‘What can I possibly do? Wade into the murky waters of female friendships and make Lady Ivy’s connection with Lady Olivia a crime?’ Edward tried to keep his voice calm. Steady. Free of any inflection. After only meeting Lady Ivy once, he already found his thoughts diverted. And he could afford no distractions in their mission.
‘Don’t be an idiot. I need you to keep an eye on Ivy. Make sure she is safe. You have hundreds of men at your disposal. Surely you can spare a few.’
Damnation!
The one woman he meant to avoid at all costs was the exact woman Philippa was asking him to watch closely.
‘Are you trying to punish me? Is that what this is?’
‘Trust me, Edward. If punishment were my aim, you’d already be bleeding from multiple wounds.’
Lady Ivy Cavendale carried secrets with her. Of that, he was certain. Mysteries he had neither time nor reason to explore. But Edward could never resist such enigmas. He was compelled to seek out hidden truths, even if those revelations caused immeasurable harm.
Even if they end in an innocent’s death.
Perhaps that was why Philippa lowered herself to such depths. Requiring help from Edward only because she knew it was the last thing he wished to do. The Duchess of Dorsett hated him with acidity potent enough to burn the skin from his bones – an enmity Edward certainly deserved – but she wasn’t cruel. Generally.
No. It is as difficult for her to ask me a favour as it is for me to grant her one.
She had stood in his dusty parlour all those months ago, her lips pressed tight together, her eyes flashing with fire and something even more terrifying. Fear. An emotion rarely seen in the duchess. Which was enough for Edward to place a rotation of his most trusted men on alert, noting the comings and goings of Lady Ivy Cavendale. And after three months of listening to their reports, he still knew infuriatingly little about the reclusive woman.
She mostly kept to her aunt’s house, only venturing out to visit Philippa weekly or take tea with her closest friends, Lady Millicent Drake, Lady Hannah Killian, and the newly married Lady Penny Renquist. She did not promenade in Hyde Park. She did not visit the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall. She was not invited to the balls held at Almacks. She didn’t even venture out to Harrods on Borough High Street to window-shop. Which made Reading’s announcement earlier that morning of Ivy moving into the All Souls Orphanage highly unusual but not nearly as alarming as his newest report of an intruder.
Narrowing his gaze on his secretary, Edward forced any weakness from his voice. ‘Has she been harmed?’
‘Quite the contrary. She shot him.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Edward stood from his desk, strode to the hook holding his greatcoat, swept it over his shoulders, and nearly knocked Reading over as he strode past. He walked into the summer night with one purpose: finding Lady Ivy Cavendale.
* * *
Ivy was desperate for a cup of tea. Laced with a strong dram of whiskey. She blamed Philippa. Before meeting the duchess, she’d never imbibed anything stronger than ratafia – and then only a sip at a ball to cool her parched throat. But now, Ivy had developed quite a taste for the harsh burn and corresponding warmth of smoky spirits. It would be just the thing to chase away the deathly chill shaking her hands. Hands shackled together with heavy, metal manacles.
‘It’s unnatural. That’s what it is. A woman. With a pistol. You could have done some real harm.’ The constable, a young man with spotty skin and nary a wisp of facial hair, loomed closer to Ivy. She refused to lean back against the chair. A chair the idiot constable had dragged into the centre of the library. She hated being in the centre of anything, but especially someone’s attention. Constable Spotty Skin stunk of pickled eggs and sardines. But she wouldn’t show him fear. Even if it tickled along her nerves like a thousand spider legs. She must be at least five years older than the man, though he spoke to her like she was a particularly silly, stupid girl.
At least the children are back in their rooms. Safe and sound.
The last thing she needed was for her young charges to see Ivy shackled in cuffs, shaking with fear as an arrogant, young fool of a constable accused her of being nothing more than a hysterical woman.
‘Yes. Well. He did break into the room of five young girls. Perhaps the one guilty of harm was the intruder.’ Ivy’s voice shook, and tears threatened.
Iwill notcry.
If only her voice were stronger. If onlyshewere stronger. But she had learned the danger of men in positions of power early in life. The ones meant to protect were often the most dangerous. So she spoke in whispers when she wanted to shout until her throat hurt.
Don’t. Don’t be weak in front of him. He’ll only attack.
‘Allegedly. This mysterious disappearing manallegedlybroke into the room,’ the constable said, looking over at the nightwatchmen. ‘Bleeding girl. Can’t believe a word she says. Delicate creatures, ladies. You put them under stress, roles of leadership like this, it’s no wonder she’s gone loony, making up stories. These poor children need a man here to keep their heads out of the clouds. A headmaster who won’t let fancy run free. Not some barmy bit of skirt, filling their minds with wild tales of a Spring-heeled Jack leaping into windows.’
The watchman winked at the constable and nodded, his gaze flitting to Ivy as his lips tilted in a sly smile. He leaned against the door, crossing his arms over a thick chest. ‘Me dad always said there’s nothing more dangerous than a spinster putting on airs. She probably saw the wind in the curtains and imagined a spectre in the night.’
The constable nodded, his sharp chin cutting through the air. ‘Too many of them penny dreadfuls. Rotting poor girls’ minds. It’s a wonder we let them read at all. Too much thinking is dangerous for a woman’s weak constitution.’
Enough!
‘If I was wrong, then it seems rather daft of you to put me in shackles for shooting at nothing. Do you think my imagination conjured the blood splattered all over the floor? Or my poor, delicate brain somehow convinced twenty-seven children that wind and curtains lurched across the floor with a poker, screaming profanities? Mayhap my fragile constitution is to blame for the broken window in Sarah’s room. Or her recollections of the man trying to bash her head in. Or Henry’s testimony, who stood next to me as the man nearly?—’
The crack of the constable’s hand across her cheek startled Ivy into silence. She’d never been hit before. It was shocking. And painful. Sharp. Hot. Infuriating. Her head snapped to the side. But she didn’t shatter. She didn’t break. Oddly, her fear crystallised into something hard and bright in her chest.
