Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  Looking even more agitated, he got to his feet but didn’t move a single inch. “You were right about one thing. Coming here was a mistake,” he snapped as he looked around her small receiving room with disdain. “Though now that I am here, I see it. You are obviously extremely far from being a suitable bride.”

  Had Mr. Marks’ warning been correct then? Jason had wanted her because he needed money? It made no sense since everyone knew his family was wealthy.

  But if he had, indeed, only proposed because he’d assumed her dowry could ease his financial straits, how very disappointed he must be.

  Almost as disappointed as herself.

  Grabbing the top hat he’d thrown carelessly on the coffee table when he’d first sat down, he said, “I will leave you with one bit of advice. Sebastian Marks is not who you think he is. He is as far from the cream of Chicago society as one of the actors in Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West show. He is from the depths of the poorest class. Keeping his company should be avoided by ladies at all costs.”

  She knew he was wrong. He had to be. She recognized the fine cut of his suits and the expensive fabrics he wore. “I am sure you are mistaken.”

  “I am not. You may never imagine that I know more about anything than you, but I can promise you, in this instance, you are sadly out of your depth. Don’t let your pride get in the way of common sense.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Of course he is,” he bit out. “Most men in Chicago know who he is and fear him.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Furthermore, most women who have the misfortune to know who he is make sure to never even meet his gaze.”

  “But—”

  “Besides,” he added darkly, “he eyes you in a peculiar way. I saw it in the lobby of the hotel. I saw it when he was staring at you from across the room.”

  “He is concerned for my welfare.”

  “No, he wants you in his life.”

  A chill inched up her spine. “We are merely friends.” Actually, they weren’t even that, no matter what she said. She didn’t have friends. The invitations received to parties and balls had no doubt been sent in deference to her father’s position and then out of pity for a widow and her daughter.

  But she did know one or two afternoon’s conversations did not a friendship make.

  “He is not looking for a friend, Lydia. At least, not the type of friend you are thinking of. And let me tell you this. If you aren’t careful, you are going to discover things about Marks that will mark you as well.”

  She imagined he used the word mark on purpose. As a play on words. It would have been mildly amusing if his words weren’t so foreboding.

  Though his warnings were scaring her, she wasn’t about to give Jason the satisfaction of seeing her afraid of him again. “You are being rather dramatic, Jason.”

  “It would only be seen as dramatic by the naïve.” He walked toward the door. “I promise you this, Lydia. If you don’t break all ties with Marks, something is going to happen. And it won’t be pleasant or easily removed. Actually, you might never recover from it.”

  Before she could ask him to explain himself, he set the hat on his head, strode to the door, and exited.

  Closing the door behind him, Lydia looked around the quiet, dim foyer.

  The artwork that used to decorate the walls was gone.

  The servants who used to keep floors swept and the furniture glistening were gone.

  She truly was alone. Responsible to secure her mother’s future yet not knowing if she would ever marry. In the dark about what was and was not true about her new friend.

  Soon, they were going to have to sell the chandelier in the dining room. After that? Her mother would be forced to give up even more of her jewelry. And how much longer could they afford even this townhouse?

  Perhaps she would be forced to investigate other avenues for employment, not that she had any idea what she could do. Be a governess perhaps?

  At the moment, all she had to trust were her treasured books and the stories inside that transported her to someplace far better.

  Too tired to contemplate her mother’s depression, her ex-fiancé’s warnings about her new friend, the bills that needed to be paid, Lydia walked quietly up the stairs to her own bedroom. She lit her kerosene lamp, then opened the top book on the table by her favorite reading chair.

  Running a hand along the leather spine, she sighed in blessed relief. At least her books hadn’t failed her.

  And for that, she took a fierce moment, closed her eyes, and gave thanks.

  CHAPTER 10

  CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

  From December 1893

  Reported by Benson Gage

  It is advised that all holiday revelers visit Camp Creek Alley at their own risk. No less than five men and one woman were attacked this past week. And this is only what has been publicly reported.

  Two raps followed by another three woke Bridget from her slumber in her bedroom, which was really little more than a rather large closet near the back stairs on the top floor of the Hartman Hotel.

  Jolting to a sitting position, she gaped at her locked door. “Who is there?”

  “Vincent,” the voice rasped. “I mean, Vincent Hunt.”

  Alarmed, she jumped out of bed and threw on her wrapper. Only an emergency would have brought Mr. Marks’ assistant to her door at this time of night. Immediately, all the worst sorts of scenarios began to dance in her head. What if some harm had befallen Mr. Marks? What if he’d been attacked and was bleeding somewhere?

  And if that was the case, if he were dead, what would become of her?

  Aware that anyone could be lurking in her hallway, she paused with her hand on the door handle. If someone discovered her standing in her nightclothes while talking to a man, they would no doubt create such an outcry that Mr. Marks would be forced to release her. “Mr. Hunt, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Pure frustration flavored each of his words. “I have no idea. Marks came to my office door barely twenty minutes ago and demanded that I bring you to him.”

  “He did?”

  “Immediately.”

  She exhaled. The relief that Mr. Marks wasn’t in danger came and went with the new knowledge that she might be. Hurriedly, she lifted the bolt on her door and opened it just enough for Vincent to see her. “You’d better come in.”

  He walked inside without a moment’s hesitation, seemed to notice her state of undress, and abruptly faced the wall. “You shouldn’t have invited me in, dressed as you are. It isn’t proper.”

  His snippy words acted like a splash of cold water. “I am aware of that,” she snapped. “I’m also aware that I shouldn’t be allowing any men inside, even ones who show up uninvited. But if we woke up the rest of the house with you talking at me through the door, I know I’d get sent away for sure. Frankly, I’m surprised you were able to get upstairs without anyone stopping you. What time is it?”

  “It’s about one. And we both know none of the bellmen and desk clerks downstairs is going to say one word about what happens in Mr. Marks’ rooms. I daresay his weekly payments keep half of them employed.”

  “You would be right about that.”

  He unbent his stalwart stance enough to glower at her over his shoulder. “You’d best get dressed. You may be right about me not loitering about in the hall. But still, it isn’t proper for me to be in your bedroom.”

  She knew. Oh, she most definitely knew. But social rules and modesty were for people who could afford such things. She was a working girl and glad to have her job. “It will be all right. We both know I’m in no danger of ruining my fine reputation. No one here is mistaking me as an impressionable young miss.”

  “You’re respectable.”

  “Of course I am. But it’s at the very far edge of respectability.” Before he could comment on that, she picked off her day dress from one of the pegs by her small desk. “Keep your back turned. I need to change.”

  “
Absolutely not. Wait until I go back outside to disrobe.”

  If Bridget hadn’t been so surprised by Vincent’s dismayed expression, she would have laughed. Honestly, she would have thought nothing could shock him after working for Mr. Marks for as long as he had. After all, women loitered outside the Silver Grotto in all forms of dress.

  “Mr. Hunt, you may not loiter in my hallway. If you left this room, you’d have to go out into the alley, and then I’d have to go out there to find you. Just stand there and give me a few seconds, if you please?”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “For goodness’ sake. You have a young daughter. You were married. I’m sure I have nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  “I’ll do as you wish, but I’m not happy about it,” he said as he stood motionless, staring at the wall. “And it’s bad form to speak of such personal things.”

  “Duly noted.” As she quickly unfastened the row of buttons down the front of her nightgown, it occurred to her to wonder why she wasn’t more nervous about changing clothes while in the same room with him. She should be uncomfortable.

  But instead of any of that, she felt completely safe.

  Was it because she knew he feared the wrath of Mr. Marks?

  Or was it because Vincent Hunt was the only man besides Mr. Marks she was coming to trust?

  “Are you almost done?”

  “I’m hurrying,” she called out as she pulled the stays on her corset as tightly as she could. “You were married,” she reminded him again. “Women’s clothes, as you know, are made up of entirely too many fussy layers.”

  He blew out an impatient burst of air. “I don’t need to hear about your garments, Miss O’Connell.”

  “It won’t take me much longer now.”

  Vincent sighed. “Never thought I’d end up doing this tonight.”

  She wondered what he thought he would be doing. Did he expect to still be working? Or had he had his own plans?

  After a pause, she secured her stockings, then pulled a chemise over her head, followed by a petticoat and a small bustle. After smoothing all the fabrics into order as best she could, she stepped into her gray dress.

  Vincent planted one hand on his waist. “Are you almost done? Please say you are.”

  “Not yet. I still have to fasten my gown.”

  “This is taking too long. One would have thought you’d be used to getting dressed more quickly, what with you being a maid and all.”

  “Usually I can move around the room. You being here takes up quite a bit of my space.”

  “I did offer to leave.”

  “I did ask you to be patient.”

  He didn’t deign to reply. Merely grunted.

  Now that her dress was on, she said, “You can look now. All I have to do is fasten my boots.”

  “Good. He’s not going to be liking us taking so long.”

  Bridget noticed he was watching as she fastened her boots. She supposed he was biting his tongue, since she was showing him her ankles and all.

  After smoothing back her hair and fashioning it into a low chignon, she grabbed her keys and coat. “I’m ready.”

  “Almost.” To her surprise, he deftly took the coat from her hands and held it for her to slip her arms in. Just like a gentleman would for a lady.

  Also to her surprise—and secret amusement—she found she still remembered how to accept a gentleman’s help. She wondered how he’d ever learned.

  She didn’t have any time to reflect on it, however, because he was already peeking out her door and gesturing with one hand to follow him.

  Five minutes later she was following him down the alleyway. She was confused. “Where are we meeting Mr. Marks?”

  “At the club, of course.”

  “Really? At this time of night?” She hoped he didn’t hear the tremors in her voice.

  “Yes. Where else? He wanted me to bring you to the Grotto as quickly as possible. Therefore, I am.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to see me so urgently?”

  Vincent frowned at her. “Of course not.”

  “He gave you no sign?” She really wanted to be prepared for the meeting.

  “No. You know how things go with Mr. Marks. He doesn’t deign to explain himself.”

  “No.” She learned some time ago he did not. Realizing that Vincent was waiting for her to finish her thought, she blurted, “I mean, of course he does not.”

  Vincent nodded. They picked up their pace, darting around the few men who were about. Most looked exhausted and were obviously coming home from late hours working at the factories, but there were a few men who seemed to only be dallying. A couple of them glanced her way with an interested expression. But when they caught sight of Vincent, with his cold eyes and large, muscular frame, they promptly skittered away.

  Just before they turned into the narrow, winding street that would eventually lead them to Camp Creek Alley, they passed under the steady glow of a burning gaslight that illuminated much of the block they were on.

  Bridget saw two men she recognized.

  One was Sergio Vlas, Mr. Marks’ competition. He owned the Bear and Bull and had approached her once or twice when she’d delivered something for Mr. Marks at the Grotto. He’d offered her both his protection and a job, apparently unafraid of any retaliation from Mr. Marks. Though he’d actually seemed kind, she would never want to work for him. Unlike her employer, Vlas made money using women.

  He was standing alone, and as if he felt her gaze resting on him, he lifted his chin, looked directly at her, and smiled. She averted her eyes. He seemed more intimidating at night than in broad daylight.

  Which brought her to notice Jason Avondale. He was standing not far from Vlas with a man she thought, though Bridget couldn’t be absolutely sure, was Mr. Galvin. She’d heard him speak to Mr. Marks once or twice outside the Hartman. She could just make out the gold pocket watch clutched in Avondale’s hand, a sapphire catch gleaming under the streetlamp’s glow. She remembered seeing him with it at the Pinter home.

  Bridget couldn’t help but wonder if he was courting his demise, holding that expensive watch in plain sight in such a place.

  Before he could catch her staring at him, Bridget averted her eyes again, choosing to focus on Vincent’s profile instead. He seemed unconcerned about any of the men she’d seen, and she supposed he was relieved she’d finally stopped asking him questions he couldn’t answer.

  Suddenly, she knew. It was perfectly clear. Now she understood why he sent Mr. Hunt to get her in the dead of night. Why he’d summoned her to the club.

  She was no longer going to be Mr. Marks’ maidservant. She was going to be asked—no, told—to do what she’d once offered but always had feared the most. Mr. Marks had changed his mind. Like Sergio Vlas, he had decided to use women for profit at the Silver Grotto.

  And somehow she had earned his disfavor, and he was sending her there.

  A slow, sick feeling knotted her stomach when she realized she had no choice about it either. She had nowhere else to go and no one to look to for help. She had to do whatever he asked. Even though the area seemed to be in the middle of a terrible crime spree, making the thought of working there all the more frightening, the consequences for refusing Mr. Marks’ directives were too dear.

  It was simply too bad that she was different than she’d been when she first shakily stood in front of Mr. Marks’ desk. Over the past two years, she’d become used to being treated with respect. She’d become used to feeling safe.

  Worse, she’d begun to have expectations.

  When she’d shown up at the Silver Grotto for the first time, she’d been traumatized by thoughts of being fired. She’d experienced the sharp tang of fear that could only come after spending a night alone on the streets of Chicago.

  She’d been willing to do almost anything to have some protection.

  But now “almost anything” brought forth more feelings of dread than hope. She had begun to feel as though she was som
eone of worth. She had begun to foolishly imagine that she was something more.

  No doubt many women in the city could have reminded her. No good ever comes to girls like her who dare to dream.

  For better or worse, they lived with the consequences of their choices every single day.

  More than ever, it seemed she was completely alone. Even Vincent Hunt did not seem to care at all about her fate.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sebastian was indulging in one of his favorite pastimes—standing on the third-floor balcony of the Grotto and watching the guests below spend money—when Vincent arrived with Bridget.

  Their arrival drew no notice. He was glad to see Bridget was wearing her plainest, darkest gray dress and that her hair was styled plainly as well. She looked drab against the Grotto’s gold walls, vivid paintings, and dark woodwork.

  He was pleased about that.

  While it wasn’t common for women to frequent the Grotto, it wasn’t unheard of either. Vincent employed several women to serve drinks and food in the gambling den. Every now and then one of the gambler’s ladybirds visited as well.

  Most of the Grotto’s customers knew better than to accost a woman on the property. The women in Sebastian’s employ were at his beck and call, not the customers’.

  Vincent, of course, drew no notice whatsoever.

  Sebastian’s assistant had on his serviceable, thick black overcoat. It was well cut and obviously expensive, being fashioned of a particularly fine wool fabric. So much so, the quality of the article of clothing was apparent even from two floors above.

  And reminded Sebastian that the insecure, fumbling man who was down on his luck when he’d entered Sebastian’s life was much changed.

  Now Vincent looked almost as well-heeled as the majority of the men who frequented the establishment. Only his rather tight expression and business-like manners gave away the fact that he came to the Grotto for business and not pleasure.