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“Blazes, if that isn’t good.” He wiped his mouth with a serviette. “I never was keen for an abundance of salt in these concoctions. Now, what was I saying? Blast it if my thoughts aren’t scattered this evening.”

“You were sharing your irritation with the Benevolent Phantom,” Diana prompted.

“Ah, yes. The ladies can’t get enough of their hero’s exploits.

Obviously, I couldn’t let this unfortunate circumstance stand!

I said to myself, Albie, you simply must do something, or you will be a dreadful bore at the supper table.

So I took quill in hand to compose a poem in this rascal’s honor. Care to hear it, Reg?”

Sir Reginald fidgeted in a manner that suggested listening to Albion’s attempt at poetry was the last thing on God’s green earth he wanted.

“Oh, do share!” Lady Talridge implored. A peacock feather affixed to her velvet bandeau bobbed in Albion’s direction. “Did you read about the Benevolent Phantom’s rescue of Comtesse de Flarine and her children?” She pulled one gloved hand dramatically to her ample bosom. “Such courage!”

“You see what bother this scoundrel has caused us, Reg?” Albion flashed a sly grin that lent a flush to their hostess’s high cheekbones. “Now I must concentrate to do the words proper justice.”

Albion squeezed his fingers into mock fists. How he did so without scraping his palms with his claws, Diana knew not. He cleared his throat before commencing with his recitation.

What can we say?

Of this hero, who just may?

Force a vote, yay or nay?

To the Duke of Rostin’s dismay?

Has he taken to the sea?

Or with a woman did he flee?

God save this gent over me,

This Phantom of Chamberly.

“Brilliant,” Lady Talridge gushed as her guests broke into applause. Albion leaned back in his chair, his striking countenance dulling to the affable nothingness prized by the ton .

While not wholly lacking in wit, the verses were ruined by the lazy pairing of “may” and “dismay.” In Diana’s judgment, at least. Still, she would award one point in its favor.

Albion understood that the Benevolent Phantom’s popularity might persuade Parliament to endorse the Whigs’ calls for further support for the people of Chamberly.

“‘Vote yay or nay,’” Diana mused. “On an embargo? Is that a reference to our Parliament? And their stagnation regarding intervention?”

“A right noteworthy interpretation!” Albion exclaimed, looking pleased with himself.

“With elections due this summer, Lord Albion, our esteemed Members of Parliament must place primary consideration on stability in the region and our economic ties to Rostin,” Reginald remarked. “Lest we provoke an armed conflict. It is a most complicated matter.”

“No doubt, my good chap. I leave such dastardly conundrums to your purview.”

“Regardless, these reckless exploits will end soon enough,” Reginald continued. “I have it on reliable authority that the Duke of Rostin now offers a substantial reward.”

“Rostin must understand that Comtesse de Flarine enjoys the protection of the Prince Regent himself,” Lady Talridge commented.

Reginald’s cheeks turned violently pink. “Forgive me. You misunderstand, my lady. The recompense is not on the Comtesse’s head, but on the gentleman who rescued her: seven thousand pounds.”

“No!” Diana cried. “What a fiendish scheme! Who would possibly betray this honorable man?”

“I, for one, own no qualms about spreading word of the bounty far and wide.”

“Come now, Reg. Surely such an extravagant prize serves only to promote the fellow’s heroic exploits,” Albion said. “The scandal sheets will sing his praises all the higher.”

“And the papers shall push all the more forcefully for an embargo,” Diana offered.

At that remark, Sir Reginald— Reg— pressed his thin lips together. “Are you of the Whiggish inclination as well, Lord Albion? Do you support an embargo?”

“Blazes if I know. If you want a sound verdict, you might discuss the matter with my brother. The Duke of Barrington, that is.”

“His Grace is prone to ponder English politics?” Diana asked.

Albion rolled his eyes upward, tapping his chin lightly with a claw before unleashing a long sigh.

“Hard to say. Though exalted in rank, the laws here bar Dunc from serving in Parliament. Something about being born in a foreign land?”

Lord Albion’s deep voice held a hint of frustration.

Unfortunately, she had not the chance to explore the matter further, for two footmen in full livery entered the dining room, carrying the next course on silver platters.

Diana and the other guests were soon treated to roast potatoes with herbed butter and mackerel in saffron sauce.

Albion eyed the meal with relish. “Saffron! Send me straight to Halifax if it hasn’t been far too long since I’ve enjoyed that flavor. Where does one locate such an ingredient?”

“If you were to take a wife, you would have the pleasure of enjoying such delicacies at your private table,” their hostess teased. Cloyingly, Diana thought. “Mustn’t tantalize the ladies forever, Lord Albion. You and your brother have spent sufficient time as bachelors.”

“Dunc, perhaps. As for me? Why, I’ve hardly settled into my set at the Albany.”

“I believe the heart of a romantic lingers under your imposing Orcan exterior, Lord Albion,” Lady Talridge cooed. Diana felt a sudden urge to pluck the feather from the minx’s bandeau and return it to the peacock to whom it rightfully belonged.

Albion, however, appeared politely immune to the flirtation. “Seeing as how I intend to live as a free man for the immediate future, pray tell the secrets to successful marketing in this city.”

The banter diverted to the unreliability of the city’s fruit and vegetable markets and the necessity of proper staffing in one’s household before shifting to the unseasonably stormy weather as of late.

Lord Albion ran on about a gale that had cracked a glass windowpane at the Albany, gesticulating grandly as he spoke.

If only Albion were less intent on emulating London’s most frivolous denizens. Then, she would have thought him one of the most fascinating men she’d ever met.