Chapter Eight
Marcus arrived with Henry early the following morning that the market had not yet woken to its full roar. The morning held a pale, chilly hush, and Henry walked close beside him. Not frightened, but watchful in the careful way he had learned.
Inside the Lyon’s Den, they were met with warmth, soft lamplight, and Bessie Dove-Lyon’s unmistakable command of her domain.
“Lord Wolfton,” she said, inclining her head. “And young master. You are prompt, as always. Miss Edgewood will be ready shortly.”
Henry tugged at his glove. “Will she play the song again?”
“She will,” Marcus murmured, stilling the boy’s restless fingers.
Before Bessie could lead them farther, a flutter of silk and purpose appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Mrs. Hammett.
She advanced with determined cheer and absolutely no regard for boundaries.
“Oh, Bessie,” she cooed, her voice already too loud for the hour.
“I heard the most delicious rumor that you have secured a young music instructor of rare talent. I simply must see the arrangements. For my nieces, of course.”
Bessie smiled. The kind of smile that was gracious on its surface and iron-edged beneath.
“Mrs. Hammett, how fortunate you should arrive just now. Do come into my private parlor.”
Her tone suggested a courtesy while allowing no alternative.
“The lesson has not yet begun,” Bessie added, “and I insist on entertaining you properly.”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Hammett said, preening. “If you insist.”
Bessie steered her with practiced ease into the adjoining parlor, the one nearest the small music salon. A single door stood between the rooms, thin enough for the faintest notes to drift through, thick enough to prevent intrusion.
Marcus felt Henry’s shoulders ease.
Marcus glanced toward the closed door of the adjoining parlor.
Mrs. Hammett’s voice no longer carried through the wall, but he had no doubt she remained there, listening with polite patience and sharp curiosity.
The thought made him aware of how easily the simplest kindness might be misread.
He forced the concern aside.
Henry’s lesson must not become another thing the boy feared.
Bessie returned alone, serenity restored. “Come. Miss Edgewood is expecting you.”
Lila waited in the small music parlor when they entered, the morning sun catching the soft sweep of her hair. She greeted Henry first, then Marcus, her voice quiet and warm.
Henry climbed onto the bench without prompting.
Lila placed his small left hand on the keys, guiding gently. “Just the lower notes today. Slow. Steady.”
Henry drew a careful breath and pressed the first key. Then another. Then a third.
Marcus watched the tension loosen in the boy’s shoulders. Watched the way Lila nodded each time Henry glanced toward her, seeking reassurance. Her encouragement was so steady, so assured, that he never once flinched.
He had seen seasoned officers attempt the same thing with frightened men and fail.
Miss Edgewood did it without command, without urgency, as though calm were simply something she carried into a room and allowed others to barrow.
Through the wall Marcus heard a faint, delighted murmur.
“Oh, Bessie, do you hear that lovely bit of music. How very accomplished she must be. And the child, surely that is Lord Wolfton’s boy.”
Bessie hummed approval. “Indeed.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
Lila only smiled faintly and continued the lesson as though she had heard nothing at all.
Marcus wondered how often she had learned to ignore voices like that.
Henry looked at her. Not the wall.
Music, not gossip, claimed the room.
When the lesson ended, Henry slid from the bench, his face flushed with pride.
“I played the first line,” he whispered.
“You did,” Lila said softly. “And tomorrow, you will play it again with even more confidence.”
The door between the parlors opened, and Mrs. Hammett swept in with theatrical delight.
“My dears,” she trilled. “What charming music. Truly, Miss Edgewood, you must be a miracle worker.”
Lila offered a polite curtsy. “You are most kind.”
Mrs. Hammett’s gaze drifted from Henry to Marcus and finally to the gentle way Lila stood near them both. Her fan fluttered. Too quickly. Too knowingly.
“Lord Wolfton,” she said. “How fortunate your household is to have found such refined instruction.”
Marcus inclined his head with perfect neutrality. “We are grateful.”
Bessie stood at Mrs. Hammett’s elbow at once, guiding her toward the corridor with a smooth, unassailable touch of courtesy.
“This way, Mrs. Hammett. I shall have tea sent up.”
“Oh yes, yes of course,” Mrs. Hammett replied, allowing herself to be maneuvered.
Just before she disappeared, she cast one last glance over her shoulder, her eyes bright with interest.
Then she was gone, and the quiet of the room returned.
Henry slipped his hand into Lila’s.
She glanced up for only a moment.
Marcus was watching the boy with an expression she had not expected to see on the face of the man London still called Wolf.
Unprotected warmth.
The look unsettled her more than gossip ever could.
“Miss Edgewood,” he whispered, “may I practice again later?”
Her smile softened. “You may.”
Marcus watched her, not the music, not the lesson, but the way she steadied Henry without drawing attention to herself. The way her hand rested lightly at his shoulder, never claiming credit for what the boy was learning to do on his own.
It struck Marcus that this, too, was courage.