by Burke, Darcy
A Secret Surrender
Darcy Burke
For Linda and Toni,
quite simply because they are awesome
Contents
A Secret Surrender
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Also by Darcy Burke
About the Author
A Secret Surrender
The Pretenders
Set in the world of The Untouchables, indulge in the saga of a trio of siblings who excel at being something they’re not. Can a dauntless Bow Street Runner, a devastated viscount, and a disillusioned Society miss unravel their secrets?
A Secret Surrender
A survivor of the mean streets of London’s East End, Selina Blackwell has learned to be a chameleon, and in her current iteration as a fortune-teller, she’s able to provide a Season for her sister. Only, Madame Sybila can’t be a chaperone, so Selina takes on another identity as the proper Lady Gresham. But when a Bow Street Runner takes too much of an interest in her business, it seems the crimes of her past will finally come to light.
Determined to prove that Madame Sybila is a fraud bent on fleecing London’s elite, Harry Sheffield enlists the help of the alluring Lady Gresham in exchange for introducing her to Society’s best. With his busy career and aspirations for the future, Harry has no time for marriage, but an affair is just right—until he discovers the lady’s disarming secret. Whatever his feelings for her, he can’t ignore who she is and who she’s been. And when she holds the key to the one case he couldn’t solve, he must choose justice or love.
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A Secret Surrender
Copyright © 2020 Darcy Burke
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781944576868
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Book design: © Darcy Burke.
Book Cover Design © The Midnight Muse.
Cover image © Period Images.
Darcy Burke Font Design © Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Editing: Linda Ingmanson.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
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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 smal
l, 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.
“I see. But I cannot help you.”
“So you’ve said.” He infused his tone with disappointment. “Is there nothing that will change your mind?”
“No, and anyway, I can’t tell you what you wish to know. All I can do is look at your palm and reveal what I see. The same with the cards.”
“I would accept that,” he said, fixing her with a stare. He wanted to see what she could do, how she’d twisted this occupation into something that had captured the attention of women who ought to know better than to trust someone like her. Women like his mother.
“A pity I am not offering that,” she said, putting her hand on the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my next appointment will be here shortly.”
“Do you lift your veil when you see a client?” he asked, wondering if he should disguise himself as a woman and return. He was suddenly desperate to see her face. Was she young, old, somewhere in between? Not too old. Her voice hadn’t yet weathered with age.
“I do not.”
“That’s a shame.” Harry accepted that he’d learned all he could today. He’d have to find a way for someone—a woman—to visit her and report back to him on precisely what Madame Sybila did. In addition to reading fortunes, she was rumored to sell tonics for a variety of purposes, though he didn’t think his mother had purchased any. If she had, he would have investigated it already.
Whether tonics or false futures, Harry had no doubt everything Madame Sybila did was fraudulent. Women like her would be better served on the stage, performing their act for precisely what it was meant to be—entertainment. Instead, she preyed on the innocent and easily charmed, giving them false hope and impossible dreams, perhaps even causing them to lose things that were very dear to them. His mother hadn’t lost a great deal yet, just whatever sum she’d paid for the fortune-teller’s “services” and perhaps a donation to the mysterious charity. Father had asked her to reconsider this “hobby,” and when she’d refused, he’d asked Harry to look into Madame Sybila.
“I’m afraid you must go,” she urged, closing the door.
He stuck his boot next to the jamb to halt her progress. “I’m sorry you couldn’t help me. I may come again—in the hope that you will change your mind.”
“I would expect nothing less.” From the sound of her voice, he was certain she was smiling. “Besides, Bow Street isn’t far.”
Once again, he felt a jolt of surprise, this one even stronger than the last. He didn’t bother prevaricating. “How did you know?”
She shrugged, stirring the veil gently against her neck and shoulders.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, then smiled as he withdrew his foot from the threshold. “Maybe you do have certain…abilities. I will consider it my misfortune that you weren’t able to help me.”
“Good day, Mr. Sheffield.” She closed the door in his face, just as he stepped back.
Disappointment curled through him, and not because he hadn’t found evidence of a crime. Madame Sybila had surprised him. Twice. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected, and that was a bloody feat.
Turning, he pushed through the curtain and went back into the shop. As a courtesy, he browsed the perfumes before nodding toward the gentleman who’d showed him back to Madame Sybila.
Harry departed the shop and stepped into the overcast afternoon. Turning to the right, he made his way back to Bow Street, pausing a few times to converse with acquaintances. As a constable, he knew many people of all walks of life. It was one of the things he liked best about his job.
How had the fortune-teller bloody known he worked for Bow Street? He went back over what he’d said. Perhaps he should not have asked how her clients could be satisfied without having their future read. However, that could also have simply been interpreted as his disappointment. Which had been real.
Ah well, he’d find another way to get to the heart of her business. And he was quite looking forward to it. There was a shocking air of integrity about Madame Sybila. Oh, he still believed she was a fraud, but perhaps she truly thought she was helping people. The fact that she’d refused his considerable sum—double what he’d offered, even—was positively fascinating.
Did money not drive her? If not, was it possible she wasn’t a fraud?
Harry didn’t go to the magistrates’ court at number four. Instead, he went across the street to the Brown Bear. As soon as he entered, he was greeted by numerous people, a few of whom were fellow constables. He paused to exchange pleasantries before making his way to a table near the wide front window where two other constables were seated. Harry called out a greeting before sliding int
o an empty chair.
“What news, Sheff?” John Remington asked before taking a drink of ale. A decade or so older than Harry’s thirty-one years, Remy was, in Harry’s opinion, the best constable Bow Street had to offer.
“Just came from the perfumery.”
The other constable, Clive Dearborn, a younger man who’d come to Bow Street perhaps three months prior, nodded. “Investigating the fortune-teller?”
“Trying to. What are you fellows up to?” A serving maid deposited a tankard of ale on the table for Harry. He thanked her before taking a long pull.
“We just ran into each other outside,” Dearborn said.
Remy fixed his dark eyes on Harry. “I’ve just come from Blackfriars. Heard the Vicar might be lending money out of St. Dunstan-in-the-West again.”
Bloody hell. An old apprehension raced along Harry’s flesh, quickening his pulse.
Dearborn swung his head toward Remy. “Who’s the Vicar?”
“An arsonist and a murderer,” Harry answered, gritting his teeth. “Who has yet to pay for his crimes.”
“How is that?” Dearborn asked.
Remy cupped his hands around his tankard. “Harry is referring to a fire four years ago that destroyed a flash house on Saffron Hill and killed several people inside, including the leader of a large gang of thieves.”