Whispers in the Reading Room (4 page)

“No. Of course not.”

“You will be too busy for books anyway, lamb. I intend for us to start our family right away.”

Thinking just how he intended to start that family made her blush. And, well, feel a little troubled.

Afraid that anything she had to say about her job would convey her disappointment, Lydia took another sip of tea. Then she glanced her patron’s way, just to see if he was still there.

And he was. He was also still staring at them.

Embarrassed that she was caught, she directed her attention back to the beautiful trays of food. And truly wished Jason would develop an appetite.

Immediately.

But instead of even once glancing at a trio of tiny meat pies, Jason continued to stare at her. “You still seem uneasy. Who is here that you know?”

Lydia elected not to tell Jason about her mystery patron. She liked to think he didn’t want anyone to know he frequented her lending library. Some of her patrons were like that; they liked the anonymity of the quiet reading room. It was up to her to make sure they were granted such wishes.

She also secretly liked having this man to herself—even if she had no idea why he was glaring at them. It made her smile, liking the idea that she had a secret friend in the lobby, albeit he wasn’t exactly a friend. And even though she shouldn’t be thinking about him at all.

She needed to concentrate on her fiancé, the man who was going to help her mother return to her place in society. Surely if the other man knew Jason, he would have come to greet them by now.

She looked toward a rather haughty woman dressed in black
taffeta and with a bombastic hat adorned with purple feathers perched on her head. “That lady over there.”

The lines around Jason’s eyes eased. “Ah. Yes, I can see her visiting your library. Without a doubt.”

She giggled. “What a thing to say. You’ve never stepped foot in there.”

“I imagine I might . . . on your last day,” he teased. He met her eyes briefly before looking beyond her. Then with a sharp intake of air, he stiffened.

Lydia turned to look at what—or who—had brought forth this change. But somehow she knew even before she looked. Jason and her patron stared at each other across the room in what could only be described as a contest of wills!

And then, to her shock and further discomfort, her patron turned his head slightly toward her and raised his eyebrows in a decidedly sardonic way.

She gasped. Jason turned back to her. “You know him.”

Those three words were clipped and pointed, making her feel slightly afraid, though she wasn’t sure why. “Of whom are you speaking?”

“Sebastian Marks.”

“I’ve never heard of him.” Thank goodness she was able to speak truthfully. Though, she did think his name had a decidedly beautiful cadence to it. Fitting.

“Are you certain? Look closer, lamb.” Now the endearment rang false. It sounded degrading. “He is the man leaning against the wall in the black suit.”

She forced herself to look in that direction again, and her patron’s eyebrows rose in obvious amusement.

Feeling her cheeks heat, she whipped her head back to her fiancé.

Jason leaned closer, reached for her arm, and clamped down on
her wrist. “Do you recognize him now? Because he certainly seems to know you, Lydia. He is, after all, staring directly at you.”

She forced herself to keep her tone light. “I’m sure you are imagining things.”

“No. I am not.” His grip tightened. “How do you know him, Lydia? Are you playing me for a fool?”

She winced in pain. “Jason! Release my wrist.”

“Why is he here? Did you ask him to meet you here?” His voice lowered as his nails dug through her glove and into her skin. “Do you have plans together? Have you met here before?”

Jason’s words were scandalous, filled with ugly insinuation. And though she’d been evading the truth, she was becoming too frightened to reveal her connection to this man now. She jerked her wrist again. “Jason, I beg of you. Please—”

“Not one more word unless you tell me the truth.”

“Please loosen your grip. You are hurting me.”

He lowered his voice as his grip tightened. “If you do feel pain, it is no less than you deserve.”

She now feared all of the blood supply to her hand was being cut off. “I have done nothing to deserve this.”

“Tell me. Now.”

Her wrist was throbbing. Cold sweat formed on her brow. “Jason, please.”

His gaze remained as hard as his hold on her wrist. “You’re keeping something from me. I won’t have that.”

Just as a fresh wave of panic began to roll forward, she blurted, “Perhaps he is looking at me only because I am sitting by your side? You seem to know him better than I.”

“Don’t take me for a fool.”

“I don’t.” Sparks of pain ran along her arm. Soon she would not
be able to prevent tears from running down her cheeks. “Jason, people are watching.”

However, it was doubtful that he heard her. He seemed to only be concerned with her patron’s approach.

And her patron, Mr. Marks, was winding his way through the maze of chairs and tables with such a look of fury that Lydia feared the man was in danger of harming anyone in his path.

As he drew closer, Jason lurched to his feet, taking her with him since he was still clutching her wrist. She gasped as he pulled her in such a way she feared her wrist might break.

“Jason, please!”

At last, Jason released her. Waves of dizziness coursed through her as she attempted to right herself.

He stepped back, the clumsy movement shaking his chair and, consequently, the table. The cups and saucers clattered with the motion.

Crying out in alarm, she leaned down, attempting to still the fine china, but her shaking hands proved ineffectual. She’d hardly touched the teapot before it toppled.

Sinking into her chair, she watched in horrified dismay as the beautiful china piece fell to its side. “Oh!” she exclaimed, rather unnecessarily, all things considered.

Hot tea spilled out, some of it splashing onto her hands and arm. Startled by what had happened as much as her pain, she cried out.

“Silence,” Jason said, hissing.

The tears that had formed earlier now fell, though she wasn’t even sure what was more painful—the burn, the bruises, or her fiancé’s terrible glare.

But before Lydia knew what she was about, she was pulled up into someone’s arms. She landed in his warm embrace with a desperate
umph
.

She was confused and hurting. Feeling off-kilter and terribly frightened. And for a few seconds, the only thing she was aware of was the fact that no one was yelling at her, glaring at her, bruising her wrist, or causing hot tea to splash on her person.

Suddenly, all she felt was calm and secure. And that was such a welcome change, so very, very needed, that she did the unthinkable. She looked up at her rescuer in wonder.

“Easy now,” a deep voice whispered into her neck as one of his arms carefully supported her while the other gently patted her back. “Everything is all right now, Lydia.”

Nothing was all right. Her patron was holding her too close, too secure, and far too intimately. Her circumstances had certainly not just gotten better.

“You,” she said in wonder. Even though what was happening made no sense.

L
ydia stared into his eyes, eyes that she’d only viewed from a distance but now was startled to see were not brown but a dark blue.

They were focused directly on her. As if there were not another person in the room.

“Me,” he replied at last. His voice was thick, hoarse. “Don’t worry, Miss Bancroft. I won’t hurt you.”

Instinctively, she believed him. For too long—ever since her father had passed away—she’d felt as if she’d been cast adrift. She’d been lonely and anxious, burdened by the knowledge that she had to obtain a wealthy husband to save her mother.

She’d been stumbling and fumbling through society’s parties and events. For someone who had only felt comfortable within the pages of her books, she’d felt as lost as one of the German immigrants in the city.

But then she remembered where she was. She pulled away. “Please forgive me.”

Her patron—Mr. Marks—released her without a moment’s resistance. When she was free of his embrace, he guided her to another table a few feet from where she’d been sitting with Jason.

“Miss Bancroft, take this chair before you fall down.” After he helped her sit, he pulled over the chair to her right and sat down as well.

Ignoring Jason, who was standing just a few feet away and breathing heavily, Mr. Marks reached for the arm whose wrist Jason had gripped so tightly. “We need to remove this glove immediately. Hot tea splashed on both of your hands, but I think the majority went on your right.” His expression was hard as he gestured to one of the attendants now hovering around them. “Bridget, go fetch me a bowl of cool water and some fresh linens.”

“Of course, Mr. Marks.”

Lydia couldn’t help herself. She remained half frozen, staring at this man who had come to her rescue and now seemed in no hurry to leave her side.

She was confused by his words and actions—after all, he’d spent the majority of the past year never saying as much as good afternoon to her. She stared at him instead of beginning the laborious task of unbuttoning her glove.

But rather than becoming impatient, he merely paused, his hand resting in midair. “Let me help you.” As if her bones were as fragile as a bird’s, he gently turned her hand over and began deftly unbuttoning her glove. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured, so low she wondered if she’d even imagined his words.

“Lydia,” Jason blurted. “Come here. We are leaving.”

With a jerk, Lydia looked up at her fiancé, who had stepped closer. He was now looming over her like a circling bird of prey.

Had she really forgotten Jason for a brief moment?

She inhaled, waiting to feel a rush of shame, wanting to feel as if she had a choice in the matter. But instead, only resignation coursed through her. Her mother needed this match. She had no choice. “Yes, Jason.”

“I think not,” Mr. Marks replied, stilling her movements. He didn’t clutch her hand. Instead, he allowed it to rest on the table, but his presence was so powerful she felt caught in his embrace all over again.

“She is no concern of yours, Marks,” Jason said through clenched teeth.

The man at her side turned to coolly stare up at him.

“I believe otherwise. It is obvious Miss Bancroft needs immediate attention.”

“If she is actually injured, I will see to her needs. Help will not come from you.” With a look of distaste, Jason added, “Never speak to her again.”

“Or what? What will you do to me?” Mr. Marks’ eyes fairly glittered. Why, he looked almost eager for a fight!

Fire lit Jason’s gaze, but he said nothing as Mr. Marks turned his attention back to her glove.

And in that moment Lydia realized it was not hatred—jealous or otherwise—Jason felt toward Mr. Marks. It was fear.

“You may leave,” her patron said to Jason, without even once glancing his way. “I will see her home.”

Jason straightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. “Lydia, it is plain to see that you
do
know this man. You have been lying to me.” Lydia’s wrist was still throbbing, now from the burns as well as Jason’s harsh grip. The rest of her felt numb and at a loss, and she didn’t know what was happening between these two men.

Gazing at her patron, she shook her head. “No. I told you the truth, Jason. I have seen him before, but we have never actually met. We have never even spoken. I never knew his name.”

“That means nothing. You have been playing me.”

She felt Mr. Marks’ body tighten beside her. “Avondale, I must ask that you desist with this tirade.”

“Lydia, do as I say. Now,” Jason barked.

Lydia knew she should stand up. She should follow Jason wherever he went. But if she did, he could hurt her again.

“Remain seated, Miss Bancroft. I will see to your injuries and then have someone escort you home. No harm will come to you.”

It seemed as if her body knew something her mind hadn’t yet grasped. She would be safe with him. She wouldn’t be hurt. And so before she could think of what consequences her words would bring, she made her decision. It was rash. It would not be without consequences. But she could no more go to Jason’s side than sprout wings and fly.

Looking her patron directly in the eye, she nodded. “All right.”

“If you remain by his side, I will withdraw my suit,” Jason warned.

“I understand.” She would survive her mother’s displeasure somehow.

Pure venom entered Jason’s face. “No, I am quite sure you do not.” He turned away, leaving her feeling as if her whole world had just turned upside down. Yet, for some reason, she’d had no earthly will to try to right it.

“Give me your hand once more, Miss Bancroft,” Mr. Marks said.

Her mouth dry, she did as he asked. Then silently watched as he undressed her arm, deftly loosening the long row of buttons on her glove, one by one.

Feeling, as he did, that she was not only relinquishing herself to his aid but that she was allowing her whole life to change.

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. But for the first time in memory, she didn’t care.

Not one bit.

CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

From October 1893

Reported by Benson Gage

Though many miraculous inventions have illuminated both our White City and Prairie Avenue, the streets surrounding Camp Creek Alley remain virtually the same. Few homes have plumbing, the streets are still filled with refuse, and the newfangled elevated train runs nowhere near the area. All this means that once a person discovers this place, virtually anything can happen, and it often does.

S
ebastian Marks had quite a bit of practice removing select items of women’s clothing. He’d even helped ladies remove their gloves a time or two.

But nothing in his experience had prepared him for what he was doing at the moment. His librarian was staring at him through lopsided spectacles, holding herself so still that he feared the slightest movement could threaten to break her in two.