Chapter Six
Lila stepped out of the Lyon’s Den and pulled the door closed behind her.
The afternoon light had softened while she had been inside.
Covent Garden moved around her in its usual, indifferent rhythm.
Carriages rolled past the square. A flower seller called half-heartedly to passing couples.
Somewhere down the street, a violinist scraped through a lively reel that did not quite manage cheer.
Lila paused on the pavement long enough to settle her gloves.
“Steady,” she murmured to herself, though whether the instruction was meant for Henry or for her own thoughts she could not say.
She started toward the corner, keeping a measured pace.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s establishment disappeared behind her quickly, the blue-washed brick blending again into the crowded row of shopfronts and lodging houses. A young messenger boy darted across the street carrying a parcel twice the size of his chest. He nearly collided with her.
“Beg pardon, miss!”
“You are forgiven,” she said, stepping aside with a small smile.
The boy grinned and vanished into the crowd.
Lila continued on, her portfolio tucked beneath her arm.
Henry’s lesson replayed itself in her mind whether she wished it to or not. The careful lift of his fingers. The concentration that gathered in his brow as he searched for the next note. The small breath he took before striking the key, as though courage could be inhaled if one tried hard enough.
The boy listened.
That was the difference.
Many children learned music. Few listened to it.
She turned onto the wider street leading toward Dover Street, the traffic thickening as the afternoon stretched on. A carriage rattled past close enough that the driver tipped his hat in apology.
“Mind the wheels, Miss Edgewood,” called Mr. Tully from his newspaper stall.
“I always do,” she replied.
He chuckled and returned to stacking the day’s editions.
Familiar faces passed in the slow drift of the neighborhood. A seamstress carrying folded linen. The baker’s daughter with flour still dusting her sleeves. Lila inclined her head where it was expected, exchanged a greeting where politeness required it, and kept moving.
Routine steadied the mind.
It had done so for years.
And yet today something unsettled that quiet order.
She exhaled softly.
“Of course it did,” she said under her breath.
The boy had trusted her.
Not immediately. Not easily. But he had tried.
That small effort had weighed more than any polished performance.
She adjusted the portfolio against her side and continued walking.
Henry Wolfton deserved patience.
That much was simple.
What was not simple was his father.
Lord Wolfton had stood beside the pianoforte with a stillness she had noticed immediately. Not rigid, not impatient. Simply watchful, as though he feared the moment might break if he moved too quickly.
Men of rank rarely learned that kind of restraint.
She had seen enough drawing rooms to know the difference.
Her brow furrowed slightly.
“That is none of your concern,” she told herself quietly.
A pair of gentlemen passed, mid-argument over some parliamentary matter. One of them glanced back at her as though expecting recognition. Lila met the look calmly and continued on.
People noticed what they wished to notice.
It had always been so.
She turned the corner toward Rosehaven House, the street narrowing and quieting as it moved away from the market bustle. A laundress leaned from an upstairs window shaking out a sheet that billowed briefly over the pavement.
Lila stepped aside to avoid the drifting fabric.
“Thank you, miss!” the woman called.
“You’re welcome.”
The doorways here were familiar. The same cracked step outside the tailor’s shop. The same brass knocker polished each morning by the maid next door. Predictable things. Manageable things.
Her grip tightened slightly on the edge of her portfolio.
Henry’s music page lay inside.
Three uncertain notes written in a careful, stubborn hand.
She could still see the way the boy had looked at the keys before pressing them. Not fear exactly. Not quite.
Expectation.
Lila slowed her pace.
The truth was inconvenient. Helping Henry Wolfton was not simply a lesson. It was becoming a responsibility. And responsibilities had a way of drawing attention.
Her gaze lifted briefly toward the end of the street.
Fenwick had not appeared.
But absence was not safety.
She had learned that lesson long ago.
“Very well,” she murmured.
If he chose to interfere, he would find that she was not easily persuaded.
Lila Edgewood had built her life by standing her ground, not by waiting for permission to move.
She reached the familiar steps of Rosehaven House and paused.
The curtains stirred behind the front window. Someone inside had noticed her return.
Of course they had.
Nothing in this house escaped observation.
Lila had grown used to that kind of watchfulness.
What she had not expected was to recognize it again across the pianoforte, in the quiet patience of a father standing still while his son searched for courage.
She straightened her gloves once more, then placed her hand on the door handle.
“Tomorrow,” she said softly to herself.
Whether the promise was meant for Henry or for the uncertain path opening before her, she did not stop to decide.
Lila pushed the door open and stepped inside.