A Secret Surrender Read online

  “Do you help keep the gentlemen away?” Harry asked this given her behavior and despite the fact that her husband had taken Harry to see the fortune-teller on his last visit. Perhaps that incident had prompted Madame Sybila to ask the proprietors to decline gentlemen access.

  One of her silver brows arched. “You, sir, are the only gentleman who has come to see her.”

  A woman bustled through the curtain from the back corner into the shop. Harry recognized her immediately. Just as she did him.

  “Mr. Sheffield?” She was another of his mother’s friends. Harry had known her for years.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Mapleton-Lowther.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she glanced about the shop before settling on him. “I wonder whom you might be buying perfume for.” She smiled expectantly, as if she’d asked a question she wanted him to answer.

  “Just browsing,” he said with the same mild smile he’d given the shopkeeper earlier.

  “I shall have to tell your mother I saw you here.” Of course she would. Dammit. He couldn’t say he was here to see Madame Sybila, so the assumption was that he was here buying perfume. For whom? None of his sisters, nor his mother, had a birthday coming up soon. Hell and the devil.

  “I shall do the same,” Harry said, cursing his luck. This would only add fuel to the fire of his family’s matchmaking endeavors. Rachel in particular would nag him incessantly about why he was here. “Good to see you, Mrs. Mapleton-Lowther.”

  “And you, Mr. Sheffield.” She smiled again, then left the shop, standing just outside the door as her groom approached, carrying an umbrella.

  Harry turned to the shopkeeper. “Mrs.?”

  “Kinnon,” she provided.

  “Mrs. Kinnon, I assume you sell fragrances for gentlemen?”

  “We do.”

  “Will you package a bottle for me, and I will purchase it before I go?” Harry didn’t want to miss any of his five minutes with Madame Sybila.

  “Certainly. What scent do you prefer?”

  He hadn’t the faintest bloody idea, nor did he care. “I trust you to select something appropriate. Better yet, make it soap.”

  Her silver brow arched again. “You can find your way to Madame Sybila?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Moving swiftly, Harry took himself behind the curtain and saw that the fortune-teller’s door was ajar. He rapped his knuckles on the wood before pushing it wider.

  “Come in,” Madame Sybila said in her warm French accent.

  Harry stepped inside and saw that she was still seated at her table. She finished shuffling the cards and set them to one side.

  “You’ve returned,” she said. “I have only a few minutes to spare as I am expecting another client shortly. How can I help you today, Mr. Sheffield?”

  “You still won’t read for me, I presume?”

  She hesitated the barest moment, and Harry wondered if she would. More than that, he wondered if he wanted her to. He found himself wanting to ask if there was anything between him and Lady Gresham to which he could look forward.

  Preposterous.

  “No,” she said, effectively shutting down his folly, thank goodness.

  Harry exhaled. Why had he even asked? Because if she’d said yes, he would have done it—not because he believed she’d tell him anything of value or import, but in the hope of learning something about her and the “services” she provided. Yes, that was the only reason.

  “I had to ask.” He looked around her small room. Besides a round table with two chairs, one of which she occupied, there was a narrow dresser in the corner. A high, rectangular window was cloaked with a white, mostly opaque drape. Candles burned on the dresser and on the table. A dark curtain hung against the back wall. The atmosphere carried a hint of mystery and serenity. Why serenity? He attributed it to the scent in the room—a fresh, outdoor smell. He looked toward the dresser again and realized in addition to the two candles, incense was burning.

  “Did you just come to look?” she asked, reminding him that his time was short.

  He cleared his throat and fixed on her dark veil, wishing he could see beneath the covering. “No. I came to say I think I may have been wrong about you, Madame Sybila. I visited Mr. Winter’s home—the charity you have been encouraging others to support.”

  He stepped closer to the table and pulled the chair back. He hadn’t meant to sit since she was only giving him a few minutes, but he found he couldn’t resist being on her level. Sometimes that encouraged people to relax rather than see him as an authority figure, and when they relaxed, they were inclined to be more forthcoming. He lowered himself to the chair.

  “You heard of Mr. Winter’s home?”

  He imagined she was staring at him. What did she think of him learning this information and ensuring it was true? He hated that bloody veil that hid so much from him. “I did. It was exactly as described to me—a home for wayward children, some of whom I met.”

  “And were you impressed, Mr. Sheffield?” she sounded as if she genuinely wanted to know.

  “I was…satisfied.” Impressed was not the word. Because he still wasn’t entirely certain he believed it. Perhaps after his mother visited, he would feel differently. That would be quite an endeavor to set up such an elaborate fraud. Madame Sybila needed people to accomplish such a feat—and funds to pay them, probably. Or perhaps she had a network of supporters. Criminals often worked together if it benefited them to do so. Which took him back to funds. How profitable was fortune-telling?

  “Well, that is something,” she said, and he heard a hint of amusement in her tone.

  “How did you come to support Mr. Winter’s home?”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “Before I moved here to The Ardent Rose, I had a room near Cornhill. Mrs. Winter came to see me. She can’t have children and hoped I could help her.”

  “With one of your tonics, maybe?” Harry was glad for the opportunity to ask about them.

  “No,” she said coolly. “I don’t offer such things. She wanted to know if the future held children for her. The cards said yes, and I suggested she help some of the lost children in the neighborhood.”

  “Lost children?”

  “Those without parents or a means to support themselves. Those who, without love and kindness, would be forced along a path that could end prematurely. As a lost child myself, I understand their plight and do what I can to help.”

  A lost child who now told fortunes. Perhaps because she had no other way in life. It was certainly better than the choices many girls were forced to make if they had no family and no means. Harry couldn’t help but think of Mercy. Yes, he could understand the fortune-teller’s desire to provide support. If they were, in fact, doing as they purported. Which it seemed they were.

  Still, Harry would investigate every piece, just as he’d told Selina he would. “Where was your room near Cornhill?”

  “Finch Lane, but if your plan is to go and find my landlord, he’ll pretend I never lived there. When he found out what I do, he insisted I leave.”

  That was bloody convenient. Harry would still poke around the neighborhood and see what he could learn. “Surely you realize your profession is questionable.”

  “Your repeated presence here supports that, yes.” She sounded beleaguered.

  “Forgive me, Madame Sybila, but in my experience, women like you are frauds at best and criminals at worst. I’m trying to determine which one you are.”

  “There is no room in your estimation for an honest woman simply trying to make her way? Or is prostitution the only acceptable choice for lost children like me?”

  He heard the edge of a taunt in her voice and gritted his teeth. “Of course it isn’t. If Mr. Winter is what he purports to be and you are earnestly supporting him, I would be delighted. But I will make sure that’s what is happening.” He leaned forward and could have sworn he smelled that orange-honeysuckle scent again, but it had to have lingered with him from before. Because Selina was ever present in
his mind, even when he was bloody working.

  Refocusing, he tried to see through the thick black veil, but couldn’t. “If I find you are fleecing my mother or her friends, such as Mrs. Mapleton-Lowther, I’ll make sure you’re prosecuted and imprisoned.”

  “I happen to like your mother—and her friends. Your mother is particularly devoted to your happiness. I hope you realize and appreciate that. Family should never be taken for granted.” Her words carved into him. Did he do that? She continued, “I provide a service to them that they desire. It is not harmful. On the contrary, I think it helps them in some way, and I am glad to do so.”

  Harry sat back in the chair, frustration roiling inside him. “Helps them how?”

  “You’d have to ask them, and you should. Perhaps then you’ll understand.” Now she leaned forward, and he had the sense she was as agitated as he was. “And stop meddling in their affairs.”

  Meddling? He stood. It was time for authority. “I’m conducting an investigation, Madame Sybila, and I would appreciate your full cooperation. Where do you live now?”

  She tipped her head back to look up at him. “I don’t think I need to tell you that,” she said softly. “For my personal safety, you understand.”

  She was afraid of him? He didn’t believe that for a moment. For some reason, he believed Madame Sybila was quite capable of taking care of herself. She’d survived this long. How long was that exactly? “How old are you, Madame Sybila?”

  “Old enough to know I won’t be intimidated by you, Mr. Sheffield.” She picked up the cards and turned three over in quick succession. She gestured to the first one “The Hermit—this is you. It means you are contemplative and you seek truth, excellent traits for a man of investigation. However, this card is reversed.” It was upside-down from his perspective, while the other two cards were not. “So instead, this means you are lonely, isolated.” She looked up at him.

  His entire body had tensed when she’d turned the cards over. He wanted to argue that wasn’t true, but he couldn’t. Because it was, at least partly.

  “This card is me.” She lightly touched the one in the center. “The Queen of Swords represents perception and a clear mind.” Harry bit back a retort. She could tell him these cards meant anything she wanted him to think. How would he know?

  “And this card, the Five of Wands, is conflict.” She pushed it to the center of the table. “This is us. Shall I turn over a fourth card to see how this resolves?”

  “No, thank you. Things will resolve exactly as they must—with the truth.” From the position of her head, he believed she was staring at him, just as he was at her. “One day, I’d like to see you without your veil.”

  “That will never happen, Mr. Sheffield.”

  Her arrogance frustrated him. He gripped the back of the chair and pushed it into the table. Their five minutes had passed some time ago. “Until next time, Madame Sybila.”

  “Until then, Mr. Sheffield.” She picked up two of the cards, but left the Hermit. “Maybe then you will have stepped outside yourself, and I will draw a different card.”

  Harry spun on his heel and left without a word. He was not a goddamned hermit.

  “Mr. Sheffield?” Mrs. Kinnon startled him as he headed toward the door.

  Hell, he’d forgotten about the perfume. And paying Madame Sybila for her time. He went to the counter and made the transaction for the perfume, then gave extra money to Mrs. Kinnon. “Give this to the fortune-teller.”

  Tucking the small package into his pocket, Harry turned and strode out into the gray day. The rain had stopped, but he would catch a hack anyway.

  Now, he could go where he truly wanted. But given the interview he’d just had, he wasn’t sure he should, not in his agitated state.

  The fortune-teller was wrong. He’d already stepped outside himself. He wasn’t isolated. And he’d bloody well prove it.

  * * *

  After paying the hack driver, Harry contemplated the house before him. Situated on Queen Anne Street, not far from the intersection with Portland Street, the residence was narrow, with three stories above ground. Small but neat, with three steps leading up to the front door, it was unassuming. Perhaps less than what one might expect of a baronet’s widow. Rachel had informed Harry that Selina’s deceased husband had been Sir Barnabus Gresham from some small town in northern England.

  The distance from London invited many questions. Was she originally from there? Her accent didn’t support that. So where was she from, then? And how had she found herself in northern England, married to a baronet?

  Harry wanted to know the answers to all that and so much more. Frustration from his appointment with Madame Sybila still rattled through him. He strove to push it away as he walked to the front door and rapped loudly on the wood.

  After a long moment, a tall, thin woman with blonde hair and pale blue eyes that made him shiver answered the door. Harry couldn’t quite discern her age—older than him, but not old enough to be his mother.

  He gave her the best smile he could muster, considering his earlier agitation. “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Lady Gresham.”

  “She’s not here.” The woman started to close the door, but Harry put his hand on the wood.

  “Do you know when she’ll return?”

  “Mrs. Vining, who’s there?” a voice called from inside, which Harry recognized as belonging to Miss Whitford.

  “It’s Harry Sheffield,” he called past the woman, who was perhaps the housekeeper. Did they not have a butler?

  Miss Whitford appeared behind the tall, thin woman. “Let him in, Mrs. Vining.” She gave Harry a welcoming smile. “Selina isn’t here, but she should be home soon if you’d care to wait.”

  “I would, thank you.”

  Harry stepped into the small entry hall and took off his hat. The housekeeper gave him a bland stare, and Harry wondered if she was perhaps new to the position. Given the size of the house, he supposed a butler wasn’t necessary. However, this housekeeper didn’t seem to be up to the task either. At least she didn’t exhibit the manner one might expect. Another thought occurred to Harry—what if a housekeeper who was somewhat lacking was all Lady Gresham could afford?

  “Mrs. Vining, please bring refreshments to the sitting room.” Miss Whitford looked to Harry before turning and walking past the narrow staircase to a room at the back of the house. He knew to follow.

  The sitting room, like the rest of the house, was small. The furnishings were tidy but not extravagant, and there was little in the way of décor—a mirror over the fireplace and a wooden box with a carved lid that sat on the mantelpiece.

  Miss Whitford sat in a simple chair with a deep-green-cushioned seat. “Will you sit, Mr. Sheffield?” She indicated the settee.

  Harry situated himself, setting his hat down beside him, and a bare moment later, Mrs. Vining entered with a tray. She set it on a table next to Miss Whitford’s chair. There were three glasses of some liquid and a plate of biscuits. He removed his gloves in anticipation of partaking and put them atop his hat.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Vining, that will be all.” Miss Whitford picked up one of the glasses and handed it to Harry. “Lemonade?”

  He didn’t particularly want any, but he also didn’t wish to be rude. “Thank you.” He took the glass and held on to it. “Where is Lady Gresham?”

  “She had an errand to run, but I expect her back shortly.” Picking up a biscuit, Miss Whitford took a nibble as she contemplated Harry. Harry sipped his lemonade and nearly spit it out. It was the worst lemonade he’d ever tasted.

  “What brings you here, Mr. Sheffield? I wasn’t aware you knew where we lived. But I suppose you would since your parents know our direction.”

  “Just so,” he said, transferring the lemonade to his other hand when he really wanted to toss it into the hearth. “I came to invite Lady Gresham—and you, of course—to Spring Hollow. It’s a pleasure garden in Clerkenwell.”

  “Why are you inviting her? And when? I
mean, will we go in the afternoon or in the evening?”

  “I thought the evening so we could see the fireworks. And I’m inviting both of you. Because I’d like to help you see London.”

  Miss Whitford narrowed her eyes slightly, and they took on a sheen of steel, making her look older than Harry had thought her to be. “You came to invite Selina and are including me because you must. I am not a fool, Mr. Sheffield. You like my sister.”

  Hell, if his family was frightening in their desire to match Harry, Selina’s was equally so in her desire to… investigate. Harry knew that when he saw it. But was she hoping for a match as his sisters were?

  “I do,” he said cautiously. “I also like you.”

  “It would probably be better if one of your sisters and her husband came along—for appearances. Perhaps Rachel and her husband wouldn’t mind joining us?”

  Bloody hell. If Rachel came along, her efforts to push Harry and Selina together would be doubled. At least. And Harry didn’t need her. He wanted Selina.

  On the other hand, if Rachel and Nathaniel were to come, Harry could find himself alone with Selina—they could chaperone Miss Whitford. Which meant…

  Harry looked sharply at Miss Whitford. “It seems Lady Gresham’s family is as keen to play matchmaker as mine.” He laughed softly and nearly took another sip of lemonade before recalling it tasted like the Thames.

  The steel returned to Miss Whitford’s gaze along with a chill. “My sister isn’t looking for a match, and I certainly wouldn’t presume to know her mind better than she. You would do well to remember that, Mr. Sheffield.” She finished her biscuit while continuing to pin him with her unsettling stare.

  Harry received her message clearly—not only was Selina not interested in marriage, her sister would defend her in whatever way necessary. He inclined his head and reached for a biscuit, then thought better of it, returning his hand to his side.

  Footsteps drew Harry to turn his head toward the doorway. Selina stepped inside, a vision of smart loveliness in a bold yellow walking dress trimmed in black and red.