Whispers in the Reading Room by Shelley Gray Page B

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.”
    A chill had crept up her spine. “I will.”
    “I pray you will.” He frowned as he lazily scanned her too-thin figure. “Women don’t live very long when they make their living on their backs.”
    She shivered at his crude reminder of what she’d offered herself up for. But perhaps she should never forget how close she’d come to being one of the many women forced to live that way.
    “Well, he may not be a benefactor, but he certainly saved me.”
    “For now, he did.”
    “Did he save you as well, Mr. Hunt?”
    He’d looked at her then, surprise and something like a guilt-ridden sadness slipping into his expression. “No. It was too late for that.”
    And it was right then and there that she became infatuated. Oh, not with Mr. Sebastian Marks. He only inspired her fear and awe.
    But Vincent Hunt was different.
    “Bridget? Bridget!” Mabel called out, waving a meaty hand in front of her. “What’s wrong with ya? You looked like you were millions of miles away.”
    “I’m sorry. I guess I was.”
    “Well, answer my question. Why does he insist on only you seeing to his laundry? It don’t make no sense.”
    “It does. Perfectly,” she said, as she pulled out her key ring and unlocked Mr. Marks’ door. She gave a weak smile to Gwen and Mabel before waving them off.
    Only when she closed it firmly behind her and bolted both it and the extra latch, did she speak. “I do his laundry so then no one will ever know anything about him. So no one who can hurt him will ever know how much of a gentleman he actually is not. I do his laundry because I promised myself I would.”
    Taking a deep breath, she uttered her last confession. “I do his laundry and do anything he asks because he’s a better person than anyone realizes.”
    Silently, she added, And because I promised myself to never forget how it had felt to be at his mercy, to be willing to