In the glass, Marcus saw his reflection. The softened man grief had shaped. And beneath that softness, something sharper was rising. Something patient. Something resolute.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he would not wait for Fenwick to choose the terrain.
He would choose it.
He would decide the ground where they would meet, where advantage belonged not to arrogance, but to clarity.
Marcus blew out the lamp.
Darkness filled the room.
Resolve settled through him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The next morningbrought the thin gray light of a London day that could not decide whether it would clear or rain.
Marcus stepped from his carriage at the discreet side entrance of the Lyon’s Den, alone, the thin chill of the morning sharpening his focus.
No Henry at his side, no music to soften the edges.
Theseus opened the door and inclined his head at once, without question. That reaction told Marcus something he had not fully allowed himself to name. He had already become a familiar figure here.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon expects you, my lord,” the man said. “If you will follow me.”
They did not pass through the public rooms. Theseus led him along a side corridor to a door near the back, opened it, bowed, and withdrew.
Bessie Dove-Lyon waited inside, her cane resting across her lap.
The room suited her. No frills. A sturdy table. Two chairs. A modest fire that breathed steadily rather than burned. Her gaze traveled over him once, assessing, confirming.
“You are earlier than I expected,” she said.
“I did not wish to wait.”
“No.” Her mouth curved. “You have that look.”
“What look is that?”
“The look of a man who has discovered that something matters to him again. It is a dangerous expression. Often useful. Frequently inconvenient.”
He took the chair opposite her.
“I need information,” he said.
“Of course you do.” Her fingers tapped the cane lightly. “About Fenwick.”
“Yes.”
“What did Miss Edgewood tell you?”
“That he made himself intrusive once. That he follows her. That he has stood outside Rosehaven House these past evenings. That he now asks your staff about her movements.”
“Then she told you more than she told me,” Bessie said. “She wishes to protect my business. It is an admirable instinct. Misplaced, in this instance.”
The chair no longer held him. It felt too still for what gathered beneath his ribs, purpose, restless and awake. He rose and moved to the small window, more to steady himself than to look at the empty yard beyond.