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“Still on about that dratted Phantom fellow, Reg? Are you determined to claim the reward? Surely even a princely sum such as Rostin offers is but pence to a mere man of business such as yourself.”

Reg turned a shade of pale Albion hadn’t yet seen in an Englishman.

“He is a practical man, you understand,” Reg said shakily. “The Duke of Rostin. An extraordinary man of business himself, one might say.”

“Is that so?” Albion widened his eyes, allowing for polite interest. “You’ve had dealings with him, I take it?”

“None of which I wish to expound on at any length.” Reg lowered his voice. “He is a practical man and a dangerous one as well. I find myself in the unfortunate circumstance of owing him a substantial sum. A sum I already committed to other accounts, not anticipating a downturn in the markets.”

“Rough stuff that wealth of nations,” Albion commented, recalling that Dunc once referenced a book by that name, even referring to it as well-reasoned. For a human scholar. “When said wealth falls short.”

“Quite.” Reg now sounded more crestfallen than unsettled. Given what had occurred in Chamberly, Albion could scarcely imagine the tortures one might expect when indebted to the Duke of Rostin. Reg seemed unscrupulous, but no one deserved such a cruel end.

Orcs were no strangers to gambling. Some even fell victim to its compulsion, unable to get their fill of the thrilling turn of a card or roll of dice.

Whether Prinny’s gaming tables or Reginald’s attempt to grow his wealth via emerging and unpredictable markets, humans seemed to suffer worse from the vice.

As though it were a plague, contagious and deadly.

“Now, see here, Reg.” Albion knit his fingers, careful to avoid pricking his skin with his claws. “This all sounds like a bad business. While I make light of the chap, this Benev-o-whatever he is, Phantom is doing good in the world.”

“He puts England at grave risk with his provocations.”

“Isn’t there another way to square your debt?”

“It is a grand sum, Lord Albion. Far larger than the bounty on the Phantom. I dare not ask even His Royal Highness, with the Crown’s balance sheet at his disposal, for a loan of this size.”

At one time, Albion would have encouraged Reg to reconsider this position. After his recent conversation with the Prince Regent, he did no such thing.

Reginald leaned forward, hands flat, knuckles protruding. “So I find myself in the awkward position of asking you.”

“I see.” Since Albion had committed to rather massive losses at the gaming table as a favor to the prince, he could not offer a loan to Reg.

Not that he had any particular desire to help this strange man who had been short-sighted enough to fall into debt to Rostin.

But he felt compelled to help anyone who had fallen into disfavor with Rostin. Even Reg.

At any rate, it mattered not. The family accounts fell to Duncan. He could convince Dunc to forgive a poor run of luck at the table. But withdrawing two large amounts would invite both his brother’s attention and his ire. He would have to find another way to help Sir Reginald.

“Blasted rotten luck there, Reg,” Albion said slowly. “But I have not the means to commit to such a loan. My brother controls the financial purse strings. And he has made it a policy not to provide loans, as he fears we would be overrun with requests.”

Reg exhaled loudly before gathering himself and rising. “I should not have asked were it not a desperate situation. As a gentleman, I respect your declination and shall find another way to square matters with Rostin. I’ll leave you to it, then, Lord Albion. Do send my regards to Lady Higgins.”

“My mother?”

“No, my lord. Your new bride. I shall continue to hope she finds something useful for me.”

“Useful?”

To his credit, Sir Reginald looked abashed. “I confess I had a private word with her the other day. She hasn’t mentioned it?”

Albion folded his hands over the serviette he’d spread over his lap to protect his riding coat from spills. “Not yet.”

“Naturally, I assumed she would ask for her husband’s counsel. I got caught up in the moment. It has to do with the Benevolent Phantom. The Duke of Rostin’s reward for his apprehension now stands at 7,500 pounds.”

“Another five hundred quid?” Albion snapped. “For such a cowardly endeavor?”

Realizing his lapse, Albion made a show of clearing his throat before returning to his habitual mien. “Stuff it if I haven’t got a bit of Ollie’s bread stuck in my gullet.” He pounded his chest with a fist for good measure. “That’s better. Now, then, what’s all this to do with my lovely wife?”

“I requested her assistance in determining the Phantom’s identity.”

A sudden chill spiked Albion’s chest. Why hadn’t Daisy shared this with him?

“Well, you make it sound like a right adventure,” Albion said. “A secret mission, as it were.”

“An apology is in order. Come to think of it, I should have asked your permission prior to the conversation.”

“Why ever would you do that? She has a mind of her own, does she not?”

“She is a clever girl, no doubt. And I think she shall be of help. A great help indeed.”

His thoughts trailed back to her premature return from her call on Iris. It was odd of her to ask so abruptly whether Prinny knew the Phantom’s identity. That timing was no coincidence.

What was it Mother had said to him, the same day he had proposed to Diana no less? What one wishes and what is best are two different matters entirely.

The intimacy they’d shared, not only the physical connection but the emotional bond, had been for naught. She viewed this as a practical arrangement, not a true partnership. She saw him not as a worthy husband but a simpering coxcomb.

And he would never be able to convince her otherwise. For he could never tell Diana Stewart that her own husband was the Benevolent Phantom.

Izzie’s thoughtful words gave Diana some measure of hope.

If anyone could forgive her past missteps, surely it was Albie.

So, that evening, Diana pretended to be engrossed in her worn copy of Emma .

While the story provided a much-needed respite from her troubles, she stole occasional glances at her husband.

He had joined her with his usual glass of port, reading the paper with one long leg over his knee. For all that he might beg off discussing politics in public, he was an avid subscriber to The Evening Mail and a handful of other publications.

Under ordinary circumstances, she enjoyed this cozy time together. But now she understood what people meant when they spoke of butterflies in one’s stomach. Hers were flopping from side to side, feeding on her anxiety.

Before she dared hint at her dilemma, she led with a less fraught topic. “I look forward to tomorrow night, husband. Do you enjoy Beethoven? Are such composers beloved in the Hidden Realm as they are elsewhere?”

“Why, I suppose Dunc is familiar with that lot,” he said with the posh affectation usually reserved for company. “But I can’t say I ever acquired a taste for it. Give me a quadrille from an Orcan composer any day. A tune a fellow can dance to, I should say.”

“You are teasing me. Come now. I query in earnest.”

“I answered in the same spirit, my most esteemed wife. Surely you realize I am your servant and would never sink so low as to make light of a question you posed. That is far from a husbandly thing to do. I am only trying to recall a piece of Orcan music I wished to share with you.” He gave an exaggerated shrug.

“I daresay I’ve always had trouble holding a thought in my head for more than a minute at a time. ”

“You are far cleverer than that, and you know it,” Diana said. “You can speak freely.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“I’ve neither the ability nor the desire to command you.

” He had returned to the pretense of the London dandy when she much preferred the company of the man he showed himself to truly be.

In flashes, if nothing else. The man she was growing to love.

“I only wish for you to express your thoughts plainly.”

As soon as he lowered the thin sheets of The Mail , she knew something was wrong. And not because he looked troubled. To the contrary, he seemed decidedly untroubled.

The husband she found so mesmerizing had vanished.

If asked, she couldn’t have explained quite how.

A change in his posture, a slight slump in his shoulders.

But more so, a loosening of his facial muscles and, most distressingly, a blank look that deprived his eyes of their fire.

As though his very soul was draining from those otherwise extraordinary amber eyes.

“You cannot imagine I have thoughts worth hearing, madam. If one occurs to me, you shall be the first to know, of course.”

“Stop it!” she cried. “Albie! What is wrong? Why are you speaking to me in this manner?”

“With politeness? With respect?”

“You understand perfectly well what I mean.”

“Might you do me the honor of explaining?”

“You are cordial but aloof,” Diana said crisply, for if she showed the true heartbreak behind her words, she would lose her composure entirely. “You treat me with the same polite disregard as everyone else in the ton . It is not appropriate. I am your wife.”

For a moment, she saw the now-familiar spark of passion in his eye.

Their relationship had developed with none of the awkwardness she’d once feared, namely that she couldn’t allow physical intimacy for fear it would ruin their friendship.

Diana understood the value of a good friend because so many of hers had fled over the incident with Nigel Halman.

Before this fantasy could completely take root, his bearing dissolved once more into the mask he wore in public.

His eyes lost their fire and instead took on that terrible disinterest. Over the past weeks, she had seen the real Albion, the honest and pure gentleman who loved his family and painting.

Had the man she thought she might love ever existed at all?

Was he a mere illusion, crafted by her mind to enhance their physical connection?

“I am sorry you are distraught,” he said briskly. “I hope you shall have a good night’s rest and see matters in a better light at daybreak.”