Fear stirred. Not of him, but for him.
“You must not push him too far,” she said. “Men like Fenwick do not bend. They snap. And when they do, they strike whatever is closest.”
“Then I will make certain I am closest,” Marcus said.
A soft, frightened sound escaped her before she could stop it.
“Marcus…”
He did not touch her.
But he held her gaze with a quiet intensity that felt like the beginning of something neither of them could pretend away.
“Let me walk you to the Lyon’s Den tomorrow,” he said softly. “Do not argue.”
She opened her mouth to protest. The look in his eyes stilled her.
“I will,” she whispered.
He nodded, as if that single promise mattered more than he would admit.
The hall clock struck the hour. Soft. Steady. The sound loosened the moment between them.
Marcus exhaled and stepped back, reluctantly. “I will see you in the morning.”
“You will.”
He turned. Paused. Looked at her over his shoulder.
Something warm and alive crossed his expression before he masked it. Then he left.
Lila remained in the hallway long after the door closed.
Only when Mrs. Denning cleared her throat pointedly did she realize her hand was pressed over her heart, as if to keep it from breaking free.
“Miss Edgewood,” Mrs. Denning said, “I am too old to pretend I did not witness what I just witnessed.”
Lila turned, her breath unsteady. “I do not know what you witnessed.”
“You will,” Mrs. Denning said. “Soon.”
Lila looked at the closed door and whispered, barely audible,
“So will he.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Henry sat cross-leggedon the nursery rug, the little woolen dog pressed to his knee, the pianoforte stool drawn close enough to suggest he might climb it again at any moment. Every few breaths, he glanced toward the door.
“Papa,” he called. “I’m ready.”
Marcus was already there, leaning against the doorframe with his coat undone and his sleeves pushed to his forearms. A softer outline tonight. The version Henry recognized instinctively, even when Marcus did not. Henry always noticed when his father looked less like a man carrying the weight of a house and more like someone simply present.
“All right,” Marcus said softly. “Begin when you’re ready.”
Henry set his fingers on the edge of the stool first, a nervous habit he had not yet shed, then slid them to the keys. A small breath. A pause. A hum beneath his breath to summon the memory.
Then the notes. Three only. Three small tones, placed with care.
