But Lila’s voice followed him. That soft, steady cadence. It lingered long after the door of the Lyon’s Den closed behind them, and long after Lady Hammett’s laughter faded into some other room where consequences could not touch her.
Marcus did not know yet what shape this would take. He only knew that no plan was without its hands. And today, he had seen too clearly whose hands were trying to reach for Lila Edgewood.
Chapter Thirteen
Henry burst intothe front hall of Wolfton Hall ahead of Marcus, propelled by the bright energy that always followed a lesson. His coat flared behind him as he ran to the center of the marble floor and spun once, the movement quick and joyous.
“I played with both hands,” he announced, as though the walls themselves needed to hear it.
Mrs. Pritchard looked up from the tall blue vase she was arranging. The stern but dependable housekeeper paused, a tulip stem suspended mid-air. Her expression softened, just a fraction, but enough to make Henry beam.
“Did you now,” she said. “Well, that is an accomplishment. Off with your coat before you knock something over.”
Henry shrugged out of it and practically tossed it in her direction. She caught it with an expert snap of the wrist, then gave him the look only Mrs. Pritchard could deliver—part chiding, part fond.
“And if you visit Cook,” she added, “do so politely. No barging as you did last week.”
Henry’s grin widened. He scampered toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Pritchard turned to Marcus.
“He is changing,” she said.
“Yes.”
She studied him with the kind of knowing that came from having served the family long before Marcus inherited the title. “This Miss Edgewood,” she said with care, “she is patient with him?”
Something shifted in Marcus. Not defensiveness. Awareness. “Yes,” he said. “Patient. And steady.”
Mrs. Pritchard pursed her lips. “And with you?”
The question landed closer than he expected. He kept his gaze even. “With him,” he said. “That is what matters.”
Mrs. Pritchard made a thoughtful sound. Noncommittal. Perceptive. “Very well,” she said, and returned to her tulips.
Marcus retreated to the study. He removed his gloves and set them on the desk. A stack of correspondence waited; invitations, inquiries, requests for appearances he had no intention of attending. He ignored them all. His mind remained in the music room.
Lila Edgewood’s voice returned with disarming clarity.
Let your hand float to the next note. Your hand knows its place. I only open the door.
The simplicity unsettled him. No ornament. No display. And yet it carried a grounding truth. She spoke to Henry with respect, not pity. And she looked at Marcus not with fear, nor interest, nor careful curiosity.
But with honesty.
A soft knock sounded.
“Papa?”
Marcus opened the door.
Henry stood there, crumbs dusting the front of his coat, his hair a windblown thatch. “I want to show you something.”
Marcus followed him into the drawing room. The pianoforte waited in its corner. Polished. Silent. A relic of a life Marcus had set aside when silence had felt safer.
Henry climbed onto the bench with decisive purpose. “Miss Edgewood said if I keep the music inside, it will stay.”
Marcus felt his breath catch.
