Chapter Twenty
The following morning, Henry hummed through breakfast. Not the wandering sound of a distracted child, but a line held with care. A rhythm. A memory. Something he meant to keep.
Mrs. Pritchard paused mid-pour. “He has done that since dawn,” she said.
Marcus accepted his tea. “He is practicing.”
Henry straightened. “Miss Edgewood said if I keep the sound, it will stay.”
Mrs. Pritchard sniffed, though the corners of her eyes softened. “Practicing is admirable. Jam on the carpet is not.”
Henry blinked. “I did not.”
Marcus lifted a brow.
Henry sighed. “Only a little.”
“Clean it before we leave,” Marcus said mildly.
Henry slid from his chair and bounded off, still humming.
Mrs. Pritchard set down the teapot. “She is good for him,” she said, as if stating a household fact.
Marcus did not disagree. “She is steady.”
“And for you,” Mrs. Pritchard added, light but perceptive.
Marcus met her gaze. He offered no answer. He did not have one he trusted.
They left the house a short while later. Mist curled along the square, softening the morning into pale watercolor. Henry walked with purpose, boots tapping a confident beat.
Covent Garden came into view sooner than he expected.
Henry knocked on the private door, careful and polite. He glanced back. Marcus ruffled his hair. The door opened.
Lila stood there.
Light traced her outline from behind, catching in the loose curl near her cheek.
She wore pale grey today, simple and modest. The sight of her stopped Marcus.
It was not beauty that caught him, though she possessed that easily enough.
It was composure and steadiness that held him there a moment longer than courtesy required.
“Good morning,” she said.
Henry beamed. “I remembered the first line exactly.”
“Did you?” Her smile warmed. “Then come show me.”
Henry darted inside.
Marcus followed more slowly.
Lila stepped aside for him, her gaze lifting at once toward the corridor. A brief check. A habit. She masked it, but not enough to miss.
“Fenwick has not returned,” she said quietly.
“Good.”
“But that does not mean he is finished.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. “I am aware.”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon believes he may present himself as considerate. As though concern for propriety grants him excuse.”
“That man does not understand propriety.”
“No,” Lila said softly. “He understands possession.”
Silence stretched between them, weighted and alert.
Henry’s voice carried from the music room. “Miss Edgewood, I can do the third bar!”
Lila’s shoulders eased. “I should go to him.”
“Miss Edgewood.”
She paused.
“You are not alone in this.”
Her breath caught, visible only in the slight lift of her shoulders. She nodded and moved on.
Marcus took his place by the window.
Lila sat beside Henry, her posture composed, her voice steady. A hand near his wrist, guiding without taking hold. Henry’s notes wavered, corrected, then brightened.
“Float,” she reminded. “Loose wrist. Yes, there.”
She clapped once, softly. “Perfect.”
Henry glowed.
Lila laughed softly, the sound light with relief.
Marcus felt it settle in the room like warmth after a long winter.
She leaned closer to Henry, adjusting the angle of the music.
“Again,” she said.
Henry obliged.
Marcus watched the two of them. The boy’s concentration. Lila’s calm patience. It struck him that she carried the same steadiness she asked of the music. Not force. Balance.
For the first time, Marcus wondered how long she had lived that way.
Something settled inside him. Quiet. Undeniable.
Nearly a quarter hour passed before a soft tap sounded at the doorframe.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned in. “Lord Wolfton. A moment.”
Marcus stiffened.
She tipped her chin toward the pianoforte. “Continue, Miss Edgewood.”
Lila nodded, though Marcus caught the faint change in her expression.
The side parlor door closed behind them.
“Fenwick sent a note this morning,” Bessie said without preamble.
Marcus’s pulse struck once. “What did it say?”
“A request. For Miss Edgewood to entertain a gathering next weekend. Intimate. Gentlemen of taste.” Her mouth tightened. “I refused.”
Marcus exhaled slowly. It did nothing to ease the tension in his chest.
“He is testing boundaries.”
“Just so. Quietly. Confidently.” Bessie studied him. “Does she know?”
“Only that he lingers.”
“She is trying to be brave. And sensible. And invisible.”
Marcus’s chest tightened. “You cannot ask her not to work.”
“I will not. But I will ask you something.”
He met her gaze. “What?”
“Do you intend to step fully into this situation,” she asked, “or only stand near enough to look protective without acting?”
The question cut cleanly.
Marcus thought of Henry’s trust. Of Lila’s quiet courage. Of Fenwick’s smile. The answer rose at once with in him.
“I will step fully.”
Bessie inclined her head. “Then be ready. Fenwick does not lose gracefully.”
“I am.”
They returned to the music room.
Lila looked up at once. Her eyes searched Marcus’s face. She sensed the change.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” he said. “But there are matters we must discuss. Not here.”
Her breath caught. Trust flickered, quick and not without risk.
Henry finished the line with a small flourish. “I kept it all day.”
Lila smiled, and the room softened. “Then let us see what else you can keep.”
Marcus watched her. The steadiness. The strength she concealed.
Fenwick had misjudged the ground beneath his feet.