Chapter Ten
The lamps along Cleveland Row burned with a dull golden glow, their light catching in the damp air like breath. Marcus stepped from his carriage without waiting for the footman, the familiar pressure settling beneath his ribs as he faced the polished lion’s-head knocker.
He had not come here at night since before everything changed.
The last time, the room had blurred around him, cards, brandy, a circle of men content to let dissipation soften the edges of the world. He had left with nothing but the knowledge that running from shadows only lengthened them.
Tonight, he was here because of Henry.
Because of Lila Edgewood.
Because Bessie Dove-Lyon never summoned without reason.
He lifted the knocker and let it fall once. The door opened almost at once.
Theseus stood tall and quiet, surprise flickering before it settled into the steady understanding that nothing in the Lyon’s Den happened without purpose.
“Good evening, my lord. Mrs. Dove-Lyon is expecting you.”
Of course she was.
Marcus followed him past the gentlemen’s and ladies’ gaming rooms. A low hum of voices drifted through the walls. Men murmured over cards. Women laughed behind fans. Beeswax polish lingered in the air, threaded with something faintly floral he could not place.
He did not glance toward the main tables. His gaze stayed forward.
Theseus stopped at a quiet anteroom and knocked once before opening the door.
Bessie Dove-Lyon sat at a small round table near the hearth, her cane resting across her knees. Firelight picked out the silver in her hair and the sharp intelligence in her eyes.
“Lord Wolfton,” she said. Her tone held no welcome and no threat. Only truth. “Sit.”
Marcus took the chair opposite her.
She studied him the way a general studied a battlefield, not to admire it, but to decide where to place her forces.
“You read my note,” she said.
“I did.”
“And you understood it.”
“Yes.”
“Good. We may proceed.”
She leaned her cane against the table and folded her hands.
“You brought the boy to my house,” she said. “And you did so with purpose. I approve of that purpose.”
Marcus inclined his head. “Henry benefits from Miss Edgewood’s instruction.”
“Yes,” Bessie said. “He does. And so do you.”
Marcus stilled.
“Do not bristle,” she said mildly. “The woman has steadied that child in ways you could not have managed alone. That does not diminish you. It strengthens your household.” Her gaze sharpened. “But approval is not immunity.”
Her cane tapped once. “Other people lack my discretion.”
“Lady Hammett,” Marcus said.
“Among others.”
She slid a small stack of ivory counters across the table, arranging them without thought. Habit, not play.
“There are whispers,” she said. “Nothing with teeth yet. But shape enough that ignoring them would be careless.”
“What whispers?”
“That the boy has attached himself to a music teacher he sees daily.” Her gaze held his. “That the wolf who once prowled my tables now spends an inordinate amount of time in a private room with that same teacher. And that perhaps the teacher is not only a teacher.”
Marcus’s breath cooled.
“She has done nothing to invite that. She has shown nothing but patience with my son,” he said.
“I know.” Bessie’s tone flattened. “And I would not tolerate any suggestion otherwise.” Her eyes sharpened. “But the world enjoys invention, especially when Lady Hammett supplies it.”
Marcus felt the old ire rise, cold and precise.
“She questioned Henry.”
“Of course she did.” Bessie lifted an ivory gaming counter and set it down again. “Children speak plainly. Plain speech becomes fodder for people who do not understand restraint.”
Silence settled between them.
“Did he say something damaging?” Marcus asked.
“No.” Bessie leaned back. “But it was enough for Lady Hammett to decide you and Miss Edgewood share a… sympathetic connection.”
The phrase struck harder than it should have.
“I will not have Lady Hammett meddling with the boy,” Bessie said. “Nor with Miss Edgewood. Nor with you.”
“Then what do you require of me?”
“I require you,” she said, “to consider what shape your presence takes in Miss Edgewood’s life.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. “You believe I have been careless.”
“I believe,” Bessie replied, “that you have begun to breathe again. And men who do so often forget how visible that becomes.”
He looked away.
“You watch her,” Bessie continued. “Even when you think you do not.”
He did not deny it.
“I am not instructing you to withdraw,” she said. “If I wished that, you would not be here.” Her cane tapped once. “Lady Hammett is not finished stirring. Meet her with clarity, not reaction.”
“What clarity?”
“That Miss Edgewood’s reputation remains intact.” Bessie’s gaze held his. “If your regard reaches beyond music lessons, address it with intention. Not by accident. Not by gossip.”
Marcus’s pulse tightened. Regard was too small a word.
He thought of Lila’s steady hands guiding Henry’s. Her quiet assurance. The way she stood beside him without advancing or retreating.
“You assume much,” he said.
“I observe much,” she replied.
The fire snapped softly.
“At present,” Bessie said, pushing the counters aside, “there is another concern.”
Marcus waited.
“Miss Edgewood is being approached.” Her tone sharpened. “This afternoon, Lady Hammett questioned her directly about the boy, the lessons, the privacy of that music room.”
Marcus straightened.
“She did so in your presence,” Bessie added. “And you did not notice.”
The truth landed cleanly.
“I was watching Henry.”
“Yes,” Bessie said. “And she was watching you.”
Heat flared, then cooled into something steadier.
“Is Miss Edgewood in difficulty?” he asked.
“No. Because I intervened.”
Marcus drew a careful breath. “What do you need of me?”
“Be deliberate,” she said simply. “Whatever you decide, let it be chosen. Miss Edgewood is not a curiosity. Nor are you.”
“I will not allow Lady Hammett to touch either of them.”
“I know.” Bessie rose, leaning on her cane. “That is why I sent for you.”
She stepped closer.
“One more thing.”
He looked up.
“You are not the only one who has begun to notice Miss Edgewood.”
His pulse kicked. Marcus said nothing. He had not realized his attention had become visible.
“Who?”
“No one with intention,” she said. “Yet. But there were eyes today that marked her composure. Her quiet. Her appeal.”
She let the words settle.
“Be wise,” she said. “Quiet women are often discussed the loudest.”
Marcus rose.
“I owe you my thanks.”
“No,” Bessie said. “You owe me good judgment. Begin there.”
She lifted her cane in dismissal.
Marcus stepped into the corridor. The air felt sharper, cleaner.
Outside, night pressed close, the lamps casting thin halos on the stone. His breath clouded pale before him.
He paused beneath the lion’s head knocker.
The old pull did not come, the itch for cards, for forgetting. What rose instead was resolve. And beneath it, unwelcome but undeniable, a truth he could no longer evade.
He had begun to see Lila Edgewood.