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 an aura of mystery, or maybe even something more sinister. Her criminal behavior, perhaps.
Near the center of the room sat a small round table, covered with a dark red cloth. A deck of cards sat to one side.
He returned his gaze to her veiled face. “You won’t tell me the future?”
She shook her head gently, causing the edge of the veil to sweep against her collarbone. “I cannot. And, as I also said, I do not provide services for gentlemen.”
Harry found he was curious—not just about her business, but about her. “Why not?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I find most men are untrustworthy. Given the opportunity to meet with a woman alone, they take advantage. Forgive me if I don’t invite you in.”
Reaching into his pocket, Harry withdrew a purse with a substantial weight of coins. He jingled the lot. “Not even for a goodly sum?”
Though he couldn’t see her features, he believed she was staring him straight in the eye. “Not for twice that.”
Surprise, an emotion he rarely experienced, coursed through him. Everyone had a price. Except for Madame Sybila when it came to men. His curiosity about her grew.
He put the purse back into his coat and exhaled. “This is disappointing, Madame Sybila. I had heard your talents were unmatched.”
She scoffed, and he had the sense that she was smiling. “You are an excellent liar, Mr. Sheffield, but not quite good enough.”
Unable to deny that he was intrigued, Harry leaned against the doorframe. “Why do you say that?”
“You seemed to believe that I could tell your future and that I would help you, a gentleman. I can’t believe you spoke to any of my clientele. They would have disabused you of both of those notions.”
She was clever, he’d give her that. A smile teased his mouth. “You have caught me. I merely heard that a woman of your…abilities had taken up here in the back of the perfumery. I need to understand what my future holds, and I thought you could help me.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I am not convinced you think that’s possible.”
“Why would I come here if I didn’t believe that?”
“That is the question I would like to have answered, but I am not sure you will give me an honest response.”
Far too bloody clever. “How about if I tell you why I’ve come? Of course, I would have done so eventually, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to know before you performed your services.”
She crossed her arms over her chest in a pose of grave expectation. But she said nothing.
Harry said the first thing that came to mind. “My family wishes me to marry. I was hoping you could tell me when that might happen.”
“When, but not to whom?” She chuckled. “Most people would want to know to whom.”
“I suppose that too, but I’m more concerned with the timing.” Because the truth of the matter was that Harry’s father, the Earl of Aylesbury, had been pressing him to wed for some time now. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t want to; it was that he hadn’t met anyone who remotely interested him as a wife. But then he was far too engrossed in his work, a fact his father—and mother and sisters—pointed out at every possible opportunity.