Chapter Twenty-Five
Lila did not sleep. Not truly. She drifted in and out of shallow rest, waking at the faintest creak along the corridor. A late returner. A door closing down the hall. The soft tread of Mrs. Denning making her first rounds.
The letter sat folded in the bottom drawer. You owe me a conversation. She refused to touch it again.
By the time dawn softened the edges of the sky, she had washed, dressed, and braided her hair with the steady, deliberate movements she had used all her life when she needed to appear calm. She descended the stairs slowly.
Mrs. Denning caught her near the front parlor, assessing her with the gaze of a woman who had lived long enough to see danger before others named it. “You didn’t sleep,” she said quietly. “I did,” Lila replied.
The lie was gentle. Not convincing.
Mrs. Denning touched her arm in a rare gesture of maternal concern. “If anything is troubling you, my dear, you must tell me.”
Lila shook her head. “It will settle.”
“That is what women say,” Mrs. Denning murmured, “when they fear the truth will make more trouble.”
Lila said nothing. She collected her portfolio and left the boarding house before the other ladies descended for breakfast.
The morning air was crisp, carrying traces of early spring blossoms drifting through the city. But the moment she stepped fully into the street, she felt it.
The prickle along the back of her neck. The awareness of eyes she could not see.
She did not turn around. She walked. Steady. Measured. Every step chosen.
When she reached Covent Garden, she allowed herself one glance over her shoulder. Nothing. Just the usual bustle of vendors preparing their stalls.
Still, the certainty remained. He is not finished.
The Lyon’s Den
Henry’s knock sounded before Lila could shed the weight of the morning. Theseus opened the door cheerfully. “Master Henry, Miss Edgewood is inside.”
Henry darted past him.
Lila stood by the pianoforte, her breathing held too tightly to appear natural. Marcus entered a beat after Henry.
The moment their eyes met, Marcus’s expression changed. Not dramatically. Not publicly. But with a quiet recognition that struck through her composure.
He crossed to her with a purposeful step. “Miss Edgewood,” he said softly, “you look pale.”
She straightened. “The morning began earlier than I expected.”
“Not so early.”
Her fingers tightened around her music book. “I am well, my lord.”
Henry hopped onto the bench, oblivious to the undercurrent. “Miss Edgewood, I practiced all night!”
“Not all night, I hope,” Lila said, finding a smile she could manage.
“Almost.”
She laughed softly. The first full breath she had taken since dawn.
Marcus watched her closely, his attention steady and unwavering, like warmth held just shy of touch.
The lesson began.
Henry was brighter today, more confident, more fluid. Lila guided him through a new pattern, her voice as gentle as the light falling across the keys.
Marcus should have been watching only Henry. He noticed everything else.
The way Lila’s shoulders tightened when footsteps shifted beyond the door. The faint tremor when she adjusted the sheet music. The glance she sent, quick and involuntary, toward the corridor’s shadows.
When Henry attempted a difficult transition, she leaned forward, demonstrating with careful grace.
“Float here,” she murmured. “Let the hand follow your breathing. Yes… like that.”
Henry tried again, and the notes smoothed into something close to music.
Lila clapped once with delight. “Perfect.”
Henry beamed.
Marcus’s chest tightened painfully. This room, this woman, had given Henry more life in a fortnight than Marcus had managed in months.
But Lila paid the cost of that steadiness.
When Henry practiced a scale on his own, Marcus moved quietly to her side.
“Someone troubled you this morning.”
Lila stiffened. “No one spoke to me.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Her breath faltered. She kept her gaze on the keys. “He followed me.”
Marcus’s blood went cold. “Fenwick?”
“A carriage behind me for three streets,” she whispered. “His driver. I am certain.”
The last of Marcus’s hesitation burned away.
“Did he approach you?”
“No.”
“Did you turn around?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She exhaled, unsteady. “I do not know how to stop him.”
Marcus lowered his voice until only she could hear. “You will not have to.”
She turned slowly, her eyes searching his. Something in her yielded. Not fear. Fatigue.
Before she could speak, Henry struck the wrong note loudly enough to make them both start.
“It hopped!” he protested.
Lila laughed, real laughter, unguarded, and the weight in the room eased.
“We will teach it to stay,” she promised.
That afternoon, when Henry’s lesson ended, Lila packed her portfolio with slower, more deliberate movements.
Henry tugged at Marcus’s sleeve. “Papa, we must walk Miss Edgewood home. She said the carriage followed her.”
Lila froze.
Marcus met Henry’s eyes. “Yes,” he said simply. “We will.”
Lila opened her mouth to protest, to preserve appearances, to refuse help she had learned too young to expect.
“No,” Marcus said quietly, shaking his head once. “Not today.”
She closed her lips. Did not yield pride. Accepted protection.
They stepped into the spring light together. Lila walked close to Henry. Marcus took her other side, his awareness locked onto the street behind them.
The carriage was gone.
But Marcus saw something else.
A man lingering near a post, a broadsheet held too carefully, unread. His eyes lifted twice as they passed.
Lila did not notice. Marcus did.
And the decision he had been resisting settled fully into place.
He would not wait for Fenwick to act. He would uncover how far this threat reached.
And he would end it before it touched her.