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Sarah crouched down and reached for the fire poker, dragging it across the floor and picking it up, then taking her side by Ivy. ‘I won’t leave you, Mum. Not with ’im ’ere.’

Someone jostled in behind her. A gangly young lad Ivy remembered from earlier in the day.

Henry something-or-other.

He had gotten into a scuffle with one of the other boys in the schoolroom. Stuck in the vulnerable state between man and boy, he had height but no muscle and was comprised mostly of sharp elbows and knobby knees.

‘I’ll protect you both.’ Henry’s voice squeaked on the last word.

Wonderful. A girl with a poker, a boy with delusions of grandeur, and a lady quaking in her half-boots. I’m sure the three of us will strike fear into this blackguard’s heart.

But there was no time to succumb to her doubts. Taking the poker from Sarah, she lifted it in one hand, holding the expended gun in the other. ‘You two stay behind me.’ And like magic, they followed her orders without argument.

The man’s gaze flitted from Sarah to Henry and back to Ivy.

Lurching forward, fresh blood seeped from the wound in his shoulder.

He bellowed a curse and stumbled to his knees.

His face went a ghastly pale green, and Ivy wondered if he was going to heave up his accounts all over the moth-eaten rug.

She and her charges shuffled away from him and closer to the door.

‘Bloody fucking hell,’ he gritted between clenched teeth.

‘Watch your language, sir. There are children present.’ Again, a rather stupid thing to say, but Ivy wasn’t thinking clearly.

‘Come any closer, and I shall brain you with this.’ She shook the poker like a sabre and took another step backwards.

Sarah’s small hand pressed against her back, guiding Ivy toward the door while Henry crowded her right side.

Bless them both.

‘You stupid bitch.’ The intruder’s eyes were red-rimmed, his lips twisted into a vicious snarl. ‘You shot me.’

‘And I’ll do far worse if you try to hurt these children.

’ Rage filled Ivy with false bravado. Not at the insult – it wasn’t the first time she’d been called such nasty names, and they hurt far worse coming from someone who was supposed to love her unconditionally than a stranger invading her home.

It was the thought of this brute violating any child under her roof that incensed her.

These boys and girls were already far more experienced in pain and trauma than anyone deserved.

‘I’m locking you in this room and sending a runner for the constable.

I can reload my pistol in exactly two minutes.

Unless you pick this lock faster than that, my next shot won’t be to your shoulder.

’ She had cleared the door frame, and before the man could react to her words, she dropped the poker and slammed the door shut.

Shaky fingers scrabbled for the keys tied around her waist, and she clicked the lock tight seconds before the handle jiggled violently.

‘You’ll pay for this, you…’

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.

There was nothing for it. She couldn’t, in good conscience, let the man die. Rattling the keys loudly, she pushed the correct one into the lock and twitched it back and forth without actually unlocking the door. He didn’t grab the handle and try to open the door. In fact, he didn’t do anything.

Most likely because he’s lying in a pool of his own blood, dying. From the hole I created in his shoulder.

‘Bother.’ She forced out a long breath, then clicked the lock and jumped back, pointing her pistol at the door. Again, nothing happened. He didn’t wrench the door open. He didn’t come lurching out, covered in blood and screaming profanities.

The silence mocked her pounding heart. Leaning as far away from the door as possible, she pushed down on the handle with the tips of her fingers, the other hand resolutely pointing the pistol where she imagined his head might emerge.

The click of the latch was remarkably loud over her ragged breaths.

She pushed the door inwards and leapt back, making sure he wouldn’t be able to grab her hand if he lurked by the wall.

Nothing. No leaping madman. No bleeding corpse on the floor. Just an empty bedroom. The night breathed a fragrant sigh through the window. Ivy carefully entered the room, swinging the pistol to the shadowy corner at her left, then her right. The room was glaringly bereft of bleeding miscreants.

Ivy let a choked sob escape as she lowered the pistol. The intruder was gone.