“There are some things,” he said, “I will not do on a doorstep.”
Despite everything, a smile touched her lips. “Of course.”
“Go inside,” he said. “Rest.”
“And you?”
“I will finish what I began.”
“Do not do it alone.”
“I won’t.”
She climbed the steps, then turned back.
He remained where he was, coat dark against the stone, watchful and unyielding.
Tomorrow would come. Fenwick would make his move.
And Marcus Wolfton would be ready.
Chapter Thirty-Six
By late morning,when the gaming rooms first opened to the day, the Lyon’s Den carried a different sort of restraint. Marcus had never known the Lyon’s Den to sound so calm.
Laughter rolled through the gaming room, low and smooth. Cards snapped. Dice rattled in their cups. Beneath it all, threading through the noise, a thin, clear melody drifted from Bessie’s private salon. A boy’s hand on the keys.
Henry.
Marcus stood near the edge of the main room, shoulders relaxed, weight balanced, every sense open. The new coat sat well on him, the linen at his throat crisp, his hair tied back with a care he had not given himself in years. Men watched him over cards and glasses. Word would run through London by morning.
The Wolf had returned to the Lyon’s Den.
A faint disturbance shifted at his back, subtle but deliberate, before Richard appeared at his shoulder. He did not crowd Marcus. He never did. The air followed him in, cooler, unsettled, before the door eased shut behind him.
“I’ve been speaking to an old friend of yours,” Richard murmured, his gaze remaining on the room. “You may want a word with him.”
Marcus gave him a sidelong glance. “Go on.”
“If Fenwick is as persistent as you fear,” Richard continued, “you might consider Major Townsend. Retired last year. Consults when discretion is required. The Brigade has used him before. He sees what others overlook.”
Marcus did not answer, but the name lodged where it mattered.
Now, he listened to the music.
Henry played a simple tune. One Bessie had praised as charming. The sound slipped through the wall behind Marcus and settled beneath his ribs. His son was here. Safe. With a woman who guarded her own as fiercely as any general.
He ought to feel steady.
The plan was sound. Lila shielded. Henry tucked beneath Bessie’s wing. Fenwick kept at a distance by light, company, and rules no man challenged lightly.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
Lila stood across the room beside Bessie’s chair, her gown a deep green that caught the candlelight. Bessie spoke with one hand resting on Lila’s arm, her expression thoughtful, measuring. Lila listened, head tipped slightly, lashes lowered.
Marcus’s chest tightened.
Bessie saw him. Those bright eyes narrowed, weighing him, weighing Lila, weighing London itself. She murmured one last word into Lila’s ear. Lila nodded, almost reluctant.
