“Any arrangements must go through Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she said. “She engages my time.”
“Of course,” he replied, as if this delighted him rather than blocked him. “I would never dream of usurping her authority. But influence can be shared. I could speak for you.”
He stepped closer. Not enough to alarm anyone passing, but enough that she became aware of the wall at her back.
He lowered his voice. “You deserve rooms where people listen to you, not for the coin they owe at the end of a hand of cards.”
She measured her reply. “What I deserve is not presently the question. My work requires structure. Mrs. Dove-Lyon provides it.”
For a heartbeat, his eyes cooled. Charm slipped like a dropped veil. Beneath it lay possession. Irritation. Calculation. Then his smile returned.
“Structure is useful,” he said. “One only hopes it does not turn to prison bars.”
Before she needed to answer, the click of Bessie’s cane sounded from the far end of the corridor.
“Mr. Fenwick,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, dry as dust. “I was not aware you had taken a position as my staff’s secretary. Miss Edgewood has other demands on her afternoon.”
Fenwick bowed, lips curving. “Always a pleasure to assist, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“I am sure.” Her eyes suggested the opposite. “The gaming rooms miss your coin. Take your helpful nature there.”
He went. Not defeated. Recalculating.
Lila pushed the memory aside now and rose from the bed. She crossed to the washstand and wet a cloth, pressing it to the back of her neck. The cool steadied her.
Fenwick’s attention had begun as a passing interest. A remark during a pause in a lesson. A compliment on her playing when he crossed the music room on some errand. Attention that repeated. Interest that sharpened. And attention was rarely free.
At Rosehaven House, women knew this without needing it stated. A man who lingered too long at the railings. A letter that arrived too often. A glance that did not match the acquaintance. Small things. Heavy ones, when the world already kept its finger on the scale.
Someone in the house had noticed a gentleman outside. They did not know his name. That might not matter. A silhouette and a rumor could join hands faster than facts could correct them.
Lila dried her neck and straightened.
She needed to keep Mr. Fenwick’s interest where it belonged. On the gaming tables. On projection. On anything but her.
Bessie had intervened today. She would again for a time. Yet even Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s sphere had edges. Outside the Lyon’s Den, Lila walked alone.
A knock sounded at her door.
“Come.”
Mrs. Denning peered in. “We had a peddler at the corner this afternoon, loud as anything,” she said. “The whole street was crowded for an hour. I dislike commotion. Was there anyone standing too long?”
“I returned by the usual route,” Lila said. “Even peddlers grow tired.”
Mrs. Denning stepped inside, hands folded over her apron. “I have had requests for more music in the house,” she said. “Miss Havers says the sight of your instrument case makes her fingers itch. She has not played since her last post.”
“I would be glad to play for the residents,” Lila said. “If it would not disturb you.”
“It would remind the house what civility sounds like.” Mrs. Denning nodded. “We will speak on it another day. For now, I will simply say this. If someone stands too long at our railings, I expect to know. I do not like men who linger without purpose.”
“I will tell you,” Lila said.
Mrs. Denning gave a satisfied nod and withdrew.
The room closed around Lila again.
She set the portfolio on the desk and opened it. Henry’s music lay on top. Beneath it sat her own pieces. Copied from older scores no longer tied to her name. Little inventions. Fragments. The private language she kept when the day’s work was done.
