“Miss Edgewood. Lord Wolfton,” she said, eyes sweeping over them. “Do not linger in the Lyon’s Den.”
Lila stilled. “Has something happened?”
“Nothing,” Bessie said.
Which, in her tone, always meant something had already begun.
Marcus stepped closer. “Did Fenwick send word?”
“Not directly.” Bessie angled her head, assessing him with twitching interest. “But one of my footmen reported a man asking after Miss Edgewood’s movements.”
Lila’s breath tightened, caught just short of showing.
Marcus’s jaw hardened. “Describe him.”
“Tall. Expensive coat. No manners.”
Fenwick’s silhouette.
Fenwick’s impatience.
Marcus’s voice dropped, the sound controlled and dangerous. “He is escalating.”
“Exactly,” Bessie said. “Which is why you will take Miss Edgewood home. Quickly. Quietly.”
Lila’s cheeks warmed, color rising with gratitude and humiliation. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I do not want to—”
Bessie cut her off with a single click of her cane. “Child, you have already learned that wanting has nothing to do with necessity.”
Lila lowered her gaze.
Marcus stepped forward. “We’re ready.”
Henry came running. “Are we walking Miss Edgewood home?”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
His voice carried no hesitation. No apology.
Henry beamed.
Lila swallowed. Small. Careful. As if she feared even that motion might betray her. Marcus felt it like a pull beneath his ribs.
Outside the Lyon’sDen, the three stepped into the bustle of Covent Garden.
Marcus took his usual place beside Lila. But today, he walked closer. Not improperly. Not possessively.
Deliberately.
Close enough that any man watching would think twice.
Henry hummed as he skipped between them, blissfully absorbed in the small, ordered world these walks created.
Lila’s hand tightened around her portfolio as they turned onto Bow Street.
“Miss Edgewood,” Marcus murmured. “Tell me honestly. Are you frightened?”
She hesitated. Then, quietly, without embellishment or apology. “Yes.”
