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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

L ater in the day, Albion left Diana to her reading and correspondence and donned his top hat to make his usual rounds for the afternoon.

As the son their father had meant to represent the Hidden Realm, Dunc kept to a strict schedule of hours at their gentlemen’s club on St. James, though he had disclosed he found them a trial. Unlike Albion, Duncan thrived alone in his study.

Albion found such cloisters maddeningly lonely after a spell.

His acceptance into London Society—by way of high fashion, good humor, and the ability to take absolutely nothing with quite the seriousness it should merit—made him popular.

And there was much to be said for popularity.

The denizens of London found Albie Higgins a boon companion, unhindered by depth of thought.

Thus, in his own way, he smoothed relations between the Hidden Realm and England, even as the weightier matters of trade and such fell squarely under his elder brother’s purview.

So Albion sometimes spent time at the club on St. James without Dunc, looking approachable and glancing at the broadsheets with far less interest than he took in the club’s chestnut soup and dry Riesling.

It all rendered him damned decorative: a fixture of the club no more significant than the plaster of Paris pendants on the domed ceiling or the green baize tabletops in the gaming room. But he persisted.

“Lord Albion!” a jovial voice called, disrupting his thoughts. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Albion looked up to find the Prince Regent standing before him. At the club, His Royal Highness wished for the same treatment as any other member, free from the fuss and bother of court.

Well into his sixth decade, the years, along with an excess of alcohol and late nights, had made the Regent’s face puffy.

He moved slowly and not without great effort.

Yet his merry eyes and lively expression kept the good humor of youth, and his hair remained thick and steadfastly brunet.

The Regent’s stout figure bore a formal navy blue jacket with braided epaulets at his shoulders.

A stiff military collar encased his thick neck.

Such martial flourishes seemed without honor on one who never served in battle.

Deuces if he didn’t sound like Dunc, if only in the privacy of his mind.

Royal or not, Albion enjoyed the man’s company.

After all, the Regent’s situation wasn’t markedly different from Albion’s.

He may have been the eldest son, but His Royal Highness should have been king by now.

Any Orcan ruler similarly indisposed would have stepped down long since, allowing his successor to take his place.

Barring that, a court would have intervened.

Such was not the way of the English, so the Regent’s lot was to wait and conduct the business of the land as best he could until his father, the mad king, passed. In the meantime, he had not sufficient duties to fill his time adequately.

“Now, how is it unexpected?” He gestured toward his soup, which was palatable enough, though not as rich as the Santea Ollie served. “When our chef makes such fine fare available daily.”

“True that, but you are a newly married man,” the Prince Regent said in his jolly way. Albion had used His Royal Highness’s voice as a model for his own. However, he had modified it enough to avoid mockery per se.

“I should think you and your lovely wife latched together at this point in your wedded bliss.” His Royal Highness lifted his bushy eyebrows in an attempt at rakishness.

“I daresay Daisy shall find plenty to keep her lively mind occupied,” Albion responded. “An afternoon undisturbed sounded appealing, or so she told me.”

“Well, how fortuitous to stumble upon you here. May I join you?”

“An honor, naturally.”

His Royal Highness settled himself on the chair opposite, customized for orcs but suiting his generous proportions. He perused the handwritten dessert menu on the table.

“Ho, now!” The Prince Regent tapped the thin parchment, one finger bearing a lavish signet ring with his familiar three-plumed sigil emblazoned on the elevated gold bezel. “Stuff it all. It is impossible to escape this Phantom fellow. See there. They’ve named a pudding after him.”

Albion had not yet paid the menu any mind. He leaned forward to find the chef had inscribed Gateau à la Fant?me Bienveillant in indigo ink.

His heart skipped a beat, but he merely nodded, affecting a shallow weariness. “His popularity is undeniable. Though I daresay, this cake shan’t hold a candle to the Prince of Wales biscuits your chef concocted.”

The Regent chuckled as he pushed the menu away. “You know I enjoy your amiable conversation, Albie, but I confess to having other affairs on my mind. Might I impose upon you for a favor?”

“One would think you’re more often in the habit of granting favors than calling on them. Nonetheless, always your servant.”

“Your brother is now well married, too. And to that lovely Countess Jessup.”

“Indeed,” Albion said, careful not to smile at the title he used for Iris Gabbert. “It was a minor affair in the Orcan custom, but he is thoroughly besotted with the young woman.”

“Do you suppose that marriage might make His Grace more amenable to the ton ? From what little I know of him, Barrington seems a good sort all in all but stand-offish, if you don’t mind me mentioning as much.”

“I find it difficult to mind anyone stating the plain truth. I don’t think my brother would object to such a characterization, either. He is most comfortable in the privacy of his study, where he flourishes in his life of the mind. Blast it if he hasn’t bested me since we were both school boys.”

“But you shall still avail yourself of Society, Albie?”

“I can’t resist the call of Society nor the lure of the gaming tables. And I’m blessed with a divine bride who allows me those small vices.”

“Yes, yes, about that.” He re-shuffled his considerable weight uncomfortably. “I wondered if you and your lovely bride plan to attend Lord Mandeville’s ball.”

“We shall. Might we have the honor of seeing you there as well, Prinny? I miss your Thursday games at Carlton House. I can’t imagine you’ve had them in a while. You wouldn’t be so unsporting as to forget my invitation simply because I won a hand or two?”

The Regent let out a gruff laugh. “A hand or two? Why, you orcs have an amusing way of putting things, Albie. Or is it just modesty on your part?”

“Modesty is a quality both our worlds value, is it not?” He cocked an eyebrow because His Royal Highness found it entertaining when he spoke plainly. “Or the show of such, rather.”

As predicted, that incited another laugh, accompanied by a pounding of his meaty hand on the table.

Albion couldn’t help but notice that one of the many rings on His Royal Highness’s fingers featured a prominent red-orange sapphire, a gift from the quorum in charge of the Hidden Realm to the then Prince of Wales before his Regency.

Occasionally, the rumormongers hinted that the Prince Regent planned an official state visit to the Hidden Realm.

“Rather,” he affirmed. “Understand that while my request appeals to the part of you that might give in to modesty now and again, I have all due approbation for your ability at cards.”

Albion sensed it was no longer the time for tomfoolery. He was also well aware that granting a favor could be highly prudent for the future. Such favors, when given, were rarely forgotten. It was the unstated agreement between the rulers of this land and their lords.

“How may I be of service?”

The Regent glanced around the club.

“I have not the talent for cards like you, sir. I fear my late nights at Carlton House are a problem.”

“Oh, dear,” Albion replied, waiting to hear more before committing to anything.

“My father might be mad as a hatter, but it doesn’t mean the scoundrels around the Crown are any less powerful.”

“Now my head isn’t made for politics, my good fellow,” Albie said, in keeping with his persona while lending an appropriate seriousness to his tone, given that the Regent took him into such admirable confidence. “But my understanding is that King George retains his title, even under your Regency.”

“Yes, yes. In name only.” He withdrew a silk handkerchief with his familiar tri-plumed standard from his front pocket and ran it between his short fingers, impatient to get to his point.

“But they say madness runs in families, you know. Should word of my debts spread, they might direct similar accusations toward me.”

Though he had no whiskers, taking a razor to his jawline every morning to maintain the clean-shaven jaw preferred in the Hidden Realm, Albion stroked his chin thoughtfully, making a show of it.

“Prinny, while you might have some reason to worry, I imagine your good nature is to your benefit. Why should they want to be rid of you?”

“It is not a matter to treat lightly. I need to ease the debt. Do you think your brother would be amenable to a loan?”

Albion flashed a grin before resuming a grave tone so the Regent understood he did not take this issue frivolously.

“Dunc would hear you out and seriously consider it, as he always does. But he would also see the loan as a devil of a conundrum. The Hidden Realm maintains strictures on loans to foreign sovereigns.”

“Even to a Regent? And one who has been such a friend to your land.”

“Especially so. We have no monarchy in the Hidden Realm, as you know. An extension of credit to the Crown would not be in keeping with our preferred form of governance. We are closer in outlook to your former American colonists in that way. Fortunately, I have a better idea.”

“Have you?” His Royal Highness looked skeptical, pressing his lips together as though trying to keep his irritation at this reference to Americans to himself.