“Thank you.”
“If Fenwick troubles you again—”
“He will,” she said quietly. “Men like that mistake persistence for virtue.”
“But he will not catch me unaware.”
She curtsied, formal and intimate all at once. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, Miss Edgewood.”
She smiled at Henry. “Tomorrow.”
He nodded.
The door closed behind her.
Marcus lingered a moment, the evening pressing against him.
“Papa?”
“Yes.”
“Will Miss Edgewood be all right?”
Marcus looked at the closed door. “I intend to make certain of it.”
They walked home in silence. The mist gathered around them. And the quiet between them had changed.
Chapter Nineteen
Henry strode throughthe private door of the Lyon’s Den as if he had practiced his entrance all day, his music book tucked beneath his arm, his chin lifted with earnest determination.
“Good morning, Miss Edgewood,” Henry said. “I’m ready.”
Lila stood beside the pianoforte with her hands folded neatly before her. Morning light warmed the polished mahogany and brushed the curve of her cheek. She smiled softly, reassuring, composed, as though nothing had unsettled her the evening before.
Marcus recognized the effort.
“Good morning, Miss Edgewood,” he said.
“Good morning, my lord.”
Her composure held, but a fine thread of strain ran through her voice. Not fear. Vigilance.
Henry hurried to the bench, but before he could climb up, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s cane tapped once against the floor.
“Miss Edgewood,” she said. “A word.”
Lila blinked. “Of course.”
Marcus stilled.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s gaze moved between them, assessing. Bessie Dove-Lyon did not traffic in gossip. She gathered facts the way generals gathered maps.
She inclined her head toward the hall. “Lord Wolfton, walk with us.”
Marcus’s pulse tightened. This was not an invitation.