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?”