“Miss Edgewood.” Mrs. Denning herself, cheeks pink from the warmth of the hall. “You timed it well. Cook is holding supper for the second sitting.”
“Thank you.” Lila stepped inside. Coal heat wrapped around her with a faint scent of stewed onions and starch.
Mrs. Denning’s gaze dropped to the portfolio. “A busy day, I trust.”
“Yes.”
“And your boy?” The matron motioned toward the small table where letters and gloves waited.
Lila set down her gloves with care. “He practiced. He played with both hands.”
“Well now.” Mrs. Denning’s mouth softened. “That is something. A child who persists is a rarer gift than clever fingers.”
Lila could not argue with that.
The corridor beyond the hall carried its usual sounds. Someone laughed upstairs, too quick and nervous to be genuine. A door clicked shut. Teacups chimed from the back sitting room where two of the older residents kept their own clockwork of gossip and whist.
Mrs. Denning lowered her voice. “Mrs. Wycliffe has been asking after you. She said she saw a gentleman outside the house yesterday evening. Stood near our railings for a good five minutes before he moved on.”
A small knot formed low in Lila’s stomach.
“I was not aware of anyone,” she said.
“That is what I told her. The street is not our private stage.” Mrs. Denning’s tone cooled. “Still, I do not like my ladies pointed out. You will tell me if someone lingers for the wrong reasons.”
“Yes,” Lila said. “I would.”
The words were true. Incomplete, but true.
She climbed the narrow stairs to her room. Her hand brushed the polished wood of the banister, fingers tracing the worn place at the curve where generations of women had balanced caution against hope.
Inside her room, she set the portfolio on the desk and let herself sit for a moment on the edge of the bed. The quiet settled over her like a shawl.
Henry’s face rose at once in her mind. The bright shock of his smile when both hands landed on the correct notes. The way he had turned to seek his father’s eyes first, not hers.
Wolfton’s response had been quiet, but not restrained out of coldness. Restrained because that was the only shape trust nowtook for him. Something in her understood the discipline it took to show even that much.
She could still hear his voice. She could feel the presence he carried into a room.
She set her hands palm down on the coverlet. This was not useful. Nor safe. Her day should have ended at the door of the Lyon’s Den. Work done. Payment arranged. Boundaries restored. Yet the memory of what came after the lesson remained clear.
Fenwick had waited.
Not inside the music room. Not even in the little corridor outside. That would have been too plain. He had chosen the point where the private door met the side passage. The place where tutors and staff passed when they came and went on Bessie’s business.
She had stepped into the passage with her portfolio and her usual care, only to find him leaning against the paneling as if the wood had invited him to rest.
“Miss Edgewood.” His smile had spread with the ease of someone who believed the world a friendly host. “What a pleasure to see you without a row of patrons in the way.”
She had halted. A fraction. Enough to acknowledge him. Not enough to give ground. “Mr. Fenwick,” she had said. “Is there something you require?”
“Only a moment of your time.” His gaze had dipped toward the portfolio. “You work tirelessly. Mrs. Dove-Lyon keeps you busy.”
“I am grateful for the employment,” she had answered.
“But employment could take a prettier shape.” His tone slid toward coaxing. “A small musicale, perhaps. A private evening. You at the pianoforte, a select company. Gentle conversation. I can think of a half dozen houses that would welcome a teacher of your skill.”
Heat crept into the base of her throat. Not from pleasure. From the awareness of how easily a misstep here could turn into an obligation.
