Chapter Thirty-Two
The first light of morning slanted through the narrow halls of Rosehaven House, catching on uneven wallpaper and the wall hooks that rattled whenever someone climbed the stairs too quickly. From below came the early kitchen smells of tea, bread, and the faint promise of butter warming.
Lila had been awake long before the house stirred.
Her satchel filled with her lessons, was already packed.
Her gloves were already on. She stood in front of the small mirror in her room, coaxing a stray curl back behind her ear, though she knew it would escape again.
She told herself she was eager for Henry’s lesson, for his careful concentration, his bright pride when a note stayed where he put it.
It was only partly true.
Mostly, she was waiting for a particular footstep outside.
When the knock came, it was quiet, deliberate, unmistakable.
Lila released a breath she had not realized she was holding, rested her fingertips briefly at her waist to steady herself, and went downstairs.
Mrs. Denning reached the door first but stepped aside almost at once, the movement suggesting she had expected him.
Lord Wolfton stood on the threshold.
His coat was neatly buttoned, his hair brushed into order, but something in his posture, alert, grounded, quietly watchful, told her he had not slept easily.
“Miss Edgewood,” he said.
“Good morning, my lord.”
She stepped outside and closed the door behind her before Mrs. Denning could add commentary she did not wish to hear.
They set off together, walking side by side. Not touching. Not speaking at first. Yet the space between them felt charged, attentive, as though it listened along with them.
When Lila glanced up, she realized Marcus was not looking at her but at every corner, every doorway, every unfamiliar face they passed.
“You’re tense,” she said softly.
“I’m attentive,” he corrected.
“That is a polite word for tense.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “You are observant.”
“Only this morning.”
He looked at her then, truly looked, and the weight in his gaze sent a quiet warmth through her chest.
“You did not sleep,” she murmured.
“I slept,” he said. “Enough.”
She did not believe him, but she let it lie.
They turned onto the broader street that led toward the Lyon’s Den. Carts rattled with early deliveries, and most shops had yet to lift their shutters. A lingering chill clung to the shadows.
Marcus’s hand hovered near hers. Not touching, but ready. The unspoken readiness curled beneath her ribs, unsettling and strangely reassuring all at once.
“Fenwick did not return last night,” he said.
“I watched for him,” she admitted. “I kept expecting him to appear again.”
“He did not. And he won’t during the day.” Marcus’s gaze swept the street. “He prefers evenings. He prefers shadows.”
“So, he avoids mornings,” Lila said. “An advantage.”
“For now.”
He did not explain further. She did not ask. But the words settled uneasily, refusing to be dismissed.
By the time they reached the discreet entrance of the Lyon’s Den, her breath had steadied, though her pulse still fluttered in the narrow space beneath her collarbone.
Marcus stopped before the door and turned to her, his expression composed but intent.
“I want you to pay attention when you leave today,” he said. “If you notice anything unusual, someone standing too still, someone who turns away too quickly, tell me at once.”
“Marcus—”
“This is not fear,” he said. “This is clarity.”
She nodded. She understood too well to pretend otherwise.
Before she could reply, the door opened. Theseus stepped aside with a courteous bow.
“Miss Edgewood. Lord Wolfton.”
Lila entered.
Marcus followed—
And then stopped.
At the far end of the corridor, speaking in low tones with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, stood Fenwick.
Lila’s breath vanished.
Fenwick was dressed too finely for the hour, his deep blue waistcoat immaculate, gloves folded in one hand. His posture was relaxed, almost genial. But when he turned and met her gaze, his eyes warmed in a way that made her skin prickle.
She froze.
Marcus did not.
He shifted slightly in front of her. Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that Fenwick no longer had a clear view of her.
The movement was small enough that no one else might have noticed.
Lila did.
A small movement. Controlled. Deliberate.
A line drawn.
Fenwick’s brows lifted. Not in surprise. In interest.
“Well,” he said, his smile slow and practiced. “Miss Edgewood. And Lord Wolfton. How fortunate.”
Bessie’s gaze flicked between them and cooled at once.
“Mr. Fenwick,” she said with precise calm, “you are finished here.”
Fenwick’s smile remained.
“I’ve only just arrived. A trifling matter concerning last night’s gaming tally—”
“Finished,” Bessie repeated, tapping her cane once.
Fenwick inclined his head, but his attention never left Lila.
“Miss Edgewood,” he said softly. “A pleasure, as always.”
Marcus stepped a fraction closer. The nearness shaped itself around her like a shield she had not requested yet could not imagine surrendering.
Fenwick’s eyes slid to Marcus’s hand, curled subtly at his side.
“Lord Wolfton,” Fenwick added. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Marcus said nothing.
No greeting. No dismissal. Not even a nod.
Something in Fenwick’s smile tightened.
He bowed, shallow and mocking, and walked out. Not quickly. Savoring the moment. The door closed behind him with a muted click.
Silence filled the corridor.
Marcus released a controlled breath.
Bessie stepped forward. “Miss Edgewood,” she said quietly. “My breakfast guest is waiting for you. Into the music room. Now.”
Lila could hear Henry practicing in the faint, uneven patience of the keys. She went to him.
Marcus followed.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Lila pressed a hand to her throat.
“That was not an accident,” she whispered. “He came for—”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “He did.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means,” Marcus said, his voice steady with something newly settled beneath it, “that the next move will not be his.”
She stared at him. At the man who stood with measured calm, prepared to face a storm she had borne alone for too long.
“Marcus,” she breathed, “please be careful.”
He looked at her then, truly looked, and something unguarded crossed his face.
“For you,” he said quietly, “I will not step aside.”
The words landed between them like distant thunder.
Outside, the morning remained deceptively calm.
But the storm had begun.