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CHAPTER SEVEN

T he expansive lawn outside positively thrummed with activity. But Duncan, true to his dour nature, insisted they wait on the top flight of the staircase. In this manner, they might observe guests arriving at Lady Bellingham’s manse in the vestibule below.

As was his habit, Dunc kept checking his pocket watch as if, in so doing, he would somehow control time itself.

His brother had been squiring Iris Gabbert, the woman known outside their small circle of family and friends as “Countess Jessup,” around London for the better part of nine weeks.

All strictly proper for this was Duncan Higgins, after all.

Yet Dunc appeared unsettled, especially here in the same place where he had introduced Miss Gabbert to Society on St. Valentine’s Day.

Now, well past that fateful date, he held in a state of complete helplessness at the mere prospect of being in the young woman’s presence—and all due lauds to Iris for disturbing his brother’s once formidable equilibrium.

“Blazes, if your punctuality hasn’t always bested mine,” Albion said. “Now, I understand. The secret is to constantly mind one’s timepiece to ensure it is still working.”

Duncan kept his gaze steadily focused, muttering under his breath. Albion passed his monogrammed handkerchief over his mouth to smother a chuckle at poor Dunc’s expense.

“If you insist on gabbling to yourself, people will take note,” Albion added. “They’ll think you’re speaking to a ghost. Surely humans have enough questions about orcs without starting some rumor about our ability to commune with the spirit world.”

“Don’t you have some dalliance or another with which to concern yourself?”

“Dalliance?” He quirked an eyebrow. Dunc seemed fixated on addressing Albion’s love life whenever he wished to distract from his affairs. “What an ungentlemanly term.”

“I understand Mother is after you again to find a suitable mate. Someone you may wish to marry.”

Unbidden, Diana’s face flickered in Albion’s mind. He thought of her tiny pink tongue, briefly licking her lush lower lip before she refused his proposal.

Now, he allowed only a sly smile.

“Perhaps you will be more forthcoming regarding your mysterious missive to our homeland. What business have you with …” His brother scarcely contained his distaste at the name. “... Cousin Hugh?”

“Merely keeping tabs on the family, Dunc.”

“I have always considered him a bad influence. Has this something to do with the gaming tables?”

“You think me so insubstantial? So in need of protection still?”

“I observed nothing of the sort,” Duncan insisted. “And ensured the note was delivered as quickly as possible via our embassies. I can only trust you’ve no intent to steer your life in an irresolute direction.”

“I thought I was meant to be the ‘fun’ one. Isn’t that what Father wanted?”

Albion was forever the second. The “spare.” It was how families worked in England and the Hidden Realm.In the entire world, for all he knew. If only he could reveal the truth to his brother. In becoming the Benevolent Phantom, he was taking his life in a more resolute direction.

Dunc had always been scrupulously honest. Albion had no desire to place him in a situation where he would lie to protect him.

Or, worse, manipulated into revealing the truth and then forced to live with the guilt of betrayal.

Better to maintain his facade of a frivolous swell than to put his brother at risk.

“I leave all serious business to my elder brother as befitting our ranks and dispositions.”

“I know you deem me an incurable grouch,” Dunc muttered, sounding every bit the incurable grouch. “But even I can see that fun and purpose need not be mutually exclusive.”

Albion squeezed his hands tight so as not to betray his anxiety, recalling the card he had crafted for Diana with the appended verse—a friendly semi-apology for his imprudent proposal.

He’d longed to draw Diana’s face and send that as well.

She demanded the attention of oil paints, a canvas, and an attentive eye, all of which Albion would be so audacious as to say he possessed.

However, whether in this world or the Hidden Realm, one did not paint ladies who had refused them, no matter how deep a fellow’s fascination.

But hope sparked, kindled by his natural optimism. Conceivably, Diana Stewart had welcomed his communication. Perhaps he would see her this very day.

“Countess Iris Jessup,” a voice bellowed below, summoning Albion back to the present. Touching the handrail lightly, he leaned over to peek. Bedecked in white silk with her namesake flower in her hair, Iris lifted her gaze to meet Duncan’s, eyes twinkling.

“Ah! Your lady love arrives at last,” Albion declared.

To his surprise, Dunc did not object to the word love. And he gave Albion a gentle squeeze on the arm, an affectionate gesture nearly unheard of coming from his brother.

“You will not abandon us for a gaming table? It might be sensible for you and Iris to get to know one another better. Seeing as how … well.”

“It is my pleasure to see you so unsettled in this young lady’s presence. I would not miss this grand show for all the sapphires in our family’s mines.”

As Duncan walked away, Albion wondered if he should reconsider disclosing his identity.

For all he knew, Dunc would want to help him rather than talk him out of his adventures, as his mother had predicted.

Albion still felt a twinge of guilt over the deception but could hardly divulge anything at a garden party, of all places.

And he still was not ready to take the risk. Not yet.

He would continue to go about his days seemingly with no care in the world but for his next turn at the card table, a pinch of snuff, and a bottle of whiskey smuggled in from the north.

Albion went outside to the sun-dappled garden, a space twice the size of any other he’d seen adjacent to townhouses, even in Mayfair.

Ropes and posts with triangular cotton flags of every color danced merrily in the light breeze, providing distinct areas for the various amusements.

On a cleared swath of lawn, teams of ladies in pale pink, blue, and violet day gowns, and gentlemen wearing similarly colored waistcoats, swung mallets at a boxwood ball in a vigorous game of Pall-mall.

A smaller group took turns standing behind a chalked line in the grass to toss a brass ring around the long neck of a wooden rabbit.

Gay laughter infused the warm air, merging with music from the string quartet Lady Bellingham had hired for the occasion.

The musicians stood on the raised platform of a gazebo with a curved roof and fringed arches.

White canopied tables were positioned next to the gazebo.

Whenever there was a lull in the line of guests seeking refreshments, Albion caught sight of crystal goblets filled with tiny English blueberries, strawberries, and cubed hothouse peaches, each topped with a dollop of freshly whipped cream and rolled sponge biscuits.

Assorted custards, thinly sliced cheeses, light green and dark purple gooseberries, and fresh lemonade completed the feast.

Typically, Albion would have grabbed a mallet and joined the game of Pall-mall.

This afternoon, having unusually little taste for small talk, he ducked under a bower, loosening his cravat and settling his long limbs on a bench, one leg on the opposite knee.

This vantage point provided a pleasing view of a round plot of pink and purple sweet peas, growing wild in a nearly Orcan manner rather than the overly cultivated English style.

The flowers gave off a lovely scent, like the candied almonds he’d enjoyed as a child.

“Heaven love a duck! Albion Higgins! We meet again!”

Diana Stewart rounded the bench and emerged in front of him, causing his pulse to race at a most embarrassing clip.

She wore a low-cut day gown of Prussian blue silk, flaring out in a triangular shape from a matching ribbon seated high on her waist and a tulle overlay in the color of buff leather, the same shade as the satin-heeled slippers on her tiny feet.

Many of the ladies present had affixed elaborate adornments to their hair: tall feathers sticking out from glossy ribbons or turbans with live flowers, valiantly trying not to wilt.

Diana’s exquisite golden locks were arranged in a single plait encircled with a band of simple embroidered blooms that Albion couldn’t help but notice resembled daisies.

Were the daisies for his benefit?

“This can’t be a coincidence. Why, some might call it destiny.”

When he stood to greet her, she stepped nearer.

Her subtle fragrance called to mind biting into a fresh apricot in mid-summer in the Hidden Realm—the experience of something enchanting in an often bleak world.

Albion suppressed a low growl at the back of his throat, desire rumbling and aching for expression.

He drew a breath to calm himself, the type of exercise he and Duncan had learned at school to maintain the stoic rigidity valued in an orc—even an orc like Albion, who hadn’t taken well to the educational practices of the Hidden Realm.

“We are indeed in the same social circles, Lady Diana. How fortunate.”

“Have you nothing more gallant to say? As I learned from both your poetry recitation at Lady Talridge’s and your card to me, you express yourself well enough in verse.”

Heaven might love a duck, but now, Albion gave a silent prayer of gratitude to this Saint Valentine fellow. “I regret it did not arrive on the proper date.”

“It sounds as though it came in February. Alas, it got lost in a stack of letters and mistakenly returned. Even so, better late than never, wouldn’t you say?”

He should respond in kind to her coquetry. Had that not been the point? Albion Higgins. A fool to the bone, but now a fool only for love. A lovesick pup eager to emulate one of the dashing knights of English folklore.