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The indomitable duchess paid Edward a visit the moment he returned to his office at Scotland Yard, causing him to wonder if she was having him watched. He wouldn’t put it past her.

Lady Philippa Winterbourne, Duchess of Dorsett, caused quite a stir in the crowded offices.

Such a lofty member of the peerage, a confidante of the Queen herself, rubbing shoulders with common bobbies.

Quite the kerfuffle, as his Scottish compatriots would say.

But the real disturbance was to Edward’s equilibrium.

Edward’s office – once a bedroom when the original building was used as a private residence – had been converted into the commissioner’s office when Sir Robert Peel took over the building and turned it into the headquarters for the Metropolitan Police.

A bookshelf graced one wall stuffed with all manner of reference materials, books for research, and various ledgers.

His inherited desk from the previous commissioner claimed the centre of the room.

A behemoth monstrosity of dark wood, it was elaborately carved and sported a leather-covered top stained by all manner of things best forgotten.

He hated it but didn’t have the time, money, or motivation to replace the thing.

A large window on the far wall let in bright sunlight and allowed Edward a glimpse of the bustling street beyond.

Reading ushered the duchess in, and she looked dubiously at the hard-backed chair sitting opposite Edward’s desk.

Instead of sitting, she paced. Her gown of deep purple was overlaid with some kind of black gossamer fabric.

Jewels were sewn into the skirt and bodice at varying intervals in the shape of little starbursts.

She looked like a sparkling midnight sky even in the drab surroundings of his office.

‘To what do I owe this honour, Lady Winterbourne?’

She paused in her pacing, raised a single eyebrow, and stared unblinking at him for what seemed an eternity. ‘You know why I’m here. I asked you to ensure Ivy’s safety. Now she’s being attacked by unnamed hooligans climbing through windows.’

‘It was just one hooligan, and we’ve no idea what his purpose was in trying to break into the orphanage.’

‘Succeeding. Not trying. He succeeded in breaking in. And if it weren’t for Ivy, he could have succeeded in much worse.’

Edward rarely saw Philippa flummoxed. ‘What has you so worried?’

She shook her head in tight, sharp movements. ‘I don’t know. I’m missing something and I don’t like it. While there’s no reason to assume this has anything to do with the Devil’s Sons, my instincts are screaming at me that it does. I just don’t know why.’

‘Perhaps it might help if I knew a little more about Ivy. Her father and brother were mixed up with this lot?—’

‘No, just her brother.’ Philippa resumed pacing. ‘Although her father was far from innocent. He was significantly more insidious than his son.’

‘Did he ever hurt Lady Ivy?’

‘That is not my story to tell. Nor is it one I know from the source. Just whispers. Insinuations. And my own suspicions.’ While Philippa gave no details, her judicious lack of commentary for certain questions he put forth revealed much.

‘Do you believe he abused her?’

Silence.

‘Do all men frighten her, or is it something about me in particular?’

Silence.

‘Is it wrong of me to include her in this investigation?’

An eye roll accompanied by silence.

‘I believe she is stronger than she knows, but I’ve no wish to push her beyond her boundaries. Am I pushing her too far?’

That elicited a snort. ‘Of course she is stronger than she knows. She’s been taught her whole life – as most women are – that she is the weaker sex and needs protection.

Ironic the people she needs protection from are the same ones reminding her only they can provide such safety.

Why are so many men such horrific examples of hypocrisy?

’ Philippa finally stopped her pacing, snarled at the chair for sins Edward couldn’t begin to fathom, then carefully sat as if the thing might collapse under her insubstantial weight.

Edward dared not answer that verbal trap disguised as a question. Instead, he asked another. ‘Am I making a mistake, Philippa?’

For a moment, the duchess froze, her cobalt eyes holding his as she rubbed her thumb against her index finger in an endless circle. ‘If only you’d asked me that question twenty years ago.’ He didn’t miss the sharp edge of her voice. Nor could he plead ignorance as to why her words cut so deep.

‘I shall never forgive myself for her death, Philippa. I take full responsibility.’

‘And what good does that do?’ Philippa shrugged, her blood-red lips hardening in a firm line. ‘Living in perpetual self-punishment doesn’t bring her back. It doesn’t ease my grief or your guilt.’

Edward felt each word like a cudgel smashing into his soul. Because she was right. ‘If there was a way to fix my horrifying decision, to go back in time and undo the wrong I committed, I would do anything, give anything, to rewrite our history.’

‘I know. But you can’t. No one can change the past, Edward. We can only try to move forward. I have hated you for so long. But I grow weary of this loathing. It only ever takes, and I no longer wish to feed its endless hunger. I don’t believe she would want us to be forever at odds.’

‘She loved us both. Of that, I’m certain. Even if one of us was most undeserving of her love.’

‘No one is truly deserving of love. And we are also all deserving. It is one of life’s greatest dichotomies.’

‘Does this mean you forgive me, Philippa?’ He would never forgive himself, but to earn Philippa’s exoneration was a boon he never expected. Hope was a dangerous light as apt to burn as illuminate.

Philippa speared him with one of her more effective stares. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Edward. Protect Ivy. Find this man and discover his purpose. Ensure this has nothing to do with the Devil’s Sons. Do for Ivy what neither of us could do for her . Then we shall talk of forgiveness.’

* * *

During Ivy’s restricted activities as a proper lady of the beau monde, time moved at a painfully slow pace.

She could only needlepoint cushions, paint plates, and practise the pianoforte – an instrument for which she held no talent – for so long before her brain started leaking out of her ears.

But she was swiftly learning this was not the case for working men and women.

The afternoon and early evening flew by in a rush of activity.

Upon Commissioner Worthington’s departure, the children were released into the yard to partake of the beautiful summer sun and fresh air for an hour.

As headmistress, Ivy was in charge of supervising them, and she found the task equal parts entertaining and exasperating.

After the seventeenth time reminding young Billy Banks it wasn’t polite to tug on Margaret O’Hara’s hair, no matter how red it might be, she was more than ready for the children to return to the house and work on various household chores.

She spied Sarah Turner standing next to a bedraggled hydrangea bush and wandered over to check on the girl.

‘Hullo, Sarah. Are you well?’

Sarah had a book pressed tightly against her chest and a doll tucked under her right arm. The dolly was missing most of its hair and someone had drawn eyes where buttons were once sewn. It looked like a terrifying rendition of an infant.

‘Err, that is a lovely little doll you have. Has she a name?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘She’s not real, Miss Cavendale. There’s no point in giving her a name.’

Ivy thought of the kitten doubtlessly sleeping on her pillow at that very moment. As it was real, she really must find a name for the ball of fluff. ‘Sometimes, we pretend things are true to practise what it might be like when they become reality.’

Sarah’s light-brown eyebrows pulled low over her grey eyes. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, Miss Cavendale.’

Because I have no idea what I’m saying, Sarah.

‘Why aren’t you playing with some of the other girls?’

Sarah hugged her book tighter. ‘I’m too old to play, Miss Cavendale.’

Ivy’s heart cracked as she put a tentative hand on Sarah’s arm and squeezed.

No child should feel too old to play. ‘Not even for a bit? Perhaps we could play a game together. When I was young, I used to love to look at the clouds and come up with creatures they might be, adventures they were having in their cloud kingdoms. Will you try with me?’

Sarah squinted at the sky dubiously. ‘That sounds silly.’

Ivy smiled at the girl. ‘A little silly doesn’t harm anyone. Come on.’

Biting her lip, Sarah looked up once more. ‘Well… I suppose that one looks a little bit like a rabbit, but with wings.’

‘Ohh, a flying rabbit. And where do you think he’s off to?’

‘She,’ Sarah corrected.

Ivy nodded. ‘Right. Of course. Where do you think she is off to?’

They discussed the adventures of the flying rabbit until Ivy realised it was long past time the children returned to the house and started on their chores.

With the help of Sarah, Ivy ensured each little person had a task they were capable of completing.

Some assisted with laundry, others cleaned the large home, and several helped the cook prepare the evening meal.

Henry, a few of the older boys, and one little girl with adorable blonde pigtails worked in the yard with the lone gardener they could afford to employ.

The favourite jobs were rotated amongst the children along with the less enjoyable tasks. While Ivy was new to supervising, Olivia had assured her the children understood the system and only needed monitoring. Remarkably, it all went rather well.