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CHAPTER ONE

“ A s a knight of our realm, I’ve an obligation to weigh every side of an issue,” Reginald Addington said, calling attention to his newly elevated position for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes.

“Such matters are not usually suitable for lovely ladies such as yourself, but it is my responsibility to help educate fragile minds. To an appropriate degree, naturally.”

Diana Stewart stared at her soup bowl’s porcelain rim, wondering how she might tolerate this gentleman placed to her side. Were her saintly elder sister, Lillian, present, she would have reminded Diana to mind her tongue.

Raising his spoon to his mouth, Sir Reginald slurped his consommé.

Five-and-forty if he was a day, he boasted a fine head of dark red hair and a pleasant enough face but for a weak chin and eyes prone to bulging whenever he felt moved to make a point.

Which was constantly.If only he had learned to temper the perpetual urge to grace the room with the sound of his voice.

“Take, for example, the unfortunate situation in the Free State of Chamberly.”

“Not so free any longer,” Diana observed. “Has there not been talk of a prohibition on trade to punish Rostin for his unprovoked aggression?”

Six months prior, taking advantage of the chaos left in the wake of Napoleon Bonaparte’s exile, the Duke of Rostin had employed mercenaries to ransack Chamberly, a coastal city-state tucked between France and the Kingdom of the Netherlands.

Rostin asserted a medieval right to the land, a claim thoroughly without merit in Diana’s estimation.

“We’ve no call to interfere.” Reginald smacked his thin lips, apparently satisfied with the quality of the consommé.

“Maintaining strong diplomatic relations is in our fair island’s best interest. But I would not expect you to acquaint yourself with the complexities of such matters. Ladies mustn’t burden themselves.”

Diana drew a deep breath and tried to focus on her surroundings.

Lady Talridge set an impeccable table—or rather, her servants had done so—overflowing with crystal wine goblets, ornate dishes filled with berries, and white linens pleated into swans.

The room’s aroma carried the warm scent of their meal alongside the faint hint of pure beeswax emanating from multi-tiered candelabras.

Yet she found herself trapped beside this right nuisance of a Tory. “So we are to ignore Chamberly’s plight entirely?”

Sir Reginald stared longingly at the gold snuff box next to his plate, an object which stayed agreeably silent. “We must remember their misfortunes in our thoughts and prayers.”

“Prayers hold little meaning without action. Consider the brave man who orchestrated the rescue of Comtesse de Flarine and her family from within Chamberly’s gated walls.”

“Brave man? Tell me you’re not enamored of this so-called Benevolent Phantom?”

Tales of the mysterious Phantom, who had carried out daring rescues of those slated for execution by the Duke of Rostin, circulated at every social function, alongside speculation as to his identity.

Rumors ranged from an escaped convict seeking to make amends to the Prince Regent himself.

Absurd, to be sure, but Diana would have given her finest pearls to learn the Phantom’s real name.

“How can anyone help but admire such cunning? I am given to understand that the Phantom saved the Comtesse from arrest or worse. The morning papers reported her safe arrival in England, where she shall attempt to rally support for an armed rebellion against Rostin.”

“Impetuous actions inevitably bring about chaos,” Reginald huffed. “In this country, we abide by laws and express discontent via proper channels. Who knows where any deviation might lead?”

“Independence of thought? A more equitable civilization?”

Straightway, she regretted this commentary.

Mother would have wanted her to speak of nothing but the weather or the latest entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens.

In other words, to remain as lovely and inconsequential as the ornaments on the table.

But Mother had sequestered herself in Brighton for another week at least. She couldn’t be bothered to chaperone her unmarried youngest daughter about London during a humiliating second season.

Not for the first time, a sinking feeling gripped her soul as Diana realized how ill-suited she was to London Society. It had always been so, but time away placed this sad fact into stark relief.

“Come now, my dear.” Reginald petted her hand as though it were a kitten he’d rescued from an alley. “An ironical tone is hardly becoming in a lady.”

She summoned a feeble laugh. “My thoughts sometimes wander in peculiar directions.”

“Your time in our former colonies must account for your passionate but childish views. I should never have raised this distressing topic. Most ungentlemanly. Forgive me.”

Diana took a quick sip of crisp sherry.

“Never mind.” Face positively cracking from the effort, she forced a smile. “My sister would tell you I’ve difficulty keeping my opinions to myself.”

“Ah! I had hoped to see your dear sister this evening. Lady Lillian fares well, I take it?”

Diana fiddled with the ruffles trimming her dinner gloves. It was the height of fashion to wear gloves at supper, yet the practice prevented ladies from eating their fill, for they took great care not to let soups or sauces stain the delicate fabric. “My sister is well enough, thank you.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve not seen much of her as of late.”

Society’s favor clung to Diana and her sister by the slimmest of threads, as Reginald Addington was no doubt aware. Consequently, Lillian had forsaken a good number of engagements this season.

Which was all Diana’s fault.

Desperate to escape this wretched discourse, Diana reviewed the dozen ladies and gentlemen assembled around the oval table, all distracted by their own conversations. Her gaze finally landed on the extraordinary fellow seated opposite.

During the previous season, she’d encountered Albion Higgins now and again, sharing pleasantries about the latest dramatic works scheduled for performances at Drury Lane and the like.

This evening marked the first occasion where she’d the pleasure of dining in his company.

At present, he was using his oversized hands to manipulate the tableware in a perfect mimicry of English manners.

Gifted with a square jaw, high cheekbones, and broad shoulders—the mere picture of masculine beauty in this or any other day—Lord Albion cut a powerfully striking presence.

Thick horns curled over the top of his head, natural as his raven black hair, olive-green skin, and remarkable amber eyes.

The fangs jutting over his upper lip did little to detract from his charm.

If anything, they enhanced it. His tailored dress coat and expertly knotted silk cravat, as well as the exquisite red-orange Orcan gemstones on his cufflinks, furnished him with all the accoutrements of a sophisticated Bond Street Beau.

As she recalled, Albion’s agreeable character and impeccable knack for fashion resulted in a flurry of invitations last season. On that count, Diana had no reason to think anything had changed since she’d been away. She waited for a pause in his exchange with Lady Talridge before she spoke.

“I trust Parliament will strive to relieve the suffering of those caught in Rostin’s recent aggression,” Diana said, her voice louder to rise above the chatter. “Don’t you agree, Lord Albion?”

His lordship turned his head amicably, giving her a full view of his astonishing green skin color and handsome features. Diana seized this opportunity to look up into his eyes and fix her expression into a silent plea.

Help me.

“As you hail from the Hidden Realm, rather than English soil, perhaps you have an opinion on this tragic situation,” she said. “One which differs from that put forth by our government.”

“Oh, I daresay the intricacies of politics are enough to make a fellow’s head spin like a top.

” Lord Albion’s rich baritone—a voice that held the potential to mesmerize under the right circumstances, she was sure—flattened under the burden of his posh London accent.

“Such matters are best left to finer minds than mine.”

“You are fluent in our language. Such competency requires a fine mind.”

“Parliament’s position should remain steadfastly neutral,” Reginald cut in. “The Duke of Rostin hasn’t given the slightest inkling he poses a threat to England.”

Lord Albion grasped the stem of his crystal wine glass, sharp claws at the ends of his formidable fingers.

“Quite. Again, I can’t vouch for my competence in the complexities of these confounded disagreements between nations.”

“Precisely. Best leave affairs of state to those designated to tend them. That is why we cannot tolerate this Phantom’s extralegal actions.”

“Not that blasted fellow again.” Albion waved his hand as though to shoo away a fly. The jewels on his cufflinks and signet ring gleamed in the candlelight. “Deuces! I know that name only too well.”

“Do you follow the exploits of the Benevolent Phantom?” Diana asked.

Lord Albion leaned forward, resting his large hands to either side of his plate.

“I keep apprised of his feats via the scandal sheets. What one can finish in the time it takes to polish off a morning plum cake, that is. This fellow must have some merit, for he has captured the imaginations of London’s good ladies. Do you concur, Lady Diana?”

“Most ardently.”

“There you have it. How is a gent supposed to compete for attention? Hardly sporting. You are a bachelor, are you not, Reg? You sympathize with my vexation?”

Reg? Diana stifled a smile. Unfazed, Lord Albion tipped his spoon to enjoy the consommé. He appeared to devote a not insignificant portion of his brain power to determine whether he cared for the soup.