How dare he?
The question in her mind was spoken with Philippa’s crisp diction, but she quite agreed.
Returning her gaze to the constable, she raised her brow. Before she could give words to her thoughts, the man disappeared. One moment, he stood in front of her, his arm raised. The next, he was thrown into a wall with a terrifying crash.
Dear Lord. Another intruder. This one is even more angry than the last.
It was a nonsensical thought. But so was the vision of Constable Spotty Skin crumpled on the floor as a large man slammed his fist into the poor man’s face. His nose made an audible crunch as a wave of blood flooded from it. The brute attacking the constable didn’t stop. He continued to rain blows as Constable Spotty Skin covered his head with his arms.
The attacker was turned away from Ivy, so she couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to discern his features to know he was a beast. A madness washed over her as terror turned into rage.
What is wrong with these men?
The nightwatchman was no help. He had uncrossed his arms but just stood there, wide-eyed, watching the violence unfold.
Again, it was left to Ivy to do something.
Really. I am not the right woman for this job.
But no one else was going to come to the constable’s rescue. Letting the anger fill her voice with strength, Ivy stood from her chair. ‘Stop it. This instant!’
The man froze.
Well. That’s something, then.
Twice in one night, Ivy had issued orders with no expectation of those orders being followed. Twice, she had been surprised.
His back expanded and contracted with huge breaths. He was tall. At least a head taller than her, and Ivy was not short. He was also frighteningly large. His back stretched the beautifully tailored jacket he wore to its limits. Wide shoulders, thick arms, powerful fists covered in blood and clenched at his side. When he slowly turned to face her, Ivy took a startled step backwards.
‘Commissioner Worthington.’
It can’t possibly be the commissioner.
The few times she’d seen the man, he had been the picture of a calm, cold, controlled gentleman. And yet, she would recognise his features anywhere. Aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, sharp jaw. His raven hair, usually combed to perfection and sprinkled with silver at the temples, fell over his brow in shocking disarray.
Probably from all the exertion required when beating a man.
The very idea should have sent Ivy scurrying from the room like a terrified church mouse. She did not appreciate conflict, physical or otherwise. At least, she hadn’t. But Philippa’s influence over Ivy must be extending beyond her new appreciation for whiskey. She had been training with the duchess since Millie’s wedding nearly six months prior. At first, it was solely to improve her skills in self-defence, but most recently, Ivy had begun to enjoy the combat. As her skills improved, so did her appreciation of the form and athleticism required to overcome an opponent. There was a gratifying sense of power derived from landing a well-aimed punch or hitting the centre of a bullseye with her pistol.
Of course, she wasn’t sparring with a man. Maybe that helped. While Philippa was a skilled and intimidating combatant, she was still a woman. And someone Ivy knew would never really hurt her.
The lessons had become a bright spot in Ivy’s week. Surprisingly, she was rather good at fisticuffs with her lean body, steady hand, and stubborn determination to continually improve. She had no hope of becoming as fearless as Hannah or as courageous as Millicent, but at least she could keep herself safe without putting others at risk. Tonight had been the first time she was called upon to use her skills, and while the whole ordeal was horrifying, she was quite proud. She hadn’t fallen apart. Yet.
‘Lady Ivy. Please accept my apologies.’ Commissioner Worthington executed a curt bow. His voice, rough and dark like summer thunder in a midnight sky, was in complete opposition to his words and demeanour. One never would have guessed the commissioner was pummelling a man with his bare fists not moments before.
Except for the flash of fire in his eyes. The vibrations of violence in his tone. The blood on his swollen knuckles.
Good heavens.
‘I rather think you owe your apologies to the constable.’ She glanced at the man who was trying to roll into a seated position with some help from the nightwatchman.
Commissioner Worthington didn’t even look at him. ‘He hit you.’
‘Yes. Well.’ Ivy was suddenly very aware of the commissioner’s proximity to her. She took a tentative step backwards. ‘Not nearly as hard as you hit him. I am fine, Commissioner.’ She lifted her joined hands to touch her cheek.
‘Dear God. He shackled you as well?’ Commissioner Worthington turned to the constable, who flinched away. ‘Keys. Now.’
The man fumbled in his pocket, shakily pulling out a ring of keys.
