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Ivy Cavendale leaned back in her chair and stretched, nearly missing the distant scrape of a door shutting along the corridor outside her room. The candle glowing on the desk flickered in a warm draught as sweat trickled down her back, tickling her spine.

‘Those little devils. Surely, they wouldn’t try sneaking out.’ Ivy spoke to a scrappy little tabby cat curled on her lap – the orphanage’s newest member and her constant shadow. She hadn’t named him. It didn’t seem wise. Not yet. Not until she knew he would stay. His only reply was a rumbling purr.

‘A lot of help you are.’ Ivy raised her pale brows at the tufted ball of fur and couldn’t stop her smile until a loud bang had her heart knocking hard against her ribcage.

Olivia had warned her to be vigilant. The children were prone to testing new mistresses.

They probably took one look at pale, thin, wide-eyed Ivy and thought they could run riot over her.

Another thump echoed down the long hall.

‘Right. This won’t do. Something must be done.’ She slammed the quill down on the parchment where neat rows of script listed supplies needed, tasks to be completed, and funds required.

They must understand who is in charge. I am not someone with whom to trifle.

Which was a real problem. As Ivy was very much someone with whom to trifle. She much preferred to tuck tail and hide than face any kind of conflict. Even one involving small, parentless children.

‘Well, not any more. You promised Olivia you could handle being the headmistress of All Souls Orphanage. This is your first night. You will not fail before you even start. You don’t want to go back to Aunt Gertrude’s, do you?

’ Ivy was painfully aware she was arguing with herself.

Out loud. In an empty bedroom. But if she didn’t bully herself into action, no one would.

‘What would the duchess say? After all the time and effort she’s put into teaching you how to protect yourself, only to discover you were frightened off by a few orphan children, for heaven’s sake?’

The duchess would have quite a lot to say if she knew Ivy had taken up Olivia’s offer for work.

Especially since Philippa expressly told Ivy to stay well away from Lady Olivia Smithwick, Marchioness of Brightmore, when Ivy first broached the topic of accepting the headmistress position that came with room, board, and a small income.

That’s hardly the point, is it? Philippa doesn’t know Olivia. She might be the Duchess of Dorsett, and she might work for the Queen, but that doesn’t mean Lady Philippa Winterbourne is right about everyone all the time.

‘Yes, exactly.’ Well, at least Ivy agreed with herself on one point. ‘Stand up right now, open that door, walk down the hall, and sort out whatever mischief is going on.’

She nodded her head and scooped the kitten up, plunking him unceremoniously onto her narrow bed where he stretched, circled three times, then resettled on her pillow, his green eyes glaring at Ivy for such unprecedented rudeness.

‘Sorry, kitten. But I must go and do something about that racket.’

Oh dear. What if the noise isn’t the children?

Fear, familiar and paralysing, wrapped icy fingers around her ankles, holding her in place.

If it wasn’t just impish children trying to sneak out a window or raid the larder for a midnight snack, Ivy was the only adult in the orphanage. The only person standing between her twenty-seven charges and whatever monsters might be lurking in the darkness.

‘Even more reason to make haste! Those children need you. Don’t stand here like a weak, useless ninny. Take the pistol if you must. You are not a scared little girl any more, so stop acting like one.’

Ivy looked to the unimpressed kitten for his agreement. He blinked, yawned widely, then put his head on his front paws and began to purr.

‘Marvellous. Not even the bloody kitten believes I can do this.’ Wrestling the pistol out of the side drawer of her writing desk, she exhaled a shaky breath and pushed open her bedroom door.

The orphanage was arranged with the sleeping quarters upstairs on the eastern wing, classrooms and library downstairs in the centre, and the dining hall and kitchens on the far west side of a rambling mansion once belonging to the Duke of Kilmare.

Lady Olivia Smithwick and her Committee of Concerned Ladies for Community Betterment – a charitable group of wealthy ladies who organised and funded this venture – acquired the building through an impressive combination of flattery, flirtation, and a passionate appeal to the new duke’s sense of patronage.

It didn’t hurt that he was in financial ruin and couldn’t afford the upkeep of such a large, derelict mansion.

Especially in the unfashionable neighbourhood of Islington.

Thankfully, their new little charges held no such standards and were quite happy to sleep in rooms where water might drip from the ceiling during a heavy downpour, or mice were apt to skitter through the walls, searching for errant crumbs.

‘We just need more donors. And if anyone can charm gentlemen out of their coin… and possibly much more, Olivia will do it,’ Ivy muttered to herself as she picked her way down the hall in the dark, not wanting to alert the children of her arrival.

And far better her than me. I’d rather pluck out both my eyes than charm a gentleman out of anything.

The noise was coming from three doors down.

Five young ladies were supposed to be sleeping soundly in that room.

The children were housed in rooms of mixed ages, allowing the older children to lend a helping hand to the younger ones with little tasks like readying for bed.

At thirteen, Sarah Turner was the oldest girl in room number three where the sounds of scuffling hastened Ivy’s feet.

She considered Sarah one of the more serious children, often seen with a ratty book under her arm and a worried frown tugging her lips down.

Hardly the kind of child who would allow mischief to occur amongst the younger girls in her room.

Fear’s bony fingers crawled up Ivy’s spine, wrapping around her ribs and tightening in a painful squeeze.

She clenched her jaw, forced air through her lungs, and pressed her ear against the smooth oak grain, trying to make out any voices.

A wavering light glowed from the crack between the door and the floorboards. Someone had lit a candle.

The timbre of harsh words was too low to be any of the girls. A man was in there. Maybe more than one.

‘Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Bloody hell.’ She repeated the whispered curse like a mantra, willing the fear to release her lungs so she could scream if necessary. For all the good it would do. No one was near to help her except more orphaned children.

So, that leaves just me. Dear Lord. We are doomed.

She was no hero. But as one wasn’t currently available, Ivy would have to make do.

She shoved open the door, her eyes wildly searching the room for any figure larger than herself. The pistol she gripped followed her gaze in a crazed arc.

A young man in the clothes of a gentleman with the snarl of a feral beast stood in a half-crouch, his arm raised to protect his already bleeding head.

Serious, bookworm, no-nonsense Sarah swung a fire poker at him.

The young man grabbed the poker before it could crash into his skull again and pulled hard, tugging Sarah off balance.

She dropped the weapon and stumbled forward.

Before he could retaliate with a swing of his own, Ivy aimed the pistol just over the man’s shoulder.

She pulled the trigger, hoping to embed her bullet in the wall and scare the lunatic senseless.

A deafening bang caused the young girls to scream as Sarah pressed her hands over her ears and dropped to the floor in a protective ball.

Acrid smoke and the sour scent of sulphur filled the room.

‘Fucking hell!’ the man bellowed as the poker clattered to the ground.

He pressed his hand against his shoulder.

Though his coat was black, and the sputtering candle flickered in the wind from the room’s open window, Ivy could see thick crimson blood coating his fingers.

The bullet had missed the wall and found a home in his right shoulder.

Bother. I always pull to the left.

A stupid, dull thought to have at such a time. Ivy couldn’t let her mind spin away into panic or she would be no good to the girls. This man was still a threat, even as blood seeped through his fingers.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Sarah slowly rose from her crouch, her attention fixed on the wounded man. Children spilled out of their rooms, seeking the source of such a terrifying bang.

‘Stay back, children.’ Ivy spoke in a commanding tone she barely recognised. She felt the press of little bodies filling the doorway behind her. ‘Sarah, look at me, dear.’ Her voice was calm and firm when everything inside her quaked.

Sarah turned away from the man, her owl-like eyes huge. Her chin quivered, but she pressed her lips together in a determined line.

Brave, sweet girl. I will keep you safe.

But there wasn’t time for softness, not when they clung to their courage like flotsam in a stormy sea. ‘Take these girls into the hall. Get them away from here. Now.’

Instead of following Ivy’s command, Sarah turned to a red-haired girl, only a head shorter than herself. ‘Margaret, lead the others out.’

The girl gulped in a sob.

‘Now!’ Sarah fairly screamed.

Margaret’s gangly legs poked out from a too-short nightgown, and freckles stood in stark contrast to her pale skin.

Tears tracked down her cheeks, but she gripped the nearest girl’s hand, and the rest followed suit, forming a wavering chain of white cotton dresses as they skittered along the far wall, scurrying out of the bedroom like so many weeping ghosts.

‘You too, Sarah.’ The last thing Ivy needed was one of her charges being hurt by a wounded, deranged fool of a man.