Chapter 11
Morris had ushered the baron into the drawing room, and as I walked down the hall, I was struck by a sense of déjà vu.
Not a full day had passed, and here I was engaging with yet another male visitor—alone.
But, of course, neither visit was anything close to romantic in nature.
Mr. Dorian had stopped by merely to issue his warning, and the baron was likely here to pay his respects.
I forced my brow to relax, as it seemed to automatically frown whenever I thought of Mr. Dorian, and stepped into the room.
Unlike that irritating man, I found Lord Linden reclining on the sofa looking a bit bored and not at all interested in his surroundings.
Someone, possibly Morris, had had the good sense to open the curtains in this room, and the baron’s hair looked several shades lighter than it had the night of his party.
It was more auburn than chestnut. He noticed my entrance and immediately rose and bowed over my hand, every bit the perfect gentleman—also very different behavior from Mr. Dorian.
Stop thinking about him.
“Mrs. Harper,” the baron said, entirely unaware of my thoughts, “thank you for seeing me. I’m so terribly sorry about Mr. Pearson. I came to offer my condolences.”
“That is very kind, my lord,” I said, with a polite smile. “Please, sit.”
He returned to his place on the sofa, while I took the chair across from him. “How is your sister? I’m sure she must be devastated,” he continued, his eyes full of what seemed like genuine sympathy.
“It has been a difficult time, yes. I will tell her you called. And may I also offer you my condolences? I understand Mr. Pearson was an old friend of yours.”
“We had known each other for many years, yes. He will be missed, indeed. The funeral will be held at St. Mark’s at the end of this week,” he continued. “I’ve taken the liberty of planning it since Charles’s sister does not live in town.”
“That is kind of you,” I said.
“It is the very least I can do for an old friend,” he replied with a solemn nod. “It is a private affair, but I can make sure that you and your sister are on the guest list.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure Delia will be well enough to attend, but I will.” It could also be an excellent opportunity to see who made up Charles Pearson’s circle. The murderer could be among them.
“Consider it done,” the baron said.
I briefly considered asking him if Mrs. Pearson would be in attendance, but decided it was better to claim ignorance on that front.
If the police learned that Delia had gone to Charles Pearson’s flat that night specifically to discuss his marital state, they might consider it a motive for murder, and the investigation would be further diverted away from finding the true killer.
Besides, there was someone else I could speak to if I wanted to learn more about this supposed spouse.
“Could you allow me another imposition on your kindness, my lord?”
He leaned forward a little in interest. “Certainly.”
“I was hoping to contact the medium at your party.”
“Madame Fontaine?” He sat back in surprise.
“Yes, do you know where I might find her?”
The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “Why? Are you thinking of hiring her for a soiree?”
“No, nothing like that. Just something she had said during my reading that I wanted clarification on. It’s silly, I know.” I lowered my head, pretending to be bashful and hoped it worked.
The baron chuckled as he pulled out a card case from his jacket pocket.
“Say no more, Mrs. Harper.” He flipped through a handful of cards, then stopped.
“Ah. Here we are.” He held up a card and read the front while waggling his eyebrow: “Madame Fontaine: Acclaimed Medium and Spirit Guide to the Other Realm,” he read with dramatic flair before handing it to me. “She is in Soho.”
“Thank you very much,” I replied, as I took the card from him.
“I must say, I’m a bit surprised,” he added, giving me an assessing look.
I tilted my head, genuinely curious. “Why?”
He shrugged. “You didn’t strike me as the superstitious sort.”
I wasn’t, in fact. And yet I couldn’t help feeling rather offended by his judgement. “Sorry to disappoint,” I said a bit icily.
“I never said I was disappointed,” he murmured, while holding my gaze. “Merely intrigued by what she told you.”
Something about the way he looked at me caused my cheeks to heat, and my mind scrambled for a reply. This conversation had spun away from me rather quickly. “It … it was to do with my late husband.”
“Oh.” This had the intended effect, as the baron sat back in his chair, while the gleam in his eyes dimmed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said with a gracious nod as another opportunity presented itself. “Perhaps you knew him. Oliver Harper? He was a student at King’s College.”
The baron furrowed his brow. “Was he a relation of the Viscount Mandeville?”
“The viscount is his older brother.”
“Ah, well then. I’m afraid I didn’t know your husband, but I was friendly with Harry. Good chap. Haven’t seen him in years. How is he?”
“Fine,” I replied, forcing my mouth into a smile and hoping he didn’t notice my clipped tone.
The baron waited a moment, and when it was clear I wouldn’t offer any further update on my brother-in-law, he returned my bland smile. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just came to pay my respects and tell you about the funeral.”
“It is very much appreciated,” I said, as we both stood.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harper,” he said with a short nod, then headed for the door.
Just as he reached it, the baron paused and looked back at me.
“And do let me know how your visit with Madame Fontaine goes,” he added.
“I find myself rather curious if her talents extend beyond entertaining my guests at parties.”
Then he disappeared into the hall before I could reply. Alone once more, I sat back down on the sofa and turned over the card in my hand.
Though the baron seemed like the type of man who set out to charm every woman he met, I couldn’t help feeling a little flattered by his attentions, as shallow as they might be.
I was not used to being in the company of such a man, and it was a good reminder that things were different in London.
Especially now that I was no longer an unmarried young lady.
I would be treated much differently as a widow and had heard tales of women who reveled in unparalleled levels of freedom granted by their new status.
While I wasn’t interested in engaging in anything close to wild, reckless debauchery, I could admit it was intriguing to think of having new experiences.
In many ways, my life on Corfu had been small and simple.
That had also been by design, of course.
And in the years after Oliver’s death, I needed the pace of my life to be slow and predicable.
But now, for the first time since I had arrived, I pictured all that the great metropolis of London had to offer and felt a little rush of excitement.
An eagerness to see what lay in store. I looked down again at the card in my hand and my fingers curling around the edges.
It seemed my first stop would be a visit to Soho.
I looked in on Delia before I left and was relieved to find her fast asleep.
Then I dashed off a quick note, explaining how the baron had stopped by to pay his respects and that I would come visit her again tomorrow.
I decided not to mention the funeral, at least not yet.
She was certainly in no state to attend, and in her condition, it could be much too overtaxing.
Rather than take the family coach and risk someone gossiping about my destination, I decided to hail a hansom cab.
The journey from our genteel little corner in Portman Square down to Soho was quite different in the daylight than it had been the other evening.
As we drew closer to the location of Madame Fontaine’s salon, the streets grew more crowded, the shopfronts shabbier, and the pavement littered with all kinds of discarded refuse.
When the cab finally stopped in front of a dingy building, I peered out of the window. There, just above the doorway, was a sign that read: MADAME FONTAINE’S SPIRITUAL SALON in bold, if slightly weathered lettering. I hesitated for a moment, then paid the driver and climbed down.
As I gazed up at the front of the four-story building, a voice echoed in my head: You wanted an adventure, didn’t you?
I pursed my lips, straightened my shoulders, and marched towards the entrance.
The door opened onto a little stairwell, and I looked over the directory.
The building was home to an eclectic assortment of professions.
In addition to Madame Fontaine, who occupied the top floor, there was also a dentist, a bookkeeper, and a wigmaker.
As I ascended the stairs, I amused myself by imagining a person who patronized each of these businesses in the course of a single day.
But as I passed each floor, they were all eerily quiet, save for the dull sound of the dentist’s drill, and I picked up my skirts to move a little faster.
When I finally reached the top floor, I was breathing hard and had to stop to catch my breath before I entered the salon.
A frosted door was embossed with the same title as the sign outside, but as this one had not been exposed to the elements, the lettering was as bold and crisp as the day it had been painted.
I approached the door, then paused, unsure of the etiquette.
Did one knock or simply enter a spiritual salon?
I decided to try both and gently rapped on the door as I turned the knob.
It opened easily, and I stepped into what appeared to be a waiting area.