But he liked it.
He looked up at Marcus, eyes wide.
Marcus swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Very well done.”
Lila smiled at the boy. “Would you like to try another tomorrow?”
Henry nodded again, more certain than before.
The lesson ended gently. When Henry stepped away from the pianoforte, he carried himself with a small but unmistakable pride.
Marcus felt the shift as clearly as if the boy had spoken it.
On the walk home, Henry stayed close but not clinging. When they reached the steps of Number Fifty-Nine, he looked up at Marcus.
“Papa… it was not scary today.”
“No,” Marcus said. “It was not.”
Henry’s hand slid into his. Not seeking safety. Seeking connection.
Later, when Henry napped, Marcus stood at the window with a quiet he had not known in years.
Chapter Eight
Marcus arrived withHenry early the following morning that the market had not yet woken to its full roar. The morning held a pale, chilly hush, and Henry walked close beside him. Not frightened, but watchful in the careful way he had learned.
Inside the Lyon’s Den, they were met with warmth, soft lamplight, and Bessie Dove-Lyon’s unmistakable command of her domain.
“Lord Wolfton,” she said, inclining her head. “And young master. You are prompt, as always. Miss Edgewood will be ready shortly.”
Henry tugged at his glove. “Will she play the song again?”
“She will,” Marcus murmured, stilling the boy’s restless fingers.
Before Bessie could lead them farther, a flutter of silk and purpose appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Mrs. Hammett.
She advanced with determined cheer and absolutely no regard for boundaries. “Oh, Bessie,” she cooed, her voice already too loud for the hour. “I heard the most delicious rumor that you have secured a young music instructor of rare talent. I simplymustsee the arrangements. For my nieces, of course.”
Bessie smiled. The kind of smile that was gracious on its surface and iron-edged beneath.
“Mrs. Hammett, how fortunate you should arrive just now. Do come into my private parlor.”
Her tone suggested a courtesy while allowing no alternative.
“The lesson has not yet begun,” Bessie added, “and I insist on entertaining you properly.”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Hammett said, preening. “If you insist.”
Bessie steered her with practiced ease into the adjoining parlor, the one nearest the small music salon. A single door stood between the rooms, thin enough for the faintest notes to drift through, thick enough to prevent intrusion.
Marcus felt Henry’s shoulders ease.
Marcus glanced toward the closed door of the adjoining parlor.
Mrs. Hammett’s voice no longer carried through the wall, but he had no doubt she remained there, listening with polite patience and sharp curiosity.
