Mrs. Wycliffe shifted in her chair. “A late night, my dear?”
Lila stirred her tea without looking up. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon wished to speak with me after my final pupil.”
Mrs. Denning’s brows lifted. “Is all well at the Lyon’s Den?”
“Yes,” Lila said. “Quite well.”
Mrs. Wycliffe exchanged a glance with Mrs. Denning, the sort that held several unspoken questions. At Rosehaven House, a single deviation in routine could supply conversation for days.
“We only worry,” Mrs. Denning said briskly. “Dover Street is safe enough, but the walk home can be… unpredictable.”
Unpredictable, a careful word, meaning unsuitable for unescorted women.
“I take care,” Lila said softly. “And the Lyon’s Den is familiar.”
Mrs. Wycliffe leaned forward. “Will you teach the boy today? The quiet one?”
“Yes.”
“And his father?”
Too eager. Too bright.
Lila set her spoon down with deliberate grace. “I do not discuss patrons,” she said. “Not in any house.”
A ripple of discomfort moved through the room. Mrs. Denning nodded, cheeks warming. “Quite right. We meant no harm. You know how houses of women are, one small detail becomes a topic of conversation before anyone has time to blink.”
Lila did know. More than they realized.
She finished her tea and excused herself with a small inclination of her head.
As she reached the doorway, Mrs. Wycliffe murmured behind her, “Girls never remain unnoticed long.”
Lila did not pause, but the words tightened something at the base of her spine.
The staircase felt narrower on the way up. The house’s familiar sounds seemed edged now, carrying meanings she wished she did not understand so well. She reached her room, stepped inside, and closed the door with care.
The small space greeted her with the order she relied upon. Portfolio. Shawl. Music stacked by lesson. Structure restored what the world so often threatened to scatter.
She rested her palms on the desk and let the breath she had been holding slip free.
They noticed when she came home late. They asked about her patrons. They wondered about the boy’s father. And they wondered, if not aloud, about her.
Rosehaven House held women who lived carefully. Governesses between positions. Companions between seasons. Widows living on annuities who were too fragile to withstand scandal. Unmarried daughters whose families had tired of supporting them. Women like Lila worked twice as hard to keep what little safety they had.
Her own past, whatever shadow lingered, remained quiet only because she kept it so.
She crossed to the window and touched the cold glass. Outside, Dover Street was waking. Delivery carts rattled toward Piccadilly. Footmen swept the steps two doors down. The world moved on, indifferent and watchful in equal measure.
You are not invisible.
Wolfton had spoken the words gently, as if offering reassurance.
The memory unsettled her more than she liked to admit.
Lord Wolfton did not behave like other gentlemen who passed through the Lyon’s Den. He did not flatter. He did not pry. He simply looked at her as though he expected her to stand her ground.
And that, she realized with quiet irritation, made it far more difficult to ignore him.
