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.
T wo 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
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.
T wo 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
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