Never Spar with a Viscount (The Secret Society of Governess Spies #3)

Chapter 1

Richmond, England

Ivy Bennett grabbed two fistfuls of skirt and hurried up the creaky, narrow stairs.

She was late to the gathering, thanks to her employer, Viscount Brackley.

She had known the newly minted viscount was horse-mad, but she had not expected him to practically move into the stables upon his arrival a week prior.

The low baritone of his voice and the tread of his boots had sounded at every corner since, and his presence had made it impossible for her to sneak out at her usual time.

Fearing she would be trapped behind a barrel of oats for eternity, Ivy had finally made a dash for Tansy the Temperamental, the ornery mare she had adopted as her own.

Then she had recklessly cantered into town sans saddle, praying no one would catch her riding bareback and astride at nine in the evening.

Ivy could not afford for her father to catch even a whiff of scandal, especially considering where she was going.

Ivy burst through the second-floor door, and six faces turned toward her—including one she did not recognize.

“I apologize for my tardiness, ladies,” Ivy said, ripping her hat off and tossing it atop a small table that already hosted a number of other reticules and hats. “Lord Brackley seems to have taken up residence in the stables.”

There were murmurs of interest at mention of the new viscount. The elder Lord Brackley had died two months prior, leaving behind a second wife and eight young daughters. If it were not for his much older son produced by a first marriage, the estate would have been lost to a distant cousin.

Ivy rather suspected the new viscount wished it had been.

If most noble properties were racehorses, the Brackley country estate was the companion donkey.

To say it was dilapidated would be generous.

The new Lord Brackley, who had made his fortune breeding horses abroad, would have to sink a pretty penny into it if he wanted to restore it to even a shadow of its former glory.

Perhaps it was the new lord’s grunts, or the narrowing of his green eyes, or his surly manner overall, but Ivy was almost certain he would rather the old place burn than have to deal with it.

Ivy unbuttoned her gown and let it fall to her feet before kicking it into the corner. She continued stripping down to her chemise, which was tucked into a pair of molded buckskin breeches.

She glanced around the room, basking in the feel of standing in her studio.

Ivy had rented the single-room flat over the modiste shop a year ago, before she had taken on the governess placement at Brackley Manor.

Although she had cleared out the furniture, she had kept the thick navy carpeting—the better to muffle sound.

The walls were papered with gold scrolls, and candles flickered in candelabras scattered around the room.

Other than the addition of the women’s various perfumes mingling with the slight scent of dust, the entire suite was bare.

Six women stood before her, their stocking feet sinking into the carpet.

“How is the governess placement working out, Ivy?” Mable asked. She was a slender redhead who had had two unsuccessful Seasons and was hoping for one more to pass so she could settle into proper spinsterhood.

Molly, a robust woman of sixty, snorted. “I would not want to be responsible for eight little girls, much less the Brackley horde. I hear their mama has let them run wild.”

Ivy winced. It was true. The dowager viscountess had long ago succumbed to the allure of laudanum and rarely emerged from her bedchamber, leaving the girls almost entirely to their own whims.

“They are spirited,” Ivy admitted. The three governesses before her had not lasted longer than a week, but here she was going on a month.

Not that it had been easy—she would forever have the urge to check underneath her bedcovers, thanks to several instances of slyly placed wildlife during the first few weeks. “What do we say? Shall we begin?”

She scanned the remaining women. Besides Mable and Molly, there was Tabitha, a beautiful widow of thirty; Tulle, a shy newlywed; and Bertha, Molly’s cousin.

All five women were regulars, Tulle having been the last to join several months ago.

But tonight there was a new face among them.

The stranger was dressed in breeches like the others, but the quality of her clothing told Ivy she came from money.

A prickle of awareness chased up Ivy’s spine. Her class was secret and by referral only, so she trusted that whoever had brought the woman here had done so with good intentions, and yet her instincts warned her that this woman was dangerous.

It did not help that the woman had not removed her half-mourning veil.

The black veil was attached to a jaunty little cap pinned in place atop honey-colored locks.

From what Ivy could see of the woman’s face—which was very little—her eyes appeared to be silvery green and slightly tilted, like that of a cat’s.

Ivy took a step closer and offered a dimpled smile. “I am Miss Ivy Bennett, instructor of the Ladies’ Self-Defense Club.”

“The Dove,” the woman murmured. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennett.”

“Oh, do call me Ivy. The Dove is a… different name.”

“That is what she goes by,” Tabitha said with a hint of Irish brogue. “She is a friend of my cousin’s. I did not think you would mind, Ivy.”

“The more the merrier,” Ivy replied cheerfully. “The stronger women are, the better the world will be.”

“I fully agree,” the Dove said, her voice husky and melodious.

“You may want to remove your mourning veil.” Ivy took her place in front of the unlit fireplace, out of view of the windows.

Although they were sealed with drapes, it would not do for anyone to see silhouettes moving above the shuttered modiste shop at this time of night.

“This is an active class, and we will not hold you to mourning customs in this room.”

The Dove nodded, but she did not remove her veil.

“All right, ladies, are we ready?”

There came a quiet cheer from the women in the room, and they spread out and faced Ivy.

“Today you are going to learn how to defend yourself from someone who is trying to strangle you. You will learn how to remove hands that are choking you from behind, from the front, and also what to do if an object such as a rope is used around the neck.”

Ivy held out her palm to ask Tabitha if she would help demonstrate, and noticed the stricken expression on Tulle’s face.

The young newlywed was painfully thin, with bland hair and bland features.

She kept mostly to herself, and her smiles were always self-conscious, as if she were embarrassed by them.

“Are you all right, Tulle?” Ivy asked gently.

Tulle pressed her palm to her chest, her cheeks paler than usual.

“Would you care to sit? Not every class is right for every person.”

The other women exchanged curious looks, and a pit opened in Ivy’s stomach.

She suspected Tulle had experienced trauma, and anger swept from the tips of her fingers to the joints of her toes.

This was why she risked everything to be here.

Her own mother—Ivy cut the thought off. She would not go there.

Fighting was not always the correct choice or the safest choice, but Ivy wanted to make sure it was an option for every woman who walked through her studio door.

Tulle wavered for a moment, her eyes darting around the room, landing on everything but the other women.

At last her attention was drawn by the Dove, and there it lingered.

It was as if a transfer of confidence and power flowed from the Dove to Tulle, because Ivy watched as Tulle’s spine drew upward and determination settled into the premature lines of her face.

“No, I want to learn.”

“Then let us begin.”

For the next hour, Ivy taught the women simple and effective techniques that might one day save their lives.

Years ago, a killer named the Silk Stalker had targeted women of the ton and strangled them with a yellow silk cravat.

And only a few months ago, the Evangelist had begun murdering streetwalkers.

If their victims had had the skills to fight back, it was possible some of them might have survived.

Sweat was sliding down Ivy’s back and sticking her chemise to her skin by the time they finished.

Her students were enthusiastic, if unskilled.

None excelled the way the Dove did. It was as if she had already known and perfected every move Ivy taught.

Ivy was deeply intrigued by the time the clock struck half past ten.

When the women broke for the evening, the Dove made her way over to Ivy. “Lovely class, Ivy. I wonder, where did you learn your techniques?”

Ivy set her water glass on the floor by the wall and inelegantly wiped the back of her hand over her mouth.

“I have six older brothers. I learned most of my skills by spying on them when they had fencing and boxing lessons. As the youngest, it was easy to instigate fights with the brothers closest to me in age, and that is how I practiced.”

“I wonder if I might entice you into a private match? I am very much interested in your particular skill set.”

Ivy cocked her head and assessed the woman. Ivy very rarely sparred with anyone for the simple fact that it was difficult—nay, impossible—to find female sparring partners on her level. She thought the Dove just might be the person to give her a challenge.

“Yes, I would like that.”

Ivy said her goodbyes to the other women, who were chatting excitedly as they entered the stairwell. Once everyone had cleared out, Ivy and the Dove walked to the center of the room. “Rules?” Ivy asked.

“I do not need any, but if you would like parameters, I am happy to abide by them.”

That was interesting. Ivy thought about it and said, “I suppose I do not have any.”