Never Spar with a Viscount

by Lindsay Lovise

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

When a brooding Viscount fake-courts a fiercely independent governess-spy sparks begin to fly—perfect for fans of Manda Collins and Netflix's Bridgerton!

Ivy Bennett learned early on how to fight—literally—for what she wants, and what she wants is to escape the Marriage Mart. Spending her days as a governess and her nights running a secret self-defense class for women, Ivy is generally content—as long as she can avoid her surly employer. But when several crimes appear to be tied to the new viscount, Ivy is tasked by the spymaster known as the Dove to gather intel on the grumpy, brooding—and handsome—lord.
 
Owen, Viscount Brackley, has his hands full with his unruly half-sisters and the crumbling estate he recently inherited. He doesn’t need the distraction of the cheeky, way too cheerful, and undeniably stunning governess who always seems to be underfoot. But when Ivy finds herself in need of a beau to avoid her conniving father’s attempts to marry her off, Owen surprises the both of them by offering to falsely court her and teach her the finer points of flirting. And as their deception continues, Owen discovers two things: that perhaps his heart is not quite as numb as he’d come to believe. And that Ivy is keeping secrets from him.

 

Release date: March 10, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

October 1838

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.”

Before the words were fully out of Ivy’s mouth, the Dove had grabbed her arm, thrust her hip into Ivy’s belly, and tossed her to the floor.

Air escaped Ivy’s lungs as she stared up at the ceiling pattern. Heavens, she had not expected that.

Ivy rolled to her feet and narrowed her eyes. The Dove was not even breathing hard. She seemed as put out as if she had just swatted at a fly. “Again,” Ivy said.

This time she was ready for the snakelike attack, blocking a blow to her belly and another to her throat, but leaving her feet vulnerable to the low swipe that knocked her onto her back again.

“You are far more skilled than I am,” Ivy said, climbing to her feet. “Why did you attend my class?”

“You are holding back.” The Dove’s tone was mild as she ignored her inquiry. “You are afraid to hurt me. That is a mistake. This time, I want you to try and strike me.”

“I do not think I could—”

Ivy’s breath was cut off by the Dove lightly uppercutting her rib cage. Ivy groaned.

“Hit me.”

Ivy inhaled deeply through her nostrils and then she let loose, just as she had when she was smaller and fighting her larger brothers.

She fared much better, eventually slipping a punch past the Dove’s defenses and connecting with her face. As soon as Ivy’s knuckles made contact with the other woman’s veil-covered nose—not hard enough to break it but certainly hard enough to make it smart—Ivy shrieked and clasped her hands to her mouth. “Oh my heavens, I am so terribly sorry. I did not mean to do that.”

When the Dove dropped her hands, she was smiling widely. “Miss Bennett, I would like to offer you employment.”

Ivy bent to collect her water glass from the floor and drank greedily. “I am sorry, madam, but I already have a job.”

“Yes, as a governess for Viscount Brackley’s younger sisters. That is exactly why I require your services.”

Ivy lowered the glass. The Dove continued speaking as she stepped into a skirt that concealed her breeches, and tucked her shirtsleeve tails into the waist. Ivy could smell the expensive peony scent that clung to the woman’s skin despite the exercise.

“Perhaps you have heard of Perdita’s?” the Dove asked.

It sounded familiar to Ivy.

“Perdita’s is the most exclusive governess school in all of England. We supply more than ninety percent of the ton and upper classes with governesses.”

That was why it had rung a bell. When Ivy had told her mother she was going to decline her father’s latest suitor and become a governess instead, her mother had paled and begun to tremble. She had been terrified of what Ivy’s father and society would think about the granddaughter of a marquess taking employment. She had tried to talk Ivy out of her decision by claiming it would be impossible to find a position without a letter from Perdita’s, but Ivy’s mind had been too set to ask questions.

“I own Perdita’s,” the Dove continued, sitting on the floor to pull on her boots. “My governesses do more than educate the young minds of the ton. They also listen and collect names and bits of gossip, and then pass the information to me.”

Frowning, Ivy wrapped her corset around her ribs. “For what purpose? Blackmail?”

“No, Miss Bennett, but I am pleased you had the nerve to ask. I collect the information to help deliver justice. Who is holding the lords and ladies of the ton accountable? Who can stop a lord with a title, fortune, and connections, if he has done wrong? Very few have that power, and that is why I help even the score. When pertinent, I forward information to the Metropolitan Police. But when there is an issue where the courts are incapable of exacting justice, I take matters into my own hands.”

Ivy gaped at her. “Are you telling me you have an entire network of spies in the homes of the ton?”

“I am.” The Dove straightened, and when she patted down her veil, Ivy realized with some awe that the woman looked as put together as if she had just stepped fresh from her dressing room.

“What sort of issues require you to take matters into your own hands?”

“The law is very clear about what constitutes a crime, but it rarely takes into consideration what constitutes a crime against womanhood. Recently, there were a number of progressive and outspoken women who were compromised into marriages in order to secure their dowries and silence. It was not illegal, so no law could hold those men accountable.”

“The Dowry Thieves!” Ivy exclaimed. She had closely followed the scandalous exposure in the newspapers over the summer, repulsed by the behavior of the “gentlemen” involved. “Were you responsible for exposing them and ruining their reputations?”

“Yes, along with Mrs. Francis Jones. She was one of my governesses, and she uncovered the entire operation.”

Ivy nearly let out one of the whistles her brothers were allowed but women were not. “That is impressive indeed, but what could you possibly need my help with? I have only been a governess for a month. I do not—” Ivy’s heart stilled. “Lord Brackley. You suspect him of wrongdoing.”

The Dove hesitated. “It is more that I have developed an interest in him.”

Ivy pulled her dress over her head. “He has only just arrived from Prussia. How could he have landed himself into trouble already?”

“Just because he has not previously been back to Brackley Estate does not mean he has stayed out of the country. In fact, over the years he has occasionally visited England in order to complete business.” The Dove paused, tapping her fingers against her skirt as if considering how much to share. “Do you keep abreast of the news?”

“Oh, yes,” Ivy said, lacing her riding boots with one knee propped beneath her chin. “I keep up with all the news and all the latest gossip.”

“Then you will have heard of the curious cases of madness that have begun to plague London. The madness presents itself as mental confusion, memory loss, and lethargy, and it has affected women almost exclusively.”

Ivy nodded sadly. “The headlines today called it hysteria. A number of women have been committed to institutions, and there appear to be more displaying symptoms each day.” She did not want to imagine the conditions the committed women would face.

The Dove’s lips pursed. “I do not believe in female hysteria. The idea that women’s minds are delicate and easily manipulated would be laughable if there were not very real and devastating consequences for those beliefs. I plan to expose the truth behind the ‘hysteria.’ I have been going through the information provided by my governesses, and some interesting patterns have emerged. In particular, many of the affected women’s households were visited by a certain man within the year leading up to their ‘madness.’”

“Do you mean to say Viscount Brackley called upon those women’s homes, and then they later became hysterical?”

“More than seventy percent of the ‘hysterical’ women received a visit from his lordship.”

“That is… how could…” Ivy’s mind floundered. What could Lord Brackley have done at those visits? Why had he been in London so often? “That seems to be more than a coincidence.”

The Dove tugged on her black gloves. “Indeed. That is why I need you.”

“How can I help?”

“I want you to listen to the servants and the household gossip.”

Now, that Ivy could do. Gossip was as essential as air to her.

“But more than that, I want you to spend time with Lord Brackley. I want you to assess his character, witness who he deems worthy of his time, and write down his rendezvous.”

Ivy’s nose wrinkled. That sounded far less appealing. So far, Lord Brackley had been as charming as a flea.

“Lastly, any correspondence, notes, or other written materials that you happen to lay eyes on could make all the difference in solving this puzzle.”

Ivy noted the time on the mantel clock and began walking toward the door, deep in thought. This woman, whom she barely knew, wanted her to spy on her new employer. If Brackley were in some way responsible for what was happening in London, then it was the right thing to do. And if he were innocent, then Ivy would be helping him clear his name. Either way, she could not turn her back on the Dove’s request.

“You will be fairly compensated for your time,” the Dove continued, pausing at the top of the stairs. “And I wish to make a second request. I would like to hire you to teach a self-defense class at Perdita’s.”

Ivy jumped up and down with excitement. “Oh, I would love that! But I would not be able to travel into London weekly. ’Tis too far.”

The Dove waved her hand. “The class would coincide with the Season, when I presume the Brackley family will be in the city. Think it over. In the meantime, will you join us and take on the mission with Lord Brackley?”

Would Ivy join the Dove’s secret society of governess spies? How could she not? The women plagued by “madness” needed her, and Ivy had never been able to walk away from a woman in need.

She stuck her hand out, and the Dove shook it firmly.

Owen scrubbed his palm down his face, feeling the scrape of two days’ worth of beard. He had been dodging his new, overzealous valet for days, which meant he had not had a proper shave. He could not stand to be fussed over, and yet he did not have the heart to relieve the man of his duties and livelihood, so instead he had been avoiding him. He would eventually have to speak with him, but valet problems were so low on Owen’s long list of disasters that had to be dealt with, he simply hadn’t found the time yet.

Owen rocked with the gait of his horse and cursed his wretched father for dying and forcing him to return to England. If there was one place Owen did not belong, it was among people who gave a damn about the bloodline that ran in their veins, and documenting lineage was practically the national pastime here.

Now, the blood that ran through a horse was a different matter entirely.

Worse than having to return to Richmond, a town that held far too many unpleasant memories, was having to deal with the source of his childhood darkness itself: Brackley Estate. The last time Owen had seen the estate, he had been turning his back on a well-kept manor. When he had returned a week ago, it had been to find crumbling walls, peeling paint, and an absent stepmother. Hell, even the mice were mangy. If the estate were not responsible for the livelihoods of dozens of servants and eight little girls, he would raze the entire thing and be done with it. There was nothing there for him but a bad taste in his mouth.

Owen nudged his horse into the street with the ease of a man who had spent more time on horseback than on his own two feet. The visit into Richmond proper to see Lord Terthon had been necessary, as the peer had been an old and good friend of his father’s, but the requested nightcap had worn him out. Owen required a heavy amount of alone time, which was one of the reasons he found solace in horses. They did not require frivolous rituals. All of the formal bowing and proper words, the things not said but implied, and the notorious cuts with sugar drove Owen half-mad. He was not designed for London society. He was too blunt. Too uninterested in playing nice. He had known it from a young age, and so had his father.

That was why they had put into place The Plan. The viscount had allowed Owen to leave the country with the understanding that should the old man sire another son, Owen would surrender the viscountcy through whatever means necessary. Owen had happily agreed.

Then his father had proceeded to have eight girls.

Saxony nickered, and Owen stroked a calloused hand down the horse’s neck. An October breeze lifted strands of the stallion’s mane and brought with it the scent of wood smoke, making Owen grateful for the wool overcoat he had chosen last minute. Winter was fast approaching, and the manor was drafty and ill-suited for such a long stretch of cold, as were the stables. He briefly closed his eyes as he thought of the enormous sum it would take to restore the buildings. He was a wealthy man and could afford the repairs, but that did not mean he wanted to. He balked at the idea of investing in the thing his father had loved so much, and that he hated with equal passion.

Owen’s thoughts drifted from the redesign he was considering for the stables to his half-sisters. Until he had arrived a week prior, he had never met them, and when they had been assembled into a line in the formal parlor to receive him, he had been so exhausted he had barely seen them beyond noting that, although they had the same caramel-colored hair as he, they took after their mother with their mischievous hazel eyes, for which he was grateful. He was not sure he could have borne eight miniatures of his father.

He had been told the girls ranged from the ages of three to ten, and by all accounts they were wild and unmanageable. According to the whispers he had overheard, because God forbid anyone say anything outright, the only person the children seemed inclined to mind was the new governess: Miss Ivy Bennett.

Owen scowled as he remembered his one and only run-in with Miss Bennett. He had briefly met the governess before she had known who he was. She had been charmingly disheveled, with light brown hair, a sprinkle of freckles on her pert nose, and eyes the color of clover honey. With a conspiratorial smile, she had proceeded to warn him about the “grumpy” new viscount who was due to arrive. When he had enlightened her to the fact that he was the grumpy new viscount, rather than looking chagrined, she had smartly saluted him. Was her impertinence why his young sisters adored her so? Or was it because she was a Bennett?

Owen’s jaw clenched at the possibility that Miss Ivy Bennett was related to Barnes Bennett. Might in fact be the man’s cherished baby sister. His former school friend had many talents, one of which was witty impertinence. Based on Owen’s brief encounter with Miss Bennett, he thought the likelihood of their relation high.

Despite how his friendship with Barnes had ended, Owen still occasionally thought of the man. A decade ago, he and Barnes had been inseparable friends at Harrow, until the day Barnes had bloodied his nose and told him he never wanted to set eyes on him again. Before Owen had recovered from the assault, Barnes had packed his belongings and fled the school without another word. Owen had ridden to Barnes’s house to demand an explanation, but his closest friend had refused to speak to him, and Owen had been too proud to keep begging. With no further reason to stay at Harrow, Owen had packed his own bags ten days before graduation and left the country, his traitorous friend, and his miserable life behind.

Owen was mulling over the bitter memory, when he spotted a shadowy figure on the road ahead. The streetlamps flickered in the wind, casting dancing shadows across the packed dirt and the silhouette of a woman trying hopelessly to squash a hat atop her head as her horse ambled forward. What was a lady doing riding unescorted on a country road so late at night? Any manner of ill fortune could befall her.

Owen urged his horse into a trot. The woman must have heard him coming up behind her, because she paused and turned beneath a streetlamp, her plush lips falling open and her honey eyes widening with surprise when she realized who he was.

“Miss Bennett,” Owen said sternly, “what are you doing in town at this time of night?” His gaze fell to where a good four inches of her stockings were visible beneath her cape. She was riding astride, which in his expert opinion was the only sensible way to ride a horse, and bareback. He knew for a fact his stable possessed a number of good saddles.

“Lord Brackley.” She smiled widely at him, and a crescent dimple appeared in her right cheek, which was rosy from the October chill. Tawny curls tumbled down her back, and her hat was askew on the crown of her head. She appeared entirely disheveled and breathless, as if she had just come from healthy exercise.

At the thought, Owen’s hands seized on the reins. There was only one explanation for her presence on the street at this time of night, and in this state of dishabille. “I repeat, what are you doing in town?”

“Visiting a friend.”

His jaw clenched. It was not his place to care whose bed his governess saw fit to visit, but he had to consider his sisters’ reputations and the fact that every nosy person in this damned country did seem to care about what others did.

Then there was the small, niggling voice in the back of his mind that told him if Barnes knew, he would murder the man who dared tarnish his sister’s reputation. Owen did not owe Barnes his allegiance, but he was Ivy Bennett’s employer, and that made him responsible for her safety at the very least.

“You appear mussed, Miss Bennett.”

“Oh.” Ivy glanced down at her misbuttoned gown and laughed. “My friend is the modiste, and she and I were trying on gowns. What is the point in owning a modiste’s shop if one cannot sample the wares when the business day is done?”

Owen’s shoulders eased with that bit of information. “Is it not late to be calling upon an acquaintance?”

Ivy’s lips twitched. “Pray, what are you doing in town, my lord?”

Owen’s scowl deepened, even as he grudgingly thought, Touché. “I did not know governesses were taught to question the master of the house.”

“Oh, I suspect they are not.”

. . .