Page 17 of A Most Unlikely Lady
Just the idea of sitting with Commissioner Worthington, wrapped in the intimacy of evening darkness, heads bent close while they reviewed the finer points of his plan. It was all too much.
But what choice did she have? She couldn’t stay alone with the children and feel safe. Not now. And if a strange constable was assigned to watch over the orphanage, it wouldn’t be any better. At least she knew Commissioner Worthington. As much as one could ever know a person after only a few brief meetings. And Philippa trusted him. That should count for something.
And he isn’t asking me. He’s telling me.
‘Fine. I don’t suppose I have any power to refuse, do I?’
‘You have the power to refuse me anything, Lady Ivy. Except this.’ His soft tone belied the determination in his deep-blue eyes. ‘Your safety and that of the children is of paramount importance.’
Why?
She wasn’t brave enough to ask that particular question. Though she couldn’t argue with him about the children. They deserved the highest level of protection. The commissioner was certainly more qualified to provide that than Ivy. Only a fool would refuse such an offer. Ivy was many things, but she was no man’s fool.
‘I shall make up a room for you. There are only two boys in room ten and three in room nine. I can shift them all together, and you can take room ten.’ It was the westernmost room of the wing devoted to bedrooms and farthest from her own, which was situated at the eastern end of the wing. It was also at the entrance of the hall, so he would be able to hear anyone trying to sneak along the corridor from other areas of the house or sneak out of the bedrooms. That was her main concern. Not creating as much distance as possible between where he would be sleeping and her quarters.
‘Please, don’t trouble yourself. I won’t have much with me and can share with the boys if needed.’
A stifled chuckle had them both turning to the settee. Reading was stoppering the inkwell and carefully placing his things into the satchel. He looked up from his work and raised his brows at them. ‘TheStar of Venuswould love to get their hands on that bit of news. The Grand Duke of Landbourne and Commissioner of Scotland Yard to boot, bedding down in a sad little cot he must share with bedraggled urchins. I would wager a month’s salary the caricaturist would draw quite the picture of it.’
‘Duke. You are also a duke?’ Ivy failed to keep the shock from her voice. She should have known the man’s pedigree, but really. Who had the time to study Debrett’s when there were far more interesting things to read? Like the ingredients of her hair tonic. ‘Why does no one address you with your proper title? All this time, I should have been calling you Your Grace.’
For a divine moment, the commissioner’s cheeks flushed. He shrugged in a gesture speaking of great discomfort. ‘I earned my title as Commissioner of Scotland Yard. I prefer it to anything else.’
The first gentleman I’ve met who prefers his lesser title because of how he achieved it.
Very few titles were earned unless one did something quite significant for the Queen. Yet the peerage preened about honorifics given to them for no reason other than birth order. Commissioner Worthington’s implied message was surprisingly progressive.
What a fascinating man.
No. Men were not fascinating. They were fearful creatures to be avoided. Except now, she would be sharing her home with one. The prospect seemed far less frightening than it should.
Because it’s notanyman. It’s Commissioner Worthington.
And why should that make a difference? A dangerous question indeed. Her logical mind shied away from it like a horse spying something foreign and frightening in its path.
Reading cleared his throat, pulled out a pocket watch, flicked it open, and squinted at it for a moment before staring meaningfully at Commissioner Worthington. Ivy wondered who really commanded whom in this strange relationship of secretary and commissioner.
‘Ah. Yes. I suppose Reading, in his subtle way, is implying we should be on our way. I shall return later tonight. Do not trouble yourself with my supper or anything of that nature. I have no wish to be a burden. I can manage my own meals and refreshments.’
Ivy hadn’t thought about meeting the physical needs of Commissioner Worthington while he stayed with her. The children received simple, healthful food that a hired cook provided twice a day. Ivy was planning to partake of the same fare, but that hardly seemed fitting for a duke. She knew how her father and brother preferred their meals. Rich cuts of beef or venison. Roasted duck and pheasants stuffed with chestnuts and cranberries. At least six courses, including soup, roasted meat, some kind of fish, seasonal vegetables, exotic fruits, and pudding. Always pudding. Her brother had a notorious sweet tooth. A rogue wave of guilt washed over her for Alfred. While she was closer to her younger brother, Patrick, and grieved him most terribly when news of his death during the war reached England’s shore, she hardly wept for Alfred at all and fairly rejoiced at the death of her father. What kind of cruel daughter refused to mourn the loss of her family?
The kind whose father did not deserve a single one of my tears.
Anger, potent and hot, flushed through her veins at the mere thought of Lord Cavendale. And it was a welcome rush of power, so different from the fear she used to feel in his presence. She almost wished he had lived to see what Ivy was becoming. She wished she could have confronted him with her growing confidence. Perhaps held a pistol to his chest. Seen the fear in his eyes for once as he realised he had no control over Ivy. Not any more.
But he is dead and gone. And I will never be able to hold him accountable for his crimes.
His death was a blessing and a curse for Ivy and not something she could ever fully explain to anyone. Not even her dearest friend, Millie.
Commissioner Worthington drew her back into the moment as he stepped closer, reaching for her hand. A common practice for lords and ladies when they took leave of each other. Ivy’s breeding demanded she comply. She lifted her ungloved hand, and he clasped her fingers gently. The rasp of calluses catching on her skin created a buzz along her nerve endings, zinging up her arm and landing in the most unusual spots. A sensitive patch of skin just behind her right ear. That secret and newly awakened place below her belly. Left of centre in her chest where her heart thumped once more out of rhythm.
He didn’t lift her hand to his mouth, pressing firm lips against her over-sensitised skin. And why would he? Such an action would be completely untoward. But for the first time in her life, she yearned for something quite unnameable. The thought shocked her. She pulled free from his grasp just as he bowed his dark head. He immediately stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back, and trapping her with his dark stare. But she couldn’t discern his thoughts in such a careful gaze. They were hidden like cards against his chest.
‘Until this evening, Lady Ivy.’ He turned and strode out of the door.
Reading nodded at her. ‘You will be quite safe with him, Lady Cavendale. He’s got the growl of a lion but the heart of a kitten, I swear it.’
Why Reading’s words comforted her, she could not say. But there was something soft and kind in the curl of his lips, even framed with the silly moustache. He nodded at her, then hurried after the commissioner, the leather satchel swinging jauntily at his side.
