Chapter Twenty-Four
Lila did not breathe until the door closed behind her. The latch clicked softly. The boarding-house corridor stretched ahead, flowered wallpaper dulled by age, gas lamps turned low.
She rested her back against the door. Her fingers trembled against the door.
Marcus’s last words lingered in her chest.
You can.
No man had ever spoken to her in that tone. Not possessively. Not boldly.
With him, it sounded like duty.
As though her safety mattered.
As though her dignity was something he meant to honor.
Her breath steadied by degrees.
Footsteps sounded above, quick and light. Mrs. Denning’s eldest returning from the newspaper office. A door creaked. Someone coughed down the hall. The house resumed its ordinary noises.
Only Lila was different tonight.
She set her music portfolio on the narrow table and moved toward her room.
Inside, the space waited as it always did. A single bed. A modest writing desk. A washbasin with a towel folded to Mrs. Denning’s exacting standard.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Her hands still remembered the warmth of Henry’s small fingers.
Her pulse still held the echo of Marcus’s steadying presence on the steps.
And beneath it all, a slow dread curled.
Not from Marcus.
From Fenwick.
She turned her gaze toward the window. Streetlamps flickered to life below. A carriage rattled past, iron rims striking stone.
She did not touch the curtain.
If Fenwick watched, she would not grant him the satisfaction of her glance.
She closed her eyes.
Be steady.
Keep shape.
Keep sense.
Tonight, keeping shape required more effort than it should have.
Wolfton Hall
Henry burst into the front hall as though his news belonged to the house.
“Miss Edgewood says the music will stay if I do my scales tonight!”
Mrs. Pritchard glanced up from a silver tray. “Then I suggest you do them before the cook grows cross at the noise.”
Henry scampered off.
Marcus paused at the foot of the stairs.
His coat still carried the faint scent of the evening air.
His pulse still remembered Lila’s breath beside him.
His mind replayed the quiet look she had given him when he told her she was not alone.
He could no longer pretend nothing had shifted.
Mrs. Pritchard studied him over the tray. “You are troubled,” she said.
“Thoughtful.”
“Troubled,” she repeated.
He let out a slow breath. “She is not safe. Fenwick is circling. He means to unsettle her.”
Mrs. Pritchard’s expression hardened. Years of service had left her no patience for dishonor inside these walls or beyond them.
“Then you will keep her safe.”
Marcus met her gaze.
Her tone softened. “My lord… this may be the first thing you have cared about since… well. For a long time.”
He did not answer.
She nodded once. “Henry will need supper.”
Marcus turned away before she could say more.
Rosehaven House – That evening
Lila lit her small bedchamber lamp. Amber light warmed the walls. She opened her portfolio and drew out Henry’s crooked page. Three notes wavered on the staff, written in a child’s determined hand.
Her breath tightened.
She had meant to teach him music.
She had not expected to feel altered by the attempt.
A knock sounded.
She startled once.
“It’s only me,” Mrs. Denning called.
Lila opened the door.
Mrs. Denning held a folded newspaper under her arm. “A letter came for you. Delivered by messenger.”
Lila’s heart jolted.
She accepted the letter.
Plain paper. No seal. No signature.
Fenwick.
Mrs. Denning watched her carefully. “If it is trouble—”
“It is nothing,” Lila said too quickly. “A matter from the Lyon’s Den.”
The older woman’s gaze lingered, then she nodded and withdrew.
Lila closed the door and unfolded the page with unsteady fingers.
One line.
You owe me a conversation.
A thread of cold understanding slid through her chest.
She folded the paper, precise and controlled, then placed it in the bottom drawer. She owed Fenwick nothing.
She pressed her palms to the desk until her breathing slowed. Then she reached for music.
Not because she was calm. Not because she was prepared.
Because music was the one place her thoughts obeyed her.
Wolfton Hall – Later
Henry’s scales drifted down the corridor.
Marcus listened from the doorway, arms folded, shoulder against the frame.
“Papa,” Henry asked between notes, “will Miss Edgewood be all right?”
Marcus knelt, resting a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “She will. Because she is careful.”
“And because we walk her home?”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “Because we walk her home.”
Henry nodded once. “I will keep the music for her.”
Marcus kissed the top of his head. “I know you will.”
As Henry returned to his scales, Marcus stepped back into the hall.
For the first time in many months, his purpose sharpened.
If Fenwick meant harm, by word or by hand, Marcus would not wait for permission from the world, or from his own restraint.
He would act, as he always had, quietly.
Decisively.
Without apology.
And he would not let grief, guilt, or fear be used against him again.