“My lord,” she said softly. “Will your day allow you to return this afternoon?”
“Is something needed?”
“No.” She gathered herself. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon mentioned a musical gathering. I will be required to play. It would help if Henry heard the room beforehand. It may lessen the strain on him.”
Marcus studied her. This was not about strain. It was about shadows in hallways. Men who lingered. The quiet danger that followed women who lived alone and earned their bread.
“Yes,” he said. “We will return.”
Relief flickered through her eyes. “Thank you.”
When she turned back to Henry, warmth returned to her voice, but Marcus had seen what she had not meant him to see.
She trusted him. Carefully. Warily.
That trust carried weight. He had not borne such a thing in a long while.
They left the music room. Behind them, Lila remained at the pianoforte, hands resting lightly on the keys, as if the cool ivory steadied her.
The door closed and the room settled into quiet again.
Lila let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
Lord Wolfton unsettled her more than Fenwick did, though for entirely different reasons. Fenwick watched as men often watched—calculating advantage. Marcus Wolfton watched as though he expected truth and nothing less.
A man who demanded honesty without asking for it was far more dangerous to her composure.
Chapter Sixteen
The private roomsat the Lyon’s Den looked different in the late afternoon light. They were still elegant, with deeply upholstered chairs, lacquered tables, a scattering of gold-edged lamps, but without candles and an evening crowd, the space felt like a great machine held motionless before its gears engaged.
Marcus stepped inside with Henry at his side. Henry stopped at once, as if the doorway itself had turned to stone. His fingers curled into Marcus’s coat, then eased again almost immediately, the correction small and deliberate. He was no longer a child who hid.
“We will not stay long,” Marcus said quietly.
Henry nodded.
A footman hurried forward to take their coats. Recognition warmed his polite smile before he bowed.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked that you go to the far room,” he said. “Miss Edgewood is preparing.”
Marcus thanked him and guided Henry through the suite. Quiet at the Lyon’s Den was never truly quiet. Chairs scraped in distant rooms. Laughter burst and faded. Cards shuffled. Staff moved with trays, cloths, and flowers. A rolled carpet passed one way. Candlesticks the other.
A familiar figure approached, straight-backed as ever, uniform traded for a civilian coat. Felix Townsend lifted a hand in greeting, a tune already forming on his lips.
“Marcus. Young Henry. Not your usual hour for the Den.”
“We come for Henry’s music lesson,” Marcus said. “He is doing well.”
Townsend chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect otherwise.” He tipped his head. “Someone was at the pianoforte a moment ago, testing a melody. Caught me unawares. Haven’t been able to shake it since.” He tapped his temple, still half-whistling the lullaby’s shape. “Pleasant thing. Perhaps foreign. Well, don’t let me delay you.”
He continued down the corridor, the tune trailing behind him.
Henry walked with care, absorbing everything. Tension thrummed through him, not fear, but the vigilance of a child who had learned to read rooms before speaking in them.
They reached the far salon. The door stood open. Marcus paused.
Lila stood beside the pianoforte, speaking with Mrs. Dove-Lyon in low, measured tones. She wore a deep blue today. Not bright. Not showy. A color that lent her quiet authority. Her hair was pinned higher than usual, baring the elegant line of her neck. She was acutely aware of being seen. Of the gathering to come. Of the eyes she could not control.
