Chapter Thirty-Six
By late morning, when the gaming rooms first opened to the day, the Lyon’s Den carried a different sort of restraint. Marcus had never known the Lyon’s Den to sound so calm.
Laughter rolled through the gaming room, low and smooth. Cards snapped. Dice rattled in their cups. Beneath it all, threading through the noise, a thin, clear melody drifted from Bessie’s private salon. A boy’s hand on the keys.
Henry.
Marcus stood near the edge of the main room, shoulders relaxed, weight balanced, every sense open.
The new coat sat well on him, the linen at his throat crisp, his hair tied back with a care he had not given himself in years.
Men watched him over cards and glasses. Word would run through London by morning.
The Wolf had returned to the Lyon’s Den.
A faint disturbance shifted at his back, subtle but deliberate, before Richard appeared at his shoulder. He did not crowd Marcus. He never did. The air followed him in, cooler, unsettled, before the door eased shut behind him.
“I’ve been speaking to an old friend of yours,” Richard murmured, his gaze remaining on the room. “You may want a word with him.”
Marcus gave him a sidelong glance. “Go on.”
“If Fenwick is as persistent as you fear,” Richard continued, “you might consider Major Townsend. Retired last year. Consults when discretion is required. The Brigade has used him before. He sees what others overlook.”
Marcus did not answer, but the name lodged where it mattered.
Now, he listened to the music.
Henry played a simple tune. One Bessie had praised as charming. The sound slipped through the wall behind Marcus and settled beneath his ribs. His son was here. Safe. With a woman who guarded her own as fiercely as any general.
He ought to feel steady.
The plan was sound. Lila shielded. Henry tucked beneath Bessie’s wing. Fenwick kept at a distance by light, company, and rules no man challenged lightly.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
Lila stood across the room beside Bessie’s chair, her gown a deep green that caught the candlelight. Bessie spoke with one hand resting on Lila’s arm, her expression thoughtful, measuring. Lila listened, head tipped slightly, lashes lowered.
Marcus’s chest tightened.
Bessie saw him. Those bright eyes narrowed, weighing him, weighing Lila, weighing London itself. She murmured one last word into Lila’s ear. Lila nodded, almost reluctant.
Then she turned.
Their gazes met across the crowded room.
Something settled in him. Not peace. Something sharper. The part of him that had once read every table, judged every risk, fixed on a single point.
Her.
Lila excused herself and moved toward the side corridor that led to the smaller parlors. She did not look back.
Marcus pushed away from the pillar and followed.
He did not hurry. Haste would draw eyes. He wove between tables at an unhurried pace and felt attention shift as he passed. A murmur ran behind him. Someone called his name, amused, testing. He did not answer.
The music changed as he neared the corridor. Henry picked up speed, a light trill spilling through the wall, bright as a child’s laugh.
Marcus stepped into the side passage.
The air cooled away from the crush of bodies. Candles burned in wall sconces, their glow soft against patterned paper. Voices faded. Henry’s melody came clearer now, as though the boy sat only a few doors away.
Lila stood halfway down the passage near a narrow window, one hand braced on the sill, her face tipped toward the night. The glass held a faint reflection of the room behind her.
He did not call her name.
He walked until he stood close enough to feel her warmth in the thin space between them.
“Is the air better here,” he asked quietly, “or are you hiding from Bessie and her questions?”
She stiffened. Only a breath, but enough.
Lila turned slowly. Her gaze traveled his coat, his waistcoat, his open stance, before lifting to his face.
“If this is hiding,” she said, “I’m doing it poorly.”
“You are the most conspicuous woman in London,” he replied. “Hiding is no longer an option.”
“So I’m bait now.” Her fingers tightened on the sill. “That is what you brought me here to be.”
The accusation struck cleanly.
“No.” He stepped a fraction closer. “I brought you because Fenwick had already marked you. Because Bessie can call in favors that no man refuses. Because Henry laughs when he is near her, and you smile when you watch him.”
Her lashes flickered. Henry’s playing threaded through the pause.
“I will not have him touch you,” Marcus said. “Fenwick. He will not lay a hand on you again.”
“He hasn’t yet,” she said quietly. “You place yourself in his path every time. That is what he wants.”
“That is what I want.”
She let out a breath that was almost a scoff. “Of course it is.”
She stepped away from the window. He did not move, so she came closer instead, drawn into his space. Candlelight caught in her hair and darkened her eyes. Her hands lifted, hovered, then settled against his coat.
“You cannot stand between all danger and everyone you love,” she said.
He did not flinch.
“I can try,” he said. “I failed once. I will not lose someone I love. Not again.”
Her fingers curled in the fabric over his chest. “You carry that like a punishment.”
“Perhaps it is.” His voice roughened. “The dead do not rise to tell you that you did enough. You live with what remains.”
“And what remains now?”
“You.”
The word held.
Her hand trembled. She searched his face and found no mask left to hide behind.
“You are different here,” she said. “Inside these walls. I cannot decide whether it frightens me or steadies me.”
“Bessie allows little room for lies.”
“And I do.”
“You never have.”
A line appeared between her brows. “You have lied to me often.”
“Yes.” He did not retreat from it. “Because I did not trust myself. Or what I wanted.”
“What do you want?” she whispered. “Say it plainly.”
Henry’s tune shifted to one Marcus had hummed on restless nights. Comfort. Memory.
Marcus brushed a curl from Lila’s cheek. Her breath hitched. Her lashes fell.
“I want you alive,” he said. “I want you safe. I want you angry with me for the rest of our days if that is the price of keeping you breathing.”
Her mouth quivered. “That cannot be all.”
“It isn’t.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw. He stepped closer until her skirts brushed his boots, her hands flat against his chest.
“The rest,” she said.
His throat worked. He bent his head slowly, stopping when her breath brushed his lips.
“I want to kiss you,” he said.
The words landed between them like a vow neither of them had planned to speak.
Her eyes opened. Longing. Fear. Pride. A fragile hope she would never name.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
Her chin tipped the smallest distance. Invitation and defiance together.
He lowered his mouth toward hers.
The air shifted.
Lila’s gaze flickered past his shoulder. Confusion sparked. Her fingers spasmed against his coat.
An arm locked around her waist from behind. Cloth pressed hard over her mouth.
Her cry came out muffled.
Marcus moved.
He caught a glimpse of a man’s jaw near her temple, hat brim low. A second man slammed into Marcus’s side, driving him back a step. He struck hard, felt ribs give, and shoved the man aside.
The first attacker dragged Lila toward a narrow service door, pulling her between them. Her heels scraped. The door burst inward.
“Lila.”
Her eyes found his above the cloth. Wide. Furious. Alive.
He lunged, but the second man struck again. Marcus drove him off and reached the door as it slammed. A bolt scraped. He forced it wide.
The passage beyond ran straight to a rear exit. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of the alley.
Marcus ran.
Boards blurred beneath his boots. Henry’s music still played behind him, bright notes cutting through the chaos in his chest.
He burst into the alley.
A carriage waited at the far end, dark, unmarked. The driver snapped the reins. Wheels bit into the ground.
Marcus saw Lila through the small rear window. Her palm struck the glass.
He sprinted. The alley narrowed. The carriage lurched forward.
His hand brushed the back rail.
A crate toppled into his path. He leaped, stumbled, and lost his stride. The carriage shot into the street and vanished.
Marcus reached the corner too late. Only dust and the echo of wheels remained.
Behind him, the Lyon’s Den erupted. Shouts. A slammed door. Somewhere above, Henry’s music faltered and ended on a thin, broken chord.
Marcus did not turn.
He stared down the street where she had vanished. Everything he had ever risked weighed against one truth.
Fenwick had taken her.
From his ground. From within reach of his hands.
Cold settled through him. Clean. Absolute.
He would find her. He would bring her back.
Whatever part of him failed in that task would not be worth saving.