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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A fter Albion left her alone in the garden and she retreated inside, Diana felt the emptiness of the townhouse keenly. She had told Izzie not to wait up for her and dropped onto her bed as soon as she entered the chamber, having no will to change or go through her evening routine.

Lost, she found that sleep would not come, nor could she focus on reading.

Eventually, Diana drifted into a fitful slumber for a few hours, draped in one of the thick quilts she had brought from home, a gift from Lillian for a Christmas past. She remained dressed in the Orcan gown she had worn to the ball.

When she woke suddenly from a horrid dream, in which she was chased and then started to fall, tumbling uncontrollably, Diana felt dreadfully alone.

For most of her life, she had been surrounded by people.

She’d had to seek time for herself intentionally.

Now, she had the luxury to read, write, and do as she pleased and couldn’t gather her facilities.

She refused to abandon herself to melancholy. So she decided to ask Isaac if he could serve as her coachman for the day. Diana would call on her sister-in-law, Iris, this afternoon.

Feeling a little better, Diana headed for the central staircase. She hated ringing a bell for servants, which seemed the epitome of empty privilege.

Then she hesitated.Albion had left the door to his private study ajar. While Diana had every intention of respecting his request for privacy when it came to that part of his set, she found herself irresistibly attracted to the room.

She tapped the door with no more than a gentle push, all the while telling herself she would only take a quick peep.

Inside, the room was dim, the lined silk curtains drawn tightly shut.

After their encounter the night before, Diana thought no further harm could be done by looking at his painting.

With this rationale and unable to resist the lure of a mystery, she stepped over the threshold, carefully maneuvering around his desk to the window facing the side garden. She untied the drapes’ tasseled cords.

When the curtains fell back, daylight revealed her husband’s study.

Since the last time she saw it, he had added furnishings to the space.

While the rest of the townhouse was designed to be nearly indistinguishable from residences prized by the ton , this private chamber better reflected her husband’s history.

Two half-size sculptures stood in opposite corners. Horns curled over their heads, and claws tipped their fingers. Similarly, the tapestry on the farthest wall could have been that of a pastoral medieval English scene, but for the olive green skin and simple fur robes on the figures.

He kept the room tidy. Albion had told her of the Spartan conditions of the Hidden Realm.

His attention to cleanliness was evident in the crisp citrus scent of wood polish and the spotless condition of the hardwood floor.

He’d stored his art tools— sable-tipped brushes, oils, and charcoal pencils—in a woven basket tucked to one side with paint-splattered cloths.

An easel, the bottom edge propped high to accommodate Albion’s height, was positioned before the shelves.

Diana stood on her tiptoes but saw only the lacy edges of an evening gown’s bodice painted in vibrant colors on the thick canvas.

When things had been better between them, she occasionally caught Albion with a sketchpad and charcoal pencils. She had begged him to let her look. At that time, he had slammed the sketchbook shut, and though she playfully tried to wrestle it from his hands, she was no match for his Orcan resolve.

Was the sketch he had been working on then the genesis of the work before her now?

She peeked under his desk to find a cushioned footrest elevated on carved legs. Scooting it out, she stepped on the footrest to fully view her husband’s painting.

Her own face greeted her.

In the portrait, she wore the same golden gown from Lady Talridge’s supper party.

Her hair was done up in her customary loose bun, with ringlets framing her features.

Her complexion looked perfect, which Diana recognized as an idealization of her sometimes troublesome skin, but one she didn’t find objectionable.

In Albie’s depiction, she took on a life and beauty that made her heart soar, half due to vanity but also because she now saw herself through her husband’s eyes.

And she vividly perceived the passion he felt for her. The passion she returned. Were Diana walking in a gallery and viewing this portrait, she would laugh, point it out to whoever her companion was, and declare that the painter was clearly in love with his subject.

Was it possible that her husband loved her still? Or was this some remnant of their past?

When, at last, she tore her gaze away from the portrait, she spotted a pair of maps on the wall opposite Albion’s desk.

As she moved closer, she saw that the first map rendered the British Isles, cleanly delineated borders dividing England from Wales, Scotland, and the Hidden Realm.

Someone had taken a quill to mark the major thoroughfares and seaports in dark ink.

Next to this map hung one of France and the Kingdom of the Netherlands. And tucked between those two countries, along the coastline, was the Free State of Chamberly. At least Rostin had not yet literally wiped that land from the map.

Here, too, the roads and ports were noted, along with the lines of demarcation as settled by the Treaty of Paris between the areas of northern France occupied by Britain, Prussia, and Russia.

She hadn’t expected to find something along these lines in his private apartments. What precisely she had expected, Diana couldn’t say. Albion had yet to reveal the deepest secrets of his heart to her.But that painting propped on the easel suggested he longed to do so.

As she moved closer to the maps, her elbow brushed something on Albion’s desk. It then dropped to the hardwood floor. Wanting to preserve this space in the condition she had found, Diana bent down to collect the item she had inadvertently knocked down.

It was the wax seal he used for his correspondence. Diana expected to see the Hoordach mak Teer coat of arms, the inverted chevron and the wolf, as Albion had embossed on his signet ring.

Instead, she saw a flower.

Puzzled, Diana stood upright once more, examining the emblem. She tried to remember where she had seen this flower before. And then she inhaled sharply as it came to her.

It had been included in the drawings in the paper, the ones showing the Phantom huddled in the background as mercenaries dragged a poor man to prison. Someone in Rostin’s inner circle had supposedly leaked the information.

The flower was said to be in the Phantom’s signature.

Her pulse quickened as the last several weeks flew through her mind.

Albion’s ditties about the Phantom. His absolute commitment to being the dandiest of English dandies in public, outdoing any human gentleman.

She looked once more at the maps on the wall.

Albion could not travel to Chamberly. How could he disguise himself? It wasn’t possible.

Except that now he had this inexplicable business in Newhaven. Right after she had told him about Lillian. The Benevolent Phantom had laid out his plans on the note Edward Langley had read. I shall journey to C. at daybreak.

Neither the sigil nor the timing of Albion’s sudden trip to Newhaven constituted definitive proof.

It couldn’t. She clung to the tiniest of hopes that this was all a false assumption.

The trip coinciding with the schedule of this mysterious man could be a coincidence.

Even the symbol emblazoned on the device could be only an homage to a gentleman Albion seemed intent on mocking.

Someone like Prinny and his crowd would see the design on the wax seal and laugh.

That’s Lord Albion for you. Always filled with pleasant nonsense that makes the day seem lighter.

He really is taken with this Phantom fellow, no matter what he might say.

Deep inside, however, the instinct on which she relied when all else failed told her everything she needed to know. The truth rested in her heart. If this instinct was wrong, so be it.

If it was right, and all these clues led to her husband, she had to get hold of Albie. She had to warn him that Reginald knew who he was.

She would have to tell Albion she had betrayed him.

As she stood, stunned, trying to decide what to do next, Izzie appeared in the doorway bearing the silver tray that held correspondence.

“Gads,” she muttered, looking around. “No wonder his lordship didn’t want you in here. He’s a strange buck, he is.”

Diana tensed, waiting for Izzie to see what she saw in the room. And then, realizing that she couldn’t allow clever Isabel to put the puzzle pieces together, she adjusted her hand to cover the sigil bearing the ghost orchid.

“I’m not supposed to be in here,” Izzie said. “Mrs. Waverly made that right clear. But a gent left a note, and I decided I’d better come and deliver it myself.” She lowered her voice. “Said it’s from Sir Reginald Addington. You seemed upset after your last time dealing with that bloke.”

Diana released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you, Izzie.”

She nodded and gestured toward the correspondence. “Go on, then. I put the letter opener there so you can get right to it.”

Not having the energy, or truth be told, the inclination to ask Izzie to leave. Diana grasped hold of the sharp device and tried to control the tremor in her hands as she slit the wax seal on the missive.

I am most grateful for your service, madam. I shall board a ferry to Calais this very night and soon be in Chamberly for my rendezvous with a gentleman of our mutual acquaintance. Rest assured that all of the secrets of your past remain safe with me.

Her pulse galloped at an alarming rate. She hadn’t required further proof, but it was in print nonetheless. Albion Higgins was the Benevolent Phantom.

What had she done?

As though looking through a gauze curtain, images ran through her mind.

Albion boarding a packet ship in Newhaven, perhaps trying to elude detection by taking a circuitous route.

Where Reginald Addington awaited him, no doubt accompanied by Rostin’s brutish mercenaries.

Albion, her dear Albie, apprehended at the gates of Chamberly.

Her Albie, wrists locked in oversized shackles, paraded through the streets to the Duke of Rostin himself. And then …

She couldn’t just stand here, frozen in place like a frightened deer. She needed to act. Sir Reginald had identified the Phantom and was ready to hand him over to the Duke of Rostin on a silver platter.

All because of her reckless words.

Had she confided in Albie in the first place, it never would have come to this.

Together, they would have agreed to some stratagem or another to spirit Lillian out of danger.

Her pride alone, her fear of what Albie would think of her for mooning over the damnable Nigel Halman, led to ill-judgement after ill-judgement on her part.

Diana was at fault. And she was the one who could set it all right.

She would travel to Chamberly herself. She would do anything to ensure Albie and Lillian returned to London safely.

Even if it meant sacrificing herself. If it came to it, she would tell Reginald she was the Benevolent Phantom.

Let his mercenaries drag her before Rostin.

After all, what did her life matter compared to the two individuals she loved most in the world? Her sister and her husband. Were there some incantation she might invoke to switch places with either of them at once, exchanging her safety for theirs, Diana would have done so at once.

As matters stood, she needed help. Someone with the means to get her to Chamberly. To Albie.

She couldn’t expect him to forgive her. Hopefully, she would have a chance to tell him how much she loved him.

For now, she focused on the logistics. If anyone could help her, it was those closest to her husband—his family. Diana continued to the stairwell as had been her original intention, beckoning Izzie to follow.

“I need you to deliver a note. Grant me a few minutes to scribble it down.”

“Might I help you change first?” Izzie said, flicking her gaze over the crumpled Orcan gown from the night before.

“There is no time,” Diana told her. “I must go to the Duchess of Barrington at once. To Iris Higgins. Lord Albion is in grave danger.”