Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. No matter what, you do not tell her anything about my line of work. Do you understand?”

  Hunt’s expression continued to remain impassive. “Yes, sir.”

  Just to make sure, he added, “Nothing about the Silver Grotto. Ladies like her don’t know places like mine exist.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  Sebastian noticed a thread of hope in his voice. It was suddenly obvious to him that his assistant was finding this whole situation to be especially amusing. “Nothing else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then, because he didn’t dare speak to her again, he turned and walked up the stairs. But, perversely, he only waited at the edge of the landing. He wanted to watch her for just a little while longer. He wanted to see if she was in pain from Avondale’s rough handling of her.

  But all he did was watch Hunt very properly help her to her feet, offer his arm after helping her wrap her cloak around her shoulders, then smile at her softly while he walked her outside. Sebastian could see them through a window as they stopped for a moment on the sidewalk.

  Lydia seemed to be perfectly at ease with him. Whatever Vincent Hunt was saying, it was everything proper—though, perhaps, he was standing just a tad too close and his fingers had brushed her shoulders a bit too intimately?

  Sebastian felt the unfamiliar, curious grip of jealousy twist inside of him as he saw Lydia smile at Vincent before crossing the street by his side.

  Irritated with himself, irritated with all of it, he stormed back down the stairs, intent on sliding out the back door of the hotel and going to his club.

  He certainly hoped whatever was waiting for him was bad enough to use his fists. If he was lucky, perhaps a fight had broken out. It had been months since he’d worked up a sweat in a good fight.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Marks?”

  He paused, watching Bridget trot toward him, her uniform and brown hair tidy as usual. “Miss Bancroft forgot this.” She held out one long white kid glove. Lydia’s glove that he himself had peeled from her wrist. “Would you like me to try to catch Mr. Hunt and Miss Bancroft? I doubt they’ve gotten too far yet.”

  “No, don’t bother.”

  “All right. Um, would you rather I leave it with the concierge?”

  “No.” He snatched it from her hand. “I’ll make sure this is returned to her.”

  “Oh. Well then, very good, sir.” She gave a small curtsy.

  He stuffed the glove in his pocket. As he was walking toward the door, the persnickety proprietor of the hotel stopped him. “I trust everything was to your liking, sir?”

  Nothing had been to his liking. “Good enough.”

  “Then if you would please tell us how to bill you for the tea?”

  “You know you simply send the receipt to Hunt.”

  “No, sir. I mean the first tea.” The man waved a cautious hand in the direction of the first table, where Lydia had been sitting with Avondale.

  “Do you mean to tell me Avondale left without paying?”

  “Regrettably, yes.”

  Why should he have been surprised? “Give that receipt to Hunt as well.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  At long last, Sebastian exited the Hartman Hotel, turned right, and descended into the back alleys. Fifteen minutes later, he was in sight of the Silver Grotto, and the streets were shadowed and narrow, smelling of trash and unwashed bodies.

  The moment he strode through the tall, heavy, silver-plated doors, he gestured to Parker, his man standing guard at the entrance. “Hunt said Jeffrey Galvin is here. Where will I find him?”

  “He left, sir. I suspect he knew Hunt went for you.”

  “Just as well. I’m in no mood to deliver my decision tonight. Find me a shot of gin. Keep it neat.”

  “Of course, Mr. Marks.”

  Feeling better already, Sebastian looked around, happy to see the bar starting to fill with customers.

  Below, his workers were counting the hours until the sun set, when they’d open the doors to the basement gambling tables.

  Here, Sebastian felt at home. He understood what was expected. He knew what should happen and what should not.

  Most especially, there wasn’t an auburn-haired librarian in the vicinity wanting to discuss books, enjoy the taste of éclairs, or who assumed he was a far better man than everyone here knew he was.

  CHAPTER 5

  After observing Mr. Hunt escort the librarian out the front door like she was made up of spun glass, then watching her employer stalk out the back door of the hotel like a swarm of bees was pursuing him, Bridget O’Connell slipped through one of the lobby’s unmarked doors and into the servants’ hall. As she took a deep breath and looked around, Bridget felt like Alice stepping through the looking glass.

  Instead of being surrounded by priceless artwork and beautifully crafted furniture, she was face-to-face with painted brick, exposed pipes, utilitarian cabinets, and metal shelving. Instead of genteel voices speaking in well-modulated tones, she heard the rushing of feet and the barking orders of the chefs and head of housekeeping.

  “Is he gone?” Harold, one of the longtime waitstaff, paused next to her, a tray of china cups and saucers in his hands.

  Bridget knew the waiter was referring to Mr. Marks. All the hotel staff was slightly in awe of him, and usually only referred to him as he or him.

  “Yes. Just.”

  He winked. “So you can take a few minutes rest now.”

  Bridget smiled. “Not likely. I’ve got other things to do.”

  Harold leaned forward, seemingly oblivious that he was holding a heavy tray. “Care to tell me what you’re going to be doing?”

  “You know I can’t.” She smiled when she spoke, hoping that smile would take the sting out of her words. It was a long-running joke that she was never quite a part of the other servants at the Hartman Hotel. “But I wish you luck with the rest of tea service.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Ever since the fair ended in October, we’re getting fewer foreigners in the restaurant and a whole lot more cranky, bored ladies. Never thought I’d say it, but I’d give my right eyetooth to serve supper to another delegation from Germany or Austria.” A dimple formed in his cheek. “They, at least, were lively.”

  “If I see any Germans out and about, I’ll send them your way.”

  “Just make sure they tip.” Harold winked again before lighting off, his smooth, easy glide making his job look far easier than it was. She’d seen some new workers still manage to make a racket when they were carrying half that much.

  After nodding in the direction of two maids carrying silver candelabras, Bridget climbed three flights to the top floor, a good part of which was Mr. Marks’ private quarters. After passing through another door, she was standing on a thick carpet runner and surrounded by gilt-framed mirrors. Taking care to step lively, she strode down the hall. Just as she rounded the corner, she spied Mabel and Gwen waiting for her.

  She braced herself for their company.

  By all accounts, she should consider them friends. And they were her friends, to a degree. However, her past and circumstances were far different from theirs. And her secrets kept her from lowering her guard too much around them. She had secrets that would shame her if revealed.

  And nowhere else in the world would she feel as safe as her rather solitary existence as Mr. Marks’ personal maid.

  But still she pretended to be more open than she was.

  “Hi, girls.”

  “Hi, yerself,” Mabel replied with a saucy smile. “About time you came upstairs.”

  “Why were you waiting for me? Did you need something?”

  “Only news,” Gwen said. “We heard he had you attending him down in the lobby this afternoon.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Mr. Marks did.”

  “Why did you have to be there?” Mabel asked. “There’s plenty of waiters to serve him tea.”

  “Well, you know . . .”
>
  “No, I really don’t,” Gwen pressed. “Why did he need you there?” A brash grin played on her lips. “Or was it your idea?” she mused. “Bridget O’Connell, were you not able to keep yerself away from the illustrious Mr. Marks?”

  “Hardly that,” she said quickly, becoming flustered. “Mr. Marks asked me to fetch and carry for him. That is all.”

  “It weren’t all,” Mabel said with a pointed look. “I looked down from the stairwell and saw him tending to that poor, lost-looking lady. Who was she? She don’t look near glamorous enough to be his sweetheart.”

  Bridget had seen her boss squire a number of young ladies about, but never one so plain as Miss Bancroft. Mr. Marks had been focused completely on the librarian though. And Bridget had felt more than a bit sorry for her, seeing that she was engaged to none other than Jason Avondale. Bridget knew his penchant for brutality far too well.

  However, though it was on the tip of Bridget’s tongue to correct Mabel’s assumption, she did not.

  The reason she had been in Mr. Marks’ employ for two years was that she didn’t divulge his secrets. Not ever. She did not comment on anything he did. Not even things he did in broad daylight.

  “What are you two doing up here anyway?” She eyed the pair curiously. “I already cleaned Mr. Marks’ suite.”

  “We were waiting for you. Obviously,” Gwen said.

  A mite cheekily, Bridget thought.

  “I was telling Mabel here, if you have spare time, you always come up here. We have a couple of hours off, so we thought you might want to go out for a bit.”

  Though a part of her was warmed by the invitation, she didn’t dare take them up on it. She would lose her job if Mr. Marks came back, needed something, and she wasn’t available to procure it for him.

  “I’m afraid I cannot. I need to iron Mr. Marks’ shirts.”

  Mabel frowned. “Why don’t he send them to the laundry? The girls do everyone else’s.”

  At that moment another maid found the two women, asking about their afternoon plans. That gave Bridget time to think before answering—or evading—Mabel’s question.

  But that was the difference, Bridget reflected. Mr. Marks didn’t want anything of his being touched by everyone else. He demanded privacy for both his personal life and his belongings.

  As the maids’ chatter became more animated, now focusing on a certain boot boy Bridget had never heard of, Bridget let her mind settle on her employer.

  Just like it usually did.

  Mr. Marks was not like anyone else. From the moment she’d walked into his office, begging for a job in his private club, and he’d stared at her in silence, she’d known that.

  Especially since all he’d done was glare at her when he’d given her bedraggled, hungry self an audience and heard her whisper that she’d even be willing to work among the gentlemen gamblers.

  She’d been sure he was about to send her on her way. And she knew when he did she was either going to be forced to go somewhere worse than the Silver Grotto or go to the workhouse. Tears had flooded her eyes.

  He noticed. Then he did the most curious thing. He snapped his fingers.

  Bridget still remembered how she’d jumped at the sound. But barely a second later, out came Vincent Hunt from a hidden panel in Mr. Marks’ office. She later learned that Vincent Hunt was Mr. Marks’ very own personal assistant and club manager.

  “Take Miss O’Connell to the Hartman,” he’d directed. “Once there, take her to the washroom in my suite.”

  “Um—” She’d attempted to interrupt.

  He’d ignored her. “While she is bathing, locate some decent clothes for her.”

  Hunt hadn’t looked dismayed by the request in the slightest. “Any special color or design, sir?”

  “I don’t care.” Then, when he’d stared at Bridget with her brown hair and brown eyes, he reconsidered. “Maybe something in blue or green?”

  “Green, sir?”

  “Green. Like the meadow. Or violet.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Hunt had replied.

  An awful, sick feeling had settled in her stomach when she’d heard Mr. Marks’ wishes. She realized that not only did he plan to use her for his own base desires, he wanted to make sure she was clean before he touched her. She’d been more ashamed than she could ever remember.

  Still ignoring her standing in front of him, Hunt asked, “What do you want me to do after I get her outfitted, sir?”

  “Order her some food.” Mr. Marks had looked her over like she’d been a flea-bitten dog. And a half-starved one at that. “See that she eats.”

  Mr. Hunt had nodded. “Of course.”

  Mr. Marks had then glared at her. “The skin under your eyes looks almost bruised. Have you slept?”

  She hadn’t known whether to apologize about her haggard appearance or merely answer. She opted to simply answer him honestly. “Not recently, sir.”

  “Get some rest then. You may have use of my private sitting room.”

  She was suddenly very, very confused. “Where do you want me to await you?” Deciding to stop pretending he saw her as anything but a fallen woman, she swallowed. “Do you want me to await you in your bed? Sir?”

  His eyebrows had risen, and Mr. Hunt had uttered a noise that had sounded suspiciously like he was choking on his own tongue.

  She’d felt her body flush with embarrassment but held her head high. After all, she knew her life would be forever changed when she walked through the doors of the Silver Grotto. Though she feared the future, it sounded as if she was going to have the opportunity to bathe, eat, and wear clean clothes for the first time in a long while.

  Her life had been very hard after her employer had seen her slap Mr. Avondale when he tried to force his attentions on her. Rather than hold the cad accountable, Mr. Pinter had fired her without references.

  She was smart enough—and desperate enough—to make sure she didn’t lose a bath, clothes, and food right away.

  But when Mr. Marks at last spoke, his voice was as gentle as if he were coaxing a newborn foal to its feet.

  “Miss O’Connell, I beg your pardon. I am hiring you to be my personal maid at the Hartman Hotel, not to be my paramour. Hunt will secure your own room at the hotel. I simply wanted to go over my expectations after you had bathed, eaten, and rested in my suite until Hunt can make that arrangement. But I see we should begin here.”

  “Oh.” She was so surprised, she couldn’t think of another word to say.

  “You will find I am not a difficult taskmaster as long as you adhere to my three basic tenets.” Looking her over, he continued. “I don’t put up with liars, thieves, or gossips.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That means you will not steal from me.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You will not make up stories about why you are late for work.”

  “I will not be late.”

  Impatiently, he brushed off her words. “If something spills, a dish breaks, a button gets lost and you are unable to replace it, tell me.”

  “Those things won’t happen.” She would make sure of it. “I was an excellent ladies’ maid for the Pinter family.”

  “Quiet now,” Mr. Hunt ordered from behind her back.

  Embarrassed by her inability to refrain from blurting every little thing that popped into her head, she straightened and attempted to heed Mr. Hunt’s advice as her new employer continued on.

  “To continue, I am willing to hire you because I am weary of the hotel maids and attendants discussing my habits.” Cool, dark indigo eyes met her own. “Do you feel you can avoid that, Miss O’Connell? Can you keep my secrets?”

  His voice was silky. Filled with dreams of everything she hoped to have and hinting of things she’d never imagined. And in that moment, she knew she’d do whatever it took to keep this job. She would be fiercely loyal to one man and one man only. To Mr. Sebastian Marks.

  She’d nodded slowly.

  And in that quiet nod, his eyes
had lit up with something that looked much like happiness. “Very well. You may go now. Hunt will discuss your pay and sleeping arrangements after you have an opportunity to bathe and eat and rest. On my couch,” he added with the faintest of smiles.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

  Picking up a thick ledger, he nodded. It was obvious that to him, their discussion was over. But she hadn’t been able to simply leave.

  “Mr. Marks? I’m sorry. But, if I may?”

  “Yes?” Already his voice was impatient.

  “Why?” When his stare turned blank, she swallowed and forced herself to continue. “I mean, sir, um, why did you decide to have me be your servant instead of working in your club?” Her cheeks heated. Was she really such a ninny that she couldn’t even say the word prostitute?

  A muscle in his cheek twinged. “I rarely explain myself, Miss O’Connell.”

  “Oh. Um—”

  “But even if I did have women working, as you say, in my club—which, unlike Mr. Vlas at Bear and Bull, I do not—I think you would be better suited to work for me in the capacity of a personal maid, Miss O’Connell. I trust you agree?”

  After she’d nodded, Bridget had turned and scurried out of the room. Trailing behind Mr. Vincent Hunt and his polished good looks.

  When they’d stepped outside, he’d slowed so that she could walk by his side. “Well, that’s over.”

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  Mr. Hunt had said nothing more. Only kept his hand on her elbow in a proprietary way the whole time they weaved their way through Camp Creek Alley, turned into a maze of even more back alleys, then at last veered onto a main street.

  Only when they were on Michigan Avenue and standing in the fresh air and bright light did Mr. Hunt give her an answer to her unspoken question. “Mr. Marks does this from time to time. He takes in a poor, unfortunate soul and seeks to change his or her life.”

  “He’s a benefactor.”

  Mr. Hunt had smiled, though it looked rather ironic instead of amused. “He is not that, miss. He doesn’t do a single thing without a goal in mind or a reason behind it.” Quietly he added, “And I promise you this. If you do steal, lie, or gossip, you will be back on the streets before you can say ‘Bob’s yer uncle.’ He doesn’t offer second chances. Ever. It would serve you well to commit that to memory.”