The simplicity of the phrase threaded through Marcus like truth. Quiet as breath. Steady as a hand on a shoulder.
“Still,” he said, softer, “I am grateful.”
Color touched her throat.
Then a voice drifted in from the corridor, bright and cutting, as if the speaker had never learned the difference between confidence and intrusion.
“…my dear Mrs. Dove-Lyon, you cannot expect me to ignore such a charming scene.”
Henry stiffened.
Lila’s shoulders tightened.
Marcus moved without thinking. Not touching her. Not shielding her. Simply placing himself nearer, present enough that Lady Hammett would have to see him before she saw anything else.
The door opened wider.
Lady Hammett swept into view with a fan in her hand and satisfaction on her face, as if she had earned the right to be there simply by wanting it. Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood behind her, calm as stone, her eyes already on Marcus.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not apologize. She never did. She simply allowed Lady Hammett to believe she had won.
Lady Hammett’s gaze flicked first to Henry, then to the pianoforte, then to Lila. It paused there a fraction too long.
“Well,” she said with a sugar-sweet smile, “there you are. Miss Edgewood, is it. Such a delight to see you in your natural habitat.”
Lila held herself still. “Good morning, ma’am.”
“And Lord Wolfton.” Lady Hammett’s attention slid to Marcus, brightening as if this was the true prize. “How devoted you are. One must admire a father who takes such personal interest.”
Marcus kept his face neutral. “My son’s lessons require consistency.”
“Of course.” The fan fluttered. “And how fortunate for young Henry to have such a… steady influence.”
The pause was small. The meaning was not.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s cane tapped once against the floor.
Lady Hammett continued as if she had not heard it.
“I was telling Mrs. Dove-Lyon that I had not realized the Lyon’s Den offered private instruction now. It is quite the innovation. One can only imagine the demand.” Her eyes returned to Lila. “Do you take many patrons, Miss Edgewood?”
“I do not discuss patrons,” Lila said. “Not in any house.”
The air sharpened.
Lady Hammett’s smile strained at the edges. “Oh. How principled.” She tilted her head. “But surely you understand. People take an interest when a gentleman of Lord Wolfton’s standing is seen so often in such close… proximity.”
Henry’s fingers curled around the edge of his portfolio.
Marcus felt something go still in him.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon stepped forward at last, her voice warm enough to sound like hospitality while cutting clean as a blade.
“Mrs. Hammett,” she said, “you are here because you insist on being entertained. You may have tea in my parlor. You may ask after Cook’s lemon cakes. You may even ask me if I intend to redecorate.”
Lady Hammett blinked.
“You may not,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued, “question Miss Edgewood as though she is an item on a table.”
