A Secret Surrender - Darcy Burke
Chapter 1
London, April 1819
Harry Sheffield, constable for Bow Street, opened the door of The Ardent Rose on The Strand near Drury Lane. He’d been told he would find Madame Sybila at a perfume shop in this area, and since he didn’t know of any others, this had to be the place.
A myriad of scents assailed Harry as he walked into the shop. There was definitely rose, but also other floral fragrances, as well as spice and a variety of smells he couldn’t quite identify. It was a bit like listening to a quartet warm their instruments before playing an actual song. It wasn’t terrible, but the cacophony wasn’t entirely pleasing either.
The shop was relatively small compared to its neighbors, but well-appointed. A handful or so of patrons milled about, with a pair standing at the counter speaking with a woman of middle age. A gentleman approached Harry.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” the man asked while adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles. He was also of middle age, with an average frame and a dearth of hair. He gazed at Harry with a benign expression.
“I came to see Madame Sybila.”
“This way.” The man pivoted and led Harry to the back corner of the shop and through a curtain. To the left was a corridor, and to the right, a wall. Directly across from the curtain was a door.
The gentleman rapped softly on the wood, then turned back to Harry. “She’ll be with you soon, I’m sure. I do hope you’ll browse the shop before you go.” He offered a genial smile before returning to the store past the curtain.
Harry studied the dim corridor, which appeared to lead to a staircase. Did Madame Sybila live upstairs?
The door opened to reveal a tall figure dressed entirely in black—from the heavy veil covering the woman’s face to the boots peeking out from the hem of her gown. At least, Harry assumed it was a woman. It was impossible to tell.
Except it wasn’t. The veil didn’t cover the swell of her breasts beneath the black muslin or the hint of her waist, just barely suggested by the drape of her gown.
“Good afternoon, Madame Sybila,” he greeted her.
She did not open the door wider. “You don’t have an appointment.” Her French accent was soft but impossible to miss.
“My apologies. I’d be happy to pay extra if you’re able to meet with me now.”
“I don’t see male clients.”
“I’m surprised you can see anyone through that veil,” Harry quipped. He could see the bare outline of her face, but nothing of her expression. So there was no way to gauge her reaction.
He cleared his throat. “I have the same coin as anyone else. I’d like you to tell me my future.”
A lilting laugh soared through the air between them. “I do not tell the future,” she said. “I read the cards or the palm and share what I see. What the client takes from that is up to them.”
“You make no prophetic promises, then?” He found that hard to believe. Hearing such mystic nonsense was the reason his mother had come to see the fortune-teller. While she refused to disclose what was said at their meetings, whatever Madame Sybila was peddling had drawn his mother to return several times, as well as donate to a new charity, about which Harry’s father was dubious. “How are your clients satisfied?”
“I help them look at things in a new way. It is my understanding they are quite pleased with my services.” She cocked her head to the side. “Why are you here, Mister…?”
“Sheffield.” He didn’t hesitate to give his name, doubting there was any way the fortune-teller would realize he was the son of her client, Lady Aylesbury.
Harry offered his hand, and she took it without wavering. Because hers was cloaked in a thick black glove, he had no inkling of the age of the appendage; however, her grip was strong and sure.
He repeated why he’d come. Or, more accurately, the reason he was using for his visit. “I am here to have you tell me my future.” In reality, he wanted to see what rubbish she was—successfully, apparently—selling to kindhearted, trusting women like his mother.
“As I said, I do not do that.”
He looked past her into the room. The space was small, perhaps the size of the silver closet at Aylesbury Hall, his childhood home. There was no window, but several candles illuminated the space, as well as a pair of sconces on the wall opposite the door. The flickering flames conveyed