he owned the Grotto, however, he knew success in his world meant he needed to be both—strong and smart.

  Turning his chair, he stared out the window, watching the people below him hurry about their business. They all looked so busy. So intent. So purposeful.

  Indeed, the regular populace, no matter in Camp Creek Alley or on Michigan Avenue, continued on their merry way during daylight hours, while he generally did all he could to merely while away the time until the sun went down and his club began to fill.

  But when he saw two women walking in cheap, ill-fitting dresses on the way to the worst parts of Camp Creek, something inside of him twisted painfully.

  Obviously, they were prostitutes. Very far from the refined Miss Lydia Bancroft. Far from Hunt’s treasured, middle-class wife, even.

  Now, perhaps because of Hunt’s melodramatic story, he found himself viewing those harlots as something more than their occupation. As something more than a hurtful reminder of his own mother . . . and the way she’d been forced to ply her trade to keep him fed.

  For the first time in, well, forever, he allowed his shields to fall, seeing the two prostitutes for what they truly were. To view them as women, as fragile beings in need of support.

  Suddenly, he had no stomach for Avondale’s transgressions. Or for being even inadvertently responsible for yet another woman’s pain. Not anymore.

  And right there and then he made a promise to himself. One day soon he was going to deliver some kind of payback to Mr. Avondale.

  CHAPTER 2

  ONE WEEK LATER

  The sumptuous lobby of the Hartman Hotel was decked out in elegant Persian carpets that covered highly polished marble floors. Expensive artwork covering cherry-wood paneling decorated the walls. The exotic flowers displayed spread color throughout the area, attracting Lydia’s eye and tingling her nose with perfumed scents.

  All of it was so exquisite, so fragrant, so bright, and so . . . so different from her usual surroundings at the lending library that Lydia couldn’t help but blink owlishly through her spectacles and hope she didn’t look as out of place as she felt.

  “I hope the Hartman meets your expectations?” her fiancé murmured at her side.

  “Of course it does. How could you imagine that it wouldn’t?”

  “My only wish is for your happiness, my lamb.”

  Her cheeks heated, as they always did when he called her his lamb. She really didn’t care for the pet name. She was rather tall, almost five foot seven. She was a bit clumsy too. Even when she was young, she’d never particularly felt very lamb-like—though she supposed a newborn lamb might be a bit wobbly.

  His words were gallant. He was looking at her as if she was important to him. That was continually a mystery to her. She knew
she was far away from the kind of woman a man dreamed to have on his arm. Beyond her glasses, she had freckles that seemed to multiply, no matter how much precious lemon juice she dabbed on her nose.

  And then there was the unfortunate circumstance of her hair. Red.

  Therefore, she felt “lamb” was rather unsuitable. Her logical mind had more than once considered begging him to substitute a better word. Owl, for example, would be more apt, though she’d never considered owls as particularly attractive birds.

  But because telling him how she felt about his pet name would be terribly unkind, Lydia hoped she would grow into the endearment, rather like her mother’s kid boots. Now, those were lamb-like.

  She bit back a smile at the direction her thoughts had taken. Standing up straighter, she reminded herself that this was an important moment in their relationship. They were having tea out in public, just the two of them.

  Essentially, her fiancé was putting her on display. She needed to make sure she did everything to make him proud.

  Because, well, sometimes she couldn’t quite understand how she’d gained Mr. Jason Avondale’s devotion.

  He was popular. Handsome. And wealthy.

  Lydia, on the other hand, had few friends, none close, so no one would have considered her popular. She’d always been too bookish, she supposed. And though she realized she wasn’t without good looks, she didn’t need a mirror to know she would never be the beauty of, say, the diamond that was Eloisa Carstairs. As beautiful as she was wealthy, the young lady now married to the dashing police captain who had solved the Society Slasher mystery was still the talk of Chicago.

  And last, she was only pretending to be wealthy.

  “The Hartman Hotel is truly magnificent. Thank you for bringing me to tea this afternoon. It’s a lovely treat, to be sure. Why, I’ve been looking forward to this afternoon ever since you invited me last week. Right away, I asked Priscilla to cover the reading room for me this afternoon.”

  Jason’s lips pressed together. Making her realize she’d probably been a bit too enthusiastic in her response.

  Releasing a sigh, she kept quiet and tried to look demure while Jason spoke to one of the hotel employees, who then motioned to the formal tea set up in the center of the lobby. If he had asked her, she could have told him where it was. She’d noticed it the moment they’d walked through the grand brass-and-glass doors.

  After all, they were having an early tea—some might say a light luncheon—with very few others in the room this time of day. But she knew someone of her fiancé’s station could ask for service whenever he wanted it.

  As they were guided to the small table, Lydia took care to keep her expression serene. But inside she was remembering not to continually smile, not make eye contact with the hotel employees, to keep her chin up and posture straight.

  And not let what would surely be her mother’s disappointment at not being invited to tea as well fill her heart. When Lydia’s father passed away three years ago, their circumstances had changed.

  They lived simply now. Gone was the more lavish lifestyle they’d enjoyed. In its place was a carefully constructed act to ensure that Lydia married well. As soon as they realized how dire their finances were, they sold their house and moved into their brownstone townhouse.

  “This house held too many memories,” her mother had explained to a friend. That, at least, was true.

  Then they sold some of their less valuable works of art displayed in private rooms. They sold their private carriage and team of horses, choosing to tell one and all they were adopting the modern travel conveniences of Chicago instead. They eventually let all their servants go, except their cook, Ethel, who shopped for food and came in each day.

  Then her mother insisted they use their remaining but limited resources to ensure Lydia continued to attend parties and events so she could marry well. That was more important than ever. What else would restore them to the life they’d once had?

  To complete the ruse, Lydia’s mother let her circle believe she remained cloistered at home out of a widow’s grief, rather than letting them see her wearing last season’s clothes. They had even used the excuse of her prolonged grief to put Jason off from so much as having tea with them. What would he think if he saw their home so shabby and bare?

  Unfortunately, as time went on, her mother had become not just disappointed but a complaining, depressed woman. And it seemed, despite the promise of Lydia’s upcoming marriage, she was not going to change until she could return to the lifestyle she once knew.

  Lydia realized that even if she hadn’t made a good match, she and her mother could have lived for quite some time without going hungry. Her income from working at the lending library would see to that. But it wasn’t enough. Her paltry earnings were nothing compared to the allowance her father used to make available for even incidentals.

  There was a true pinch where there had once been none. Eventually, even the paintings in their foyer and stairwell had to be sold. Lydia might never marry, and it was time to be realistic.

  Just when she had convinced her mother to begin exploring the possibility of moving to an even smaller, less prestigious address, Lydia caught Mr. Avondale’s eye at a ball. And because she had no choice in the matter, she encouraged his advances.

  Though they didn’t have much in common, he was better—even wealthier—than any of the other men who’d shown the slightest interest. And she felt sure they would have a fine life together, even though she didn’t understand why he had noticed her in the first place.

  Of course, she might not have noticed him either. But it didn’t necessarily matter that she didn’t consider him all that smart. Or that he was strangely evasive about how he spent his evenings when not by her side. Her feelings toward him had no bearing.

  He was everything she’d been taught to hope to find. He was from a good, influential family, had an excellent job in the banking district, and was well mannered. To her mother’s delight, he proposed just last month, and now her mother’s future was secure. That was all that was of importance.

  She must soon tell him the truth, however, that she and her mother had no wealth of their own. It would be the right thing to do. Lydia wasn’t worried. Jason did not need her money, just a wife with acceptable social status. Surely he would understand. And he seemed fond enough of her, as she had become fond enough of him.

  He also seemed to find her bookish quirks amusing.

  “I do hope they have both scones and sandwiches. I’m rather hungry,” she blurted before remembering that she should never talk about food, especially food she was intending to consume.

  “I imagine they will bring you your heart’s desire, Lydia.” Jason pulled out his rather large gold pocket watch, and after pressing a button with a single sapphire to open the cover, he scanned its face.

  His glancing at his watch told Lydia he was a very busy man. “I’m glad you could clear your schedule at the bank to have time for tea.”

  “You are always worth my time.”

  He smiled at her before rubbing one finger along the magnificent gold watch. Then, with a look of regret, he slipped it back into his vest pocket.

  Oh, he was so gentlemanly. So fussily proper! Surely with looks like his, God had been very smart to not give Jason all that much in his brain.

  After all, the Lord could only give each of them so much.

  She was still smiling about his gentlemanly comment minutes later when a pair of waiters arrived with tea and trays of delicacies.

  Just as Lydia was about to remove her gloves so she could fill her plate, Jason excused himself to go speak rather intently to a man standing across the lobby, near the foyer.

  Sitting alone, particularly taunted by the trays with watercress sandwiches and tarts but unable to begin without Jason, Lydia forced herself to give her attention to the paintings decorating the walls of the lobby.

  She’d never been a great fan of either portraits or the heavy-handed works of the Dutch
masters. She much preferred images her cherished works of literature created in her mind. That said, she could certainly appreciate the paintings by Rembrandt and Vermeer on display.

  Her stomach growled.

  Mortified, she picked up her teacup and took a large sip. And then another. After refilling her cup, she glanced Jason’s way and noticed he was now talking to two gentlemen.

  Peevishly, she wished he’d given her permission to begin without him. Of course, if he’d done so, she would have most likely already cleared her plate and would be hoping for seconds—which would have been just as embarrassing as a growling stomach.

  And would, of course, have done nothing to reassure Jason that he’d made the right choice when he’d chosen her to be his bride.

  Determined to sit quietly the way her mother had taught her, Lydia allowed her gaze to skim over the ornately carved woodwork. She admired a debutante’s daydress. The stained glass window.

  And then she caught sight of him. Him!

  It was all she could do not to gasp.

  There he was, her favorite library patron. Lounging against a wall. Once more, he was staring at her with an expression that could only be described as amusement.

  When their eyes met, his expression softened for the briefest of moments, then it flickered beyond her. And as his piercing regard settled on Jason and the men with him, his expression cooled. Considerably.

  Did he know her fiancé?

  Thankfully, Jason returned to her side a moment later. It was best not to think about the man right now, and she presented Jason with her best smile. Besides, at last it was time to eat.

  “So sorry, lamb. I hate to leave you alone, but sometimes business rears its ugly head even here at the Hartman.” A shadow moved into his eyes. “It couldn’t be helped though.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for.” She lifted her hand, intending to gently caress his arm, to show that she was always by his side, hoping to ease his concern, but at the last moment she changed her mind. It wasn’t seemly to touch others in such familiar ways. She should know that. After all, she’d read it in her books time and again.