A Secret Surrender Page 8

  “How astonishing.” Harry would have wagered she’d been educated—and maybe she had been. “Was your father a vicar, perhaps?”

  “No, he was not.” When she didn’t offer any other information, Harry was disappointed. He didn’t, however, pursue the issue since it seemed to make her uncomfortable. And why wouldn’t it? She was talking to the son of a bloody earl.

  “Shall we go and speak with Mr. Winter? Assuming he’s actually there. I suspect the sign is meant to ward anyone off who might go in search of the home.”

  “That seems like a great deal of trouble just to make something look real. Unless Madame Sybila expects someone will seek to verify the home’s existence.”

  “In fact, I think she does. When I visited her last week, she correctly—and surprisingly—deduced I was from Bow Street. I think she absolutely expects someone—me, in fact—to investigate her and her fraudulent charity.” He inclined his head across the lane. “Shall we?”

  She nodded, and they crossed the street to the home. Harry lifted his hand and pounded lightly on the door. The sound of a child shrieking answered the summons, and Harry frowned. Was there a chance this was real? No, it couldn’t be.

  Footsteps preceded the door opening. A woman, her dark brown hair pulled on top of her head with wisps grazing her cheeks and neck as if the entirety simply could not be contained, looked at them warily.

  “Good afternoon,” Harry said formally. “I’m here to see Mr. Winter.”

  “Mr. Winter!” the woman shouted, her eyes never leaving Harry and Lady Gresham.

  A child darted out from behind the woman’s legs, her dark hair a wild mop above the roundest blue eyes Harry had ever seen. She stared up at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. “Who’re you?” she asked.

  The woman turned on her and snapped, “Don’t be rude.”

  The girl didn’t react, but Harry said, “There’s no need to speak to her like that. I took no offense.”

  Blanching, the woman looked to Harry with an apologetic stare. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a masculine voice filled the corridor stretching behind her.

  “Who’s there, Mrs. Winter?” A tall, dark-haired man came up behind her. He smiled broadly, his dark eyes twinkling in the light filtering into the entry from the parlor to the left of the front door. The man didn’t look like the sort who would run a home for wayward children. In fact, if his hair had been cropped a bit shorter and his clothing upgraded, Harry might have expected to see him at Brooks’s.

  “Someone to see you,” the woman said.

  Mr. Winter slid his arm around Mrs. Winter and drew her against his side. “How can I be of service?” He looked from Harry to Lady Gresham, and it seemed his smile widened even more.

  Harry felt a pang of…something. Stifling a frown, he addressed the man. “I’m Harry Sheffield from Bow Street. May I come in to speak with you?”

  “Certainly.” Mr. Winter moved away from his wife and gestured for them to enter.

  Lady Gresham took her hand from Harry’s arm, and he found he missed the contact immediately. She preceded him into the narrow house, and Harry followed her.

  “This way,” Mr. Winter said, indicating the parlor. He crooked his finger at the little girl, and she went to stand before him. Winter crouched down. “Will you go back to the sitting room until we’re finished?”

  She nodded, and Winter rose, patting her head with a “Good girl.” Her face split into a smile revealing missing front teeth, and she skipped toward the back of the house.

  Harry continued into the parlor, where Lady Gresham stood with her hands clasped near a battered settee. One of the legs didn’t match the others.

  “Pardon our intrusion,” Harry began as Mr. and Mrs. Winter came into the parlor. Winter’s gaze fell on Lady Gresham, and one of his brows arched. Yes, this man could definitely pass for an aristocrat.

  “And who is this?” Mr. Winter asked, his mouth spreading into another smile. He certainly seemed a jovial fellow.

  “My associate, Lady Gresham,” Harry said. “We came to inquire about your Home for Wayward Children. That is what you do here?”

  “We live here,” Winter said. “And yes, we take in wayward children. Don’t we, my dear?” He looked down at his wife, whose gaze held a rather blank quality. Harry would have guessed she was drunk on gin, or perhaps she’d taken opium.

  Mrs. Winter nodded. “Yes, wayward children. Those that need homes. It’s a bit like an orphanage.” She smiled expectantly at Lady Gresham.

  “How wonderful of you,” Lady Gresham said softly. “How many children do you currently have with you?” She looked to Mr. Winter.

  “Eighteen at present. That may not seem like a great number, but we can’t afford to take any more on just yet. We have to rely on the generous charity of others to support so many children. Fortunately, we have a kind benefactor, and we sometimes get donations from people in the neighborhood or the parish church.”

  This was beginning to look like a legitimate charity, or at least a home with a couple who were trying to do good. “Do you keep records of these contributions to your cause? If you don’t, you should.”

  “I do, in fact.” He went to a small desk set back in the corner of the room. Opening the drawer, he withdrew a ledger and brought it back to give to Harry. “Everything’s marked in here, going back six months or so, when we really started taking children in earnest. It started with just three—orphaned siblings—but we haven’t been able to stop.” He laughed, then put his arm around Mrs. Winter once more. She blinked, then cozied up next to him, snaking her arm around his waist.

  “I can’t have children of my own,” Mrs. Winter said, looking forlorn. Perhaps that deep sadness was the reason for the vacancy in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Lady Gresham said with considerable warmth.

  Harry opened the ledger and perused the entries. The dates did indeed start about six months prior. The handwriting was atrocious, but Harry could make out at least one name: Madame S. He looked up from the ledger at Mr. Winter. “Who is Madame S?”

  “Madame Sybila,” Winter answered cheerfully. “She’s French, but we don’t let that get in the way.” He chuckled, and Mrs. Winter laughed along with him.

  “How do you know her?” Harry asked, glancing down at the ledger, unable to make out any other names apart from Mister Th and Mrs. Cro. It was as if Winter was incapable of finishing the last word.

  He lowered his voice. “She’s a fortune-teller. Mrs. Winter here went to see her to ask about having children. It was she who gave Mrs. Winter the idea to take in a few children. She’s a kind sort, heart as big as the moon.”

  Utterly thwarted in his quest to prove this charity didn’t exist, Harry found himself a bit speechless. He frowned down at the ledger before snapping it shut and handing it back to Winter. “Do you mind showing me the house?”

  Mrs. Winter turned to her husband and looked up at him, her lips parted, her brows pitched in distress. “He’ll wake the children that are sleeping.”

  Lady Gresham touched Harry’s arm. “Is it really necessary to search the house?” she asked softly. “I realize you like to be thorough, but surely you’ve seen enough?”

  Winter whispered something to his wife, and she cast a disgruntled look toward Harry before taking herself from the parlor. “I’ve asked Mrs. Winter to fetch the children who are awake and, ah, presentable. A few of them need baths, and Mrs. Winter is adamant you don’t meet them. It’s a matter of pride for her, you understand. We do our best with just the pair of us and the lot of them.”

  “I’m sure you do a wonderful job,” Lady Gresham said.

  This was not going at all as Harry had anticipated. Was it possible Madame Sybila supported a legitimate charity and wasn’t actually stealing from the ladies whose fortunes she told? And if that part was true, was she also just a fortune-teller who made a living making wealthy ladies feel good? Was there any harm in that?

  His father w
as never going to believe it, but Harry didn’t think there was anything he could say or do that would convince him to support his mother’s desire to see Madame Sybila.

  Children began to file into the room. After several minutes, there were twelve of them of varying ages. The youngest was perhaps four and the oldest maybe ten. They looked relatively clean, and their clothing was in fair to good condition and, like them, also clean.

  “Good afternoon, children,” Harry said with a smile. He walked to the tallest of them, a girl with wheat-blonde hair and freckles on her nose. “I’m Mr. Sheffield. I am looking into your home here. You live here with Mr. and Mrs. Winter?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You’re well cared for?”

  “Aye, sir. We aren’t hungry anymore.” She looked to the girl next to her, who appeared to be a smaller version of herself. “Are we, May?”

  May shook her head. “No, sir. And we get baths!”

  Two of the boys made faces, while a third standing between them elbowed each in the side.

  Resigned, Harry turned to Mr. Winter. “Well, you seem to be exactly what you purport to be.”

  Lady Gresham came forward and pressed some coins into Mr. Winter’s hand. “Thank you for your kindness. I hope you’ll allow me to contribute to your cause.”

  “Thank you for your generosity, my lady.” He smiled at Lady Gresham with a rather charming twinkle in his eye, and he gave her hand a squeeze as he accepted the coin.

  Harry felt another pang of that something he didn’t want to identify.

  Mrs. Winter came back into the parlor then, carrying another child on her hip. The toddler had stuffed his entire fist in his mouth. Drool ran down his chin as he stared at Harry. He pulled his hand free and looked at Mrs. Winter. “Mama?”

  Harry narrowed his eyes. “I thought you didn’t have any children.”

  “We don’t,” Winter answered. “But Jacob here thinks Mrs. Winter is his mother. We don’t know where his went,” he added quietly, his eyes downcast. He reached over and ruffled the boy’s light brown hair.

  Lady Gresham curled her hand around Harry’s arm. “We won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for your time.”

  Harry walked from the parlor with her, his mind churning at this astonishing turn. Winter rushed to open the door for them, and Harry bid him good day.

  Once they were outside, he turned and frowned at the house. “Maybe they’re all paid actors.”

  Lady Gresham laughed, and he turned to look at her, his frown still in place.

  She quieted. “You’re serious.” Alarm lit her gaze. “You can’t really think that. That would cost quite a bit of money, I’d think. If this were some sort of scam, how much money could Madame Sybila really be making?”

  “You’d be surprised how cheaply people will work, and those children likely aren’t getting paid. They probably happily agreed to pretend to live there in exchange for good clean clothing, and food. And baths.”

  “You are quite cynical.” There was an edge of frost to her tone that Harry didn’t like. Or maybe he didn’t like that she was right.

  He turned with her toward the cathedral and exhaled. “I can be, yes. It’s a fault I endeavor to overcome.”

  “And if you think those boys willingly took baths, you are being disagreeable on purpose.”

  Now he laughed. “You’re right, of course—that they wouldn’t have wanted to take baths. I am not, however, trying to be disagreeable.” He glanced back at the house. “I’ll pay another visit in a week or so just to make sure today wasn’t some sort of performance.”

  “Please tell me when you do, because I’d like to send more money. I didn’t have enough with me today to give them what I’d like.”

  He looked at her as they walked through the churchyard, feeling anything but cynical about her generosity and kindheartedness. “You really do care about the less fortunate. It’s not just a fashionable thing to do.”

  “There’s your cynicism again.”

  “Perhaps, but I also know the people of the ton, and many of them care only how charity makes them look.”

  “How sad,” Lady Gresham said. “Are you terribly upset that your expectations were not met?”

  “Yes and no. Mostly no.” How could he be when it seemed children were being helped and he’d spent a lovely afternoon with Lady Gresham?

  “I admit I rather enjoyed this endeavor today,” Lady Gresham said as they left the churchyard and walked along Ludgate. “If you ever require an associate in the future, I hope you’ll think of me.”

  He looked over at her elegant profile. “I shall think of you as far more than an associate.”

  “Will you?” Her eyes met his, and Harry felt the connection deep in the pit of his belly. Did she feel the same as he did?

  In front of them, a hack was just letting someone out. “I should be on my way home,” she said, disrupting the moment between them.

  Disappointed their time was at an end, Harry hailed the driver and guided Lady Gresham to the vehicle. She gave her direction to the coachman, and Harry held the door for her as she climbed inside.

  “I’ll see you soon, Lady Gresham.”

  “I hope so.”

  Their gazes held a moment before he closed the door. His blood thrummed as the hack departed.

  Chapter 7

  Selina tossed her hat and gloves on the small console table in the entry hall and nearly collided with the housekeeper, one of the few women who were actually taller than Selina.

  “I thought I heard you come in,” Mrs. Vining said. “You’ve been gone quite a while.”

  “Yes, you have,” Beatrix said from the stairs. She was already dressed in her smartest walking outfit, ready for the park.

  “I’m sorry,” Selina said. “But I’ve had quite an extraordinary afternoon.”

  “I can see that,” Beatrix said, her brow creasing. “Let us take refreshment before you change.”

  Grateful for Beatrix’s concern—and understanding—Selina nodded.

  “I’ll bring lemonade,” Mrs. Vining offered, pivoting toward the back of the house.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Selina said. “I require something a bit stronger.”

  Mrs. Vining nodded, then took herself off.

  Beatrix came down the stairs and followed Selina into the sitting room, closing the door behind them. Selina went directly to the bottles of brandy and Madeira sitting on a square table in the corner. “Do you want anything?” Selina asked, pouring a glass of brandy.

  “I don’t wish to be left out,” Beatrix said.

  Selina poured Madeira, which Beatrix preferred, and handed her the glass. After downing half her brandy, Selina began to prowl the room as nervous anticipatory energy coursed through her.

  “You seem agitated. Did something happen?” Beatrix asked. She stood near the settee but didn’t sit, likely because she didn’t want to crease her gown. The coach ride to Hyde Park would add enough wrinkles as it was.

  “I spent the last couple of hours in the company of Mr. Sheffield.” Selina sipped her brandy. “We went to Ivy Lane.”

  “Ah, and how did Luther do?”

  “Better than I could have anticipated. I wasn’t sure his ‘wife’ was going to meet the demands at first, but she came through. They gathered an astonishing number of children, who performed as if they were on the stage,” Selina said with admiration. “I wish I had more coin to give them.”

  “Perhaps you’ll receive enough donations to do so.”

  Selina pressed her lips together. “We can barely cover all our expenses.” She saw the crease in Beatrix’s brow and sought to soothe her concerns. “Don’t worry, your Season—your goal—is happening.” She began pacing again and tossed back the rest of her brandy. Then she diverted her course and went back to the bottle in the corner. They were in danger of running out of funds, but she wouldn’t tell Beatrix. Not yet.

  “It sounds as if your afternoon went well, and yet you’re upset,” B
eatrix said. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Selina refilled her glass and turned to Beatrix. “I’d hoped to learn something about the Vicar, but despite being a Bow Street Runner, Sheffield seems no closer to finding the Vicar than I am.”

  “It’s rather difficult when no one knows what he looks like,” Beatrix said, cocking her head to the side.

  And how frustrating that was. Anytime Selina had asked someone about the Vicar, they simply ended the conversation and walked away. “I’ll find out—we’ll find out. We are formidable when we want something.”

  Beatrix chuckled. “That much is true. If we do find him, what then? Are you going to kill him on the spot? You’ve never killed anyone, Selina.” She fell quiet, and the air in the room crackled with old secrets and terrible lies. “Have you?” The question was so small that Selina might not have heard it if she hadn’t seen Beatrix’s lips move.

  Not on purpose. Selina sipped the brandy, seeking a fortitude she wasn’t sure she could ever find. The memory had faded to the corners of her mind, pushed to the side so often that she could almost convince herself it wasn’t real. Why hadn’t that happened with the other memory? That one rose in her thoughts unbidden, crippling her in odd moments, when she least expected it.

  Because in the first memory, you saved yourself, and in the second, you allowed yourself to be violated.

  “Why not let Sheffield handle him?” Beatrix asked, thankfully oblivious to Selina’s dark thoughts. “You could tell Sheffield why you want to find the Vicar. I’m sure it would only strengthen his resolve to know the blackguard killed your brother.”

  “No,” Selina said firmly. “Then I’d have to explain how my brother was even involved with that band of criminals, and that would expose us needlessly. Be smart, Beatrix.”

  The hurt in Beatrix’s gaze made Selina regret her harsh words. “It seemed you and Sheffield had established a rapport,” Beatrix said. “I thought you could perhaps tell him what you needed to without disclosing your secrets. You’re rather good at that. So good that you still keep some from me.”

  Selina felt bad, because they had established a rapport. And her current unease was as much due to her growing friendship with him as it was to her frustration over not finding the Vicar. But she didn’t want to admit that, especially when she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. “Is there something you want to tell me about an emerald necklace that belongs to Lady Aylesbury?”