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.