If Fenwick meant harm, by word or by hand, Marcus would not wait for permission from the world, or from his own restraint.
He would act, as he always had, quietly.
Decisively.
Without apology.
And he would not let grief, guilt, or fear be used against him again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lila did notsleep. Not truly. She drifted in and out of shallow rest, waking at the faintest creak along the corridor. A late returner. A door closing down the hall. The soft tread of Mrs. Denning making her first rounds.
The letter sat folded in the bottom drawer.You owe me a conversation. She refused to touch it again.
By the time dawn softened the edges of the sky, she had washed, dressed, and braided her hair with the steady, deliberate movements she had used all her life when she needed to appear calm. She descended the stairs slowly.
Mrs. Denning caught her near the front parlor, assessing her with the gaze of a woman who had lived long enough to see danger before others named it. “You didn’t sleep,” she said quietly. “I did,” Lila replied.
The lie was gentle. Not convincing.
Mrs. Denning touched her arm in a rare gesture of maternal concern. “If anything is troubling you, my dear, you must tell me.”
Lila shook her head. “It will settle.”
“That is what women say,” Mrs. Denning murmured, “when they fear the truth will make more trouble.”
Lila said nothing. She collected her portfolio and left the boarding house before the other ladies descended for breakfast.
The morning air was crisp, carrying traces of early spring blossoms drifting through the city. But the moment she stepped fully into the street, she felt it.
The prickle along the back of her neck. The awareness of eyes she could not see.
She did not turn around. She walked. Steady. Measured. Every step chosen.
When she reached Covent Garden, she allowed herself one glance over her shoulder. Nothing. Just the usual bustle of vendors preparing their stalls.
Still, the certainty remained. He is not finished.
The Lyon’s Den
Henry’s knock soundedbefore Lila could shed the weight of the morning. Theseus opened the door cheerfully. “Master Henry, Miss Edgewood is inside.”
Henry darted past him.
Lila stood by the pianoforte, her breathing held too tightly to appear natural. Marcus entered a beat after Henry.
The moment their eyes met, Marcus’s expression changed. Not dramatically. Not publicly. But with a quiet recognition that struck through her composure.
He crossed to her with a purposeful step. “Miss Edgewood,” he said softly, “you look pale.”
She straightened. “The morning began earlier than I expected.”
“Not so early.”
Her fingers tightened around her music book. “I am well, my lord.”
Henry hopped onto the bench, oblivious to the undercurrent. “Miss Edgewood, I practiced all night!”
