Page 5

‘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.

I will not cry.

If only her voice were stronger. If only she were 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 man allegedly broke 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.

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.

Commissioner Worthington snatched them from the quaking man. ‘Return your uniform. You are dismissed.’ His voice was a menacing growl sending skittering nerves down Ivy’s spine.

‘Sir! She was being disrespectful.’ The constable looked wildly at Ivy as though she might agree with him.

Ivy pressed her lips into a firm line, and the constable’s eyes narrowed, hatred twisting his bleeding mouth into an ugly snarl.

‘The damn bitch claims to have shot an intruder. She’s clearly ma?—’

Before he could finish his sentence, the commissioner leaned so close to him, Ivy feared he would smash his forehead into the constable’s and knock the man senseless.

‘Leave. Now. While you still have the use of your legs.’ It wasn’t the words. It was that voice, darker than the Devil’s soul, sucking the air from Ivy’s lungs.

Her knees turned to jelly, and she sat heavily on the chair.

How the constable didn’t melt into a puddle of fear, she would never know.

He might have been an unmitigated ass to hit her, but he was far braver than Ivy.

He held the commissioner’s gaze for a full second before dropping his head and turning away.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You, go with him.’ Commissioner Worthington glared at the watchman, whose mouth fell open before he snapped it shut, nodding silently.

Ivy watched both men disappear through the doorway then wrenched her attention back to the commissioner. He was facing her, his dark eyes unreadable in the wavering candlelight.

I’m all alone. With a man I hardly know.

Fear reawakened, skittering cold fingers over her neck, freezing her lungs with a frigid breath.

He prowled closer, the keys clinking in his hand.

Gone was the gentleman she’d first met at Lord Renquist’s ball, and in his place was something else.

Something primal and angry and terrifying.

It didn’t matter that Commissioner Worthington was a respected member of society.

Or that he worked with Philippa. It didn’t matter that his actions toward the constable were to protect Ivy.

Or that he wanted to free her from the shackles biting into her wrist. Only one thing mattered.

She was alone. With a powerful man. In the middle of the night. The fear she carried with her as close as her own skin skittered through her mind, chasing out every rational thought.

‘Please. Don’t come any closer.’ Gone was her commanding tone.

In its place was the whimper of a wounded creature.

Ivy was a fool to think she could protect herself against a man like Commissioner Worthington.

Despite her training, her newly developed skills, and her fleeting rage, she was still just a fragile, weak, vulnerable woman in the presence of a far more formidable predator.