Ivy ignored the shouted insults and turned to face the rabble of children crowding the hallway.
Good heavens.
She desperately wanted to collapse to the floor in a spineless heap, but there simply wasn’t time.
I shot a man. In the shoulder.
It was nonsensical. Ivy Cavendale did not shoot frightful men. She ran from them, screaming like a banshee the whole way. Yet, here she stood, the gun still smoking by her side, and twenty-seven pairs of eyes looking to her for instructions.
Oh my giddy aunt. Right. Well. Best pretend I know what the hell I’m on about.
Ivy pulled her shoulders back, tipped up her chin in a manner her best and bravest friend, Millicent Drake, often adopted when facing off against adversaries, and focused on Sarah. ‘Please take the children to the kitchen and see what you can find there. I shall come to you once this is sorted.’ She had no idea what ‘sorted’ meant in this situation, but there wasn’t time to think about the myriad problems facing her. Instead, it seemed prudent to keep issuing orders. ‘Henry, how quickly can you run?’
‘Faster than a whip, Miss Cavendale.’
As the daughter of a duke, even a murderous, dead duke, she should be addressed as Lady Cavendale. But titles seemed rather silly after having shot a man.
‘Excellent. Run as fast as you can, find a nightwatchman to come immediately.’
‘Head toward Islington Green. The watch house is there. You’re sure to find one of ’em wandering about.’ Sarah nodded sagely.
‘I know where to find a watchman.’ Henry scowled at the girl before turning back to Ivy, his expression becoming earnest once more. ‘I won’t let you down. I swear it.’
Sarah rolled her eyes, then turned and started directing the children toward the kitchen. Later, when Ivy had time to process the evening, she would need to think on why poor Sarah Turner was able to face such terrifying events with unmitigated calm. But not just now.
‘Hurry, Henry.’ Ivy wasn’t sure how long her captor would be content to sit in a locked room and bleed all over the floorboards.
Henry nodded once more and took off like a sprint racer.
Hurrying back to her room, she found the box where she kept extra bullets, gunpowder, and cleaning supplies for her pistol. Hastily reloading, Ivy returned down the now-empty hallway to stand outside her captive’s door.
We need servants. Even just a few. Children shouldn’t have to run for the nightwatchman when an intruder has violated the safety of their home.
It was an oversight. An expensive one, but worth the investment, even at the cost of other amenities, like candles. And coal. And the wages of a certain headmistress. She could easily make do with just rent and board. For now.
The man had stopped yelling curses and was deathly quiet behind the door. His silence was more ominous than the angry shouts.
Dear God. What if he’s lost too much blood? What if he’s dying right now? If he dies, it is my fault.
Or this could be a ploy to get me to release him.
Perhaps she should open the door just a crack. To ensure the man didn’t need medical care. She bit her lip, and her silly, soft heart won out. Crouching low, she pressed her eye against the keyhole. She could make out the window, open to the night sky, curtains billowing in the summer breeze. But nothing else. Her stomach rolled unsteadily.
If the man did die, would the magistrate press charges, even if her actions were in self-defence? The beau monde would no doubt condemn her as the daughter of a mad duke following in her father’s footsteps, but vicious gossip was something she could handle. A hangman’s noose was quite different. Even if she didn’t end up in Newgate, she could find herself in a sanatorium. But if he wasn’t dying and she opened the door like a fool, innocent children might pay for her stupidity.
‘No. I have my pistol. He wouldn’t be rash enough to risk certain death.’ Unless he was confident she posed no threat. After all, Ivy was only a slip of a woman, shaking like a leaf now the children didn’t need her to be fearless. Hardly someone to intimidate a man desperate enough to break into their orphanage.
She dithered – something Ivy was particularly skilled at doing – and ran through every possible outcome. At the very worst, if the man did overpower her, the children were safe in the kitchen. Henry was fetching the constable. It was only herself at risk, and surely her life wasn’t worth that of another’s, even a scheming, terrifying toad of a man.
‘I won’t live with his death on my hands,’ she muttered. Then louder, ‘You, there. I have my pistol at the ready. Don’t do anything foolish. I just need to make sure you aren’t dead. If you could say something to assure me you are still alive, it would be greatly appreciated.’
Silence greeted her.
‘Come now, let’s not be peevish. Even a groan will do.’
Still nothing.
‘Drat.’ The curse seemed hardly vile enough, so she tried again. ‘Damn.’ Yes. That was better. Far more worthy of a pistol-wielding lady.
