A Secret Surrender - Darcy Burke Page 0,82
fortune-teller’s small closet, listening for anyone who might approach. He heard murmured conversation from the perfume shop just before he quickly opened the door and ducked inside, intent on investigating her tonics—and whatever else he could find.
His breath stalled as he stared at the empty room. Not entirely empty, because the table, chairs, and dresser were still there, but everything else was gone. There was no tablecloth, no incense, no cards.
Maybe she put those things away before she left each day. Harry went to the dresser and began opening the drawers. Most were empty, and the one that wasn’t contained just empty perfume bottles.
Swearing under his breath, Harry looked around the room, his mind spinning. His eye caught the faint outline of a door in the back corner. How had he not noticed that before? He thought back and realized there’d been a drape hanging in that corner, likely to hide the door.
Harry went and opened it, revealing a narrow—empty—closet. What had she kept in here? He stuck his head inside and caught a faint scent that was all too familiar: orange and honeysuckle. That bloody woman had worn Selina’s scent.
The door behind him opened, drawing Harry to turn.
Mrs. Kinnon gasped, her brows shooting up as she lifted her hand to her chest. “My goodness, Mr. Sheffield! I thought I heard something in here.”
“Where is Madame Sybila?”
“She’s gone to take care of a sick family member away from London. I don’t know when, or if, she’ll be back,” the shopkeeper said sadly.
She’d run. Because she was a fraud.
Pushing past Mrs. Kinnon, Harry cut through the shop and stepped out onto the pavement. He stalked along The Strand until he hailed a hack—he was in far too much of a hurry to walk to Cheapside.
His blood thrummed as the hack carried him toward St. Paul’s, moving far too slowly. He hoped he was wrong and that Madame Sybila truly had left town to care for someone. But instinct told him he was not.
At last, the hack arrived at Ivy Lane. Harry paid the driver and turned to look at the Home for Wayward Children. The misspelled sign was gone from the window.
With leaden feet, Harry went to the door and knocked loudly. He was surprised when someone answered. It wasn’t Mr. or Mrs. Winter or a child. Instead, an older man with a balding pate and a substantial girth greeted him.
“May I help you?” he asked pleasantly.
“This was a Home for Wayward Children last week. Where are the Winters?”
“Oh, they moved on. Said they had too many children for my house.”
“Where did they go?” Harry asked, anger curdling in his gut.
The man shrugged. “I didn’t ask. Not my concern, though I am sorry to lose their rent.”
Harry felt as though he might explode. “You must know that this home they were running for children was a fraud.”
The man blinked and acted as though he was surprised to hear it, but Harry knew better. “Was it?”
“I work for Bow Street. Perhaps you would like to come to the Magistrates’ Court to answer questions.” Seeing the man blanch, Harry pressed his advantage. “Or you could answer my questions here.”
“I swear I didn’t know it was a fraud,” the man said, his voice climbing. “A friend asked me to do a favor.”
Harry clenched his jaw. “What friend?”
“Josie—we go way back.”
“Where can I find Josie?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know. She used to live in Whitechapel, but she doesn’t anymore. Not for a long time.”
Dammit! “If you think of where she might be or where the Winters might have gone, you will come to Bow Street and tell me.”
“Please, sir, I’ve told you all I know.”
“They preyed on innocent people, lying to them and stealing their money.” That they’d used the plight of children to run their scam made Harry sick.
The man looked stricken. “I swear I didn’t know. I thought they were helping those children in earnest. Were they not?”
There was no way the fortune-teller had left town and the Winters had decided to move on at the same time. Harry didn’t believe in such coincidence.
He pulled his small notebook from his coat. “Tell me your name and everything else you know about the Winters and your friend Josie.”
A short time later, Harry climbed into another hack, his anger mounting. Innes, the man who owned the house on Ivy Lane, hadn’t given him much to go on. He could only remember Josie’s name from when they were young—before she was married. Since