Marcus held her gaze.
She held it back.
Henry frowned. “Papa?”
Marcus rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Miss Edgewood is safe with us.”
Henry nodded, satisfied.
They walked on.
Marcus felt his pulse sharpen. His shoulders drew subtly back with the controlled readiness of a man who had learned when to brace.
“Do you know that carriage?”
Lila did not turn her head, but the color drained beneath her skin.
“I do,” she whispered. “The driver works for Fenwick.”
Marcus stepped closer, placing himself between her and the street. Not dramatically. Not noticeably. Just enough to interrupt any line of sight.
Henry reached for Lila’s hand again, small, instinctive, trusting.
She squeezed it gently. Her composure returned, but the tremor in her exhale betrayed her.
“Has he followed you before?” Marcus asked softly.
“No,” she said. “Not like this.”
The words struck him like a cold blade.
The carriage turned down a side street and vanished.
Lila’s confidence did not return at once. She walked with her chin lifted, her stride careful but steady, refusing to let fear alter her shape.
Marcus recognized the quiet steel in her spine, and the danger of it.
“If he persists,” Marcus said, “I will handle it.”
Her breath hitched. “My lord, you cannot challenge every man who glances my way.”
“I said nothing of every man.”
She looked at him then, fully, openly. The truth passed between them, clean and unmistakable.
This was no longer about civility.
Or politeness.
Or even reputation.
This was becoming personal.
Henry tugged Lila’s hand. “I will keep all the music,” he said solemnly, “so you do not have to worry anymore.”
Lila knelt and gathered him close.
“Oh, Henry,” she whispered, her voice thickening, “I am not worried about you at all.”