Whispers in the Reading Room by Shelley Gray

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