“I brought you a bowl of cool water, and towels, sir,” she said after she was sure she had his attention. “I got you some ice too. In case you would be needin’ it.”
“Yes. That was a good idea. Thank you.”
After flashing a pleased smile, Bridget set down the items, then stepped back. Once again, Sebastian was pleased that he’d hired Bridget to be his personal maid at the Hartman. He doubted even the experienced waitstaff in the restaurant could attend to him so well. He certainly didn’t trust anyone else like he did her.
And he didn’t need to wonder at her being in the lobby just when he needed her. It was her job to be available.
Turning back to Lydia, who was still sitting rather motionless, he gentled his voice. “Miss Bancroft, this should help. Give me your hand.”
When she merely stared at him wide eyed through her lenses, he held out his hand, silently willing for Lydia to place her palm on his so he could see to her injuries.
But of course she did nothing of the sort.
He lifted his head to meet those completely striking pale-blue eyes.
She didn’t move.
Growing concerned that she was suffering from shock, Sebastian leaned closer. “Let me help you bathe your hand, my dear. The cool water will ease your pain.”
It was his endearment, perhaps, that made her blink, then stare at him in surprise. “Thank you, but I can take care of this.”
“Not very well, I wouldn’t think. It’s hard to do almost anything with only one hand.”
“What?” After examining the shallow china bowl, cup of ice chips, and pair of towels, she blinked again. “Oh, perhaps you are right.”
“I know I am. Hand, please?” he asked again, employing a tone he didn’t even know he was capable of.
Without another moment’s hesitation, she rested her palm in his. After he placed some ice chips on the towel and rested her wrist on it, he dipped the second cloth into the cool water, then bathed her red knuckles with it.
“This should help, though I fear you will be in some pain for the next day or two,” he said.
“Yes.” She closed her eyes then. Seconds later, a lone tear traipsed down, sliding under her glasses, at last stilling on her cheekbone.
Even though until this day he’d only known her from a distance, the sight of her tears hit him hard. He hated to see her cry. Hated the thought of anyone bringing her to tears.
He picked up another ice chip and ran it across her delicate skin. She flinched.
“Forgive me. I’ll attempt to be gentler.”
Behind him, he felt rather than heard Bridget inhale. He ignored her. Dampening the cloth, he smoothed it over the burns marking Lydia’s blistered knuckles.
When she flinched again, he wished for the first time in his life that he could take someone else’s pain. “Easy now, Miss Bancroft,” he murmured. “This will help. I promise.”
She lifted those remarkable eyes up to his. “How did you happen to be here?”
“You’ve seen me leave your library a time or two. It just so happens I sometimes visit other places.”
Color splotched her cheeks. “I didn’t mean that.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, how did you happen to be here, at this hotel this afternoon? It feels quite coincidental.”
“Not really. I live here.”
“I wasn’t aware a person could live in a hotel.”
“It’s possible. It’s amazing what money allows a person to do,” he said, joking.
But she didn’t catch the jest. Instead, she continued to stare at him curiously. So much so that he was inclined to tell her his whole history. Almost.
Of how he’d grown up knowing his mother was forced to work as a prostitute to feed him. And how he’d been lucky to at least have a mattress on the floor to sleep on.
How he’d always yearned for a clean place to lay his head at night. How only the hotel enabled him to have that cleanliness but allowed him to keep his distance from most.
“Do you like living here?” She appeared to be grasping their conversation like a lifeline.
Against his better judgment, he let her. “I do.”
She would never know it, but he usually took great pains to keep his unusual residence something of a secret. He slept better knowing that the majority of Chicago’s citizens didn’t realize the owner of the Silver Grotto lived at the top of the most fashionable hotel in the city.
“So Jason was wrong, of course,” Lydia said. “You weren’t here for me.”
“He was indeed wrong.” Because his living arrangements were taking her mind from her injuries, he continued. “Every once in a while, I loiter in the lobby.” He shrugged. “It’s a bad habit.”
Again, he felt Bridget’s amusement behind him.
He supposed it couldn’t be helped. His life was a study in contrasts, of haves and have-nots. And though he’d tried his best to keep himself from getting to know Lydia Bancroft, it seemed inevitable. He wanted to know her. Just as important, he wanted her to know him.
At least the good parts.
Seeking to put Lydia more at ease, he said, “Now, if I had known you were going to be taking tea in the lobby, I would have taken great pains to be here just so our paths would cross again.”
As he’d hoped, appreciation for his quip lit her eyes. “And here I was beginning to wonder if you even spoke.”
“It’s common knowledge that one should stay quiet in the reading room.”
“I’ve always believed you took that to extremes. Conversation is allowed, of course—though primarily in whispers.”
“I have had no need for conversation there. I visit for the books.”
“Oh, I know, Mr. Marks. It’s obvious that you are a bibliophile.”
Suddenly, he felt curiously stripped bare. He’d held his efforts to learn close to his vest. From the time one of his mother’s men spent an afternoon teaching him the basics of reading, Sebastian had devoured the written word the way he imagined other children devoured porridge.
And, little by little, he’d indeed worked on making himself into the person he wished to be. Austen and Brontë and Wilde taught him to speak. Dickens taught him about ills . . . and about what he had a hope of being.
Even the Bible had been utilized. He’d been a student of Jacob and Isaiah and Peter and Christ. The Bible with the God he occasionally thought to thank for any good that came his way.
In short, he’d read everything he could get from the library and attempted to glean as much as he could from the best of it.
But his self-taught education was never a thing of beauty or pride, for he now knew it contrasted sharply alongside the life that benefited real gentlemen.
That education was also his closely guarded secret. So much so, he knew he’d rather be stripped bare in this hotel lobby than be forced to admit how all of his learning had come from a poor boy’s desire to become something he’d only witnessed in printed pages.
It wasn’t his naked body that he feared showing—Lord knew, living on the streets, a man lost any hope or thought of modesty. Instead, it was his soul that he dare not reveal. That was something he feared could be far more easily shattered.
And even more easily ruined.
As if she sensed his dark thoughts, Lydia cleared her throat. “Mr. Marks, I believe my hand feels better now.”
Looking down, he realized that he’d been unconsciously skimming his rough fingers along the delicate skin of her hand. “Are you sure?”
She looked down at the small bowl.
He raised his voice. “Bridget, did you think to bring a dry cloth?”
“Of course, sir.” She handed him a neatly folded square of white linen.
With care, Sebastian lifted Lydia’s hand from the bowl and patted it dry. Then he held her hand between the two of his and examined it carefully. “I think the swelling has eased, but you’re going to need to keep your glove off the rest of today.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps as I go home,
I’ll be able to keep it covered by my cloak and scarf. Then no one will notice I am not dressed properly.”
He wanted to bark at her, say that it didn’t matter one lick how people perceived her, but he refrained. It wasn’t his place. Instead, he merely released her hand when she lightly tugged.
Immediately, he felt a loss.
After meeting his gaze again, color flooded her cheeks. “Well, thank you for your, um, care. However, I should be on my way now.”
His reply was interrupted by her stomach growling. Behind him Bridget chuckled.
Lydia looked as if she’d just committed a mortal sin. “Please forgive me. I’m usually not so rude.”
“Perhaps you’re usually not so hungry? Miss Bancroft, please don’t leave just yet. I believe Mr. Avondale never fed you. Allow me to see to your tea.”
She turned to her old table. But of course the trays, soiled tablecloth, and cart were long gone. The Hartman Hotel’s regular staff was nothing if not efficient. “I’m afraid the tea service is gone. I’ll be fine. I’ll eat something at home.”
“Nonsense. It’s no trouble to bring it out again.” At least, it wouldn’t be for him. “Bridget, remove these items and please bring Miss Bancroft a plate of tea sandwiches.”
“Of course, Mr. Marks.”
After picking up the bowl, cup, and towels, Bridget slipped out of sight.
Lydia shifted and placed her injured hand over her left one in her lap. “I honestly can’t believe everything that happened here this afternoon. It’s been very irregular.”
He took care to keep his voice low and even. Desultory, as if they were discussing the weather. “Does Avondale treat you that way often?”
“What way?”
“Roughly manhandling you.”
She averted her eyes. “That? Oh, no.”
“You’re sure?” Something in her voice didn’t ring true.
“Oh, yes. Of course, I suppose we haven’t found ourselves in many different situations yet. And this, um, was our first engagement without a chaperone,” she said, practically tripping over her words. “But never before has he acted so, well, autocratic. I’m not sure what brought it on.”
“I was under the impression that you were affianced.”
“Ah, yes. We are. I mean, we were.” She bit her lip. “Actually, I’m not sure if we are currently engaged or not.”
“Forgive me for my bluntness, but I must say that it is better to find out now that he would hurt you.” When she stilled, staring at him through her spectacles like a frightened deer, he continued. “Before you give him your heart,” he said gently, then wondered who in Sam Hill he had become. Men didn’t speak of such things.
He, without a doubt, had never even entertained such fanciful thoughts before.
He knew nothing of hearts or breaking them. He certainly had no experience with tending to delicate fiancées. No, all he knew was from what he had read.
“I suppose that is true.” She paused as Bridget set a silver tray filled with éclairs, cookies, scones, and tiny sandwiches in front of them. Another servant poured a cup of tea and carefully set it on Lydia’s right.
“Tea, sir?” Bridget asked.
Sebastian shook his head at the offering. He did not drink tea.
He hid a smile as Lydia stared at the tray of offerings with something that could only be described as pure bliss and anticipation. “Don’t wait for me, Miss Bancroft. Please begin.”
“Will you not have any?”
“No. I have recently eaten.”
“I see.”
“I often eat early. It’s a bad habit, I’m afraid,” he murmured, and then fell silent before he started talking about his meals and his private life and his club. Before he started talking about everything that was his life and everything she should never know about.
“Oh.” She smiled, then after pointing to a few of the sandwiches and one plump currant-filled scone, which Bridget placed on her china plate, she picked up the sandwich and took a rather unladylike bite.
John, one of the Hartman’s longtime waiters, brought Sebastian a glass of what had to be lemonade. He studied it for a moment before raising it to his lips. The cold, sour-sweet mixture curled his tongue. Setting it down, he glared at the man-servant, who shrugged in an apologetic way.
It seemed even John was trying to help Sebastian look like a regular gentleman instead of the whiskey-drinking club owner he actually was.
“I see you enjoy cold beverages,” Lydia said, as she picked up her second sandwich.
Gin and bourbon could be served cold. “I do.”
“I suppose most men do.”
Most men he knew did, indeed, enjoy spirits served cold. “Yes,” he murmured as he watched her finish off a second delicate sandwich, then move to a thin watercress and turkey with gusto.
When she paused for breath, she said, “So, what book has taken your interest of late?”
He leaned back, far more comfortable talking about books than about anything of a personal nature. “I’m finding The Wrecker to be fascinating.”
He suppressed a smile as well. If Miss Bancroft was going to pretend she didn’t, without fail, safeguard his current selection at the reading room until his return, so would he.
A line formed between her brows. “Robert Louis Stevenson’s works are tremendously popular. The Wrecker is reputed to be very exciting.”
“So far, yes, I am finding it to be exciting as well.”
“You should check it out, Mr. Marks, instead of simply reading books when you’re in the library. Then you won’t have to worry about it being there next time you stop in.”
As though he had to worry now.
“I won’t worry.” He went to the library to read for pleasure, to lose himself in the allure of printed pages without anyone in his world taking note. Of late, he had also gone there to watch her. It seemed the stories told in the books were only part of the lending library’s allure.
She frowned as she picked up a chocolate éclair. “Surely you didn’t finish The Wrecker already? It’s a rather large tome.”
She knew very well he had only started reading the book a week ago, the day she’d spilled a stack of books all over the floor.
“If it isn’t there, I’ll make do with something else.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“Many things don’t make sense, Miss Bancroft. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t done.”
“I suppose you’re right about that.”
He watched her lean back and pop another éclair into her mouth, her expression turning to bliss as the custard and chocolate no doubt came in contact with her taste buds.
Just as his thoughts turned in that inappropriate direction, Vincent Hunt approached. He wore a determined expression, much the way he looked around three in the morning when they were closing the gambling for the night.
When he noticed Sebastian was not seated alone, Hunt looked completely brought up short. “Um, excuse me, sir. Miss.”
“What is it, Hunt?”
“You asked me to get you if we heard from a, um, specific client. He arrived just minutes ago.”
“Very good.” He got to his feet, thinking that whatever had just come up had come at an opportune time. He was becoming entirely too comfortable with the young lady sitting across from him. “I’d best go see to that.”
Lydia set the cup she’d just raised to her lips back down. Looking from him to Vincent, she said, “It is time for you to go?”
“I’m afraid I must.”
Carefully, she folded her napkin and set it next to her plate. “I had better go as well.”
“Forgive me. I seem to have lost my manners.” While Hunt stared at him like he was a stranger, Sebastian continued, “Miss Bancroft, may I present my assistant, Mr. Vincent Hunt. Vincent, this is Miss Lydia Bancroft.”
Hunt gave a small bow. “Miss Bancroft, a pleasure.”
She inclined her head. “How do you do, Mr. Hunt.”
“I was going to ask my maid, Bridget, but now that he’s here, Mr. Hunt is going to escort you home.”
Her blue eyes widened. “There is no need. I will be fine on my own.”
“Definitely not. The streets aren’t safe for young ladies like you.”
“I don’t think I will have any worries.”
“Pray, don’t tell me that you have already forgotten the fate of two ladies at the hands of the Slasher,” he bit out.
Before his eyes, Lydia paled. “I . . . I haven’t forgotten.”
Next to him, Hunt groaned, reminding Sebastian that he’d just made a terrible faux pas.
Sebastian clamped down on the inside of his lip. “Forgive me. I, um, forget myself and my company from time to time.”
“You forget your company?”
Now she was thinking that he hadn’t even been thinking about her. “Never mind. Please do accept Hunt’s escort.”
“It would be my honor, miss.”
“All right, then. Thank you, Mr. Hunt.” She smiled softly. “And Mr. Marks, thank you for the tea, and for your assistance earlier. I am indebted.”
The reminder drew his eyes to her bare right hand. “Please take care of your wrist and hand. If you have any need of assistance with . . . that, uh, problem, you need only leave a message for me here.”
“Thank you.”
He had to get out of there. He had to put as much space as possible between him and her innocence. “Hunt, I need a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sebastian motioned for Bridget to stay near Lydia before leading Hunt to a shadowed alcove near the curved staircase. The moment they stopped, Vincent became all business.
“Sir, would you like to know about the problem? It seems Jeffrey Galvin has returned. You said if he did—”
“I’ll deal with him when I get to the Grotto. I have something else you need to address.”
“Sir?”
“You will escort Miss Bancroft all the way to her door,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
“You will make sure she gets inside safely, and take special care to notice if she is favoring her right hand more than usual.”
“Her hand?”
“She had a nasty altercation with a gentleman here. I put an end to it.” At least he hoped so. And he saw no need to tell Hunt Lydia had had any association with the likes of Avondale.
Whispers in the Reading Room Page 4