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A gentleman of perhaps fifty greeted them. He had deep-set, suspicious eyes, a shock of white in his graying hair, and a matching full beard. William hastily introduced him as Monsieur Bacri. The man looked them over like a gendarme admitting a prisoner before reluctantly opening the door.

This inn held none of the charm of the Wayfarer’s Respite.

It had not even the grace of a name. While Albie’s friend Ollie tended the tavern in St. Giles with great care, this place looked neglected.

Dust had settled into every nook and cranny of the tables and chairs.

The sideboard sported a crooked leg that no one had bothered to straighten with hammer and nail.

And the air was uncomfortably close, as though the windows had been boarded up for months.

The gloomy fog outside and dearth of lit candles inside did nothing to improve her impression.

After a few words exchanged in French, Bacri shuffled off to the back kitchen. Despite the unappealing look of this place overall, the welcome scent of peas and onions simmering in butter on a wood stove wafted in the air. Diana’s stomach rumbled in response.

A few minutes later, Bacri reappeared with two wooden bowls filled with steaming pease soup, each topped with a chunk of toasted brown bread, without the benefit of any serviettes that Diana could see.

He then retrieved a pair of tarnished silver spoons and not particularly clean wine glasses from an ancient cupboard.

Eschewing a cloth to cover the dusty table, he set places for them at a slow clip Diana would have found comical had she not been so eager for news of Albion.

William Langley, having more experience than she in these missions where secrecy was paramount, had already warned her not to ask after Albion.

So Diana waited, tapping her foot impatiently, as Monsieur Bacri returned with a dusty bottle of red wine that he proceeded to uncork.

Her French was hardly robust, but once William, fluent in the language, opened up the conversation, she followed the gist of it well enough.

After some formal and appropriately banal comments, to which Bacri responded with barely audible grunts, William arrived at the crux of the matter.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my friend, have you? He was meant to come around here in the company of a young lady he is escorting back to England.”

Diana huddled deeper into her cloak and tried to focus on the pease soup before her.

“No Englishman. No lady,” the man mumbled in French. “Other than the two of you.”

William hesitated before adding. “Are you sure? He is a most uncommon-looking fellow. He is not English by birth, though he has found a home in that land. He originally hails from the Hidden Realm.”

At that, Bacri’s eyes widened. Albion may have selected this inn as a meeting place, but clearly, its proprietor didn’t know he was an orc. Bacri made the sign of the cross over his chest with all due haste, as if William were looking for the devil himself.

“No orcs,” the man said with a ferocity that belied his lean form. “Not in this house.” He looked like he was about to spit but thought better of it. Diana had no clue why he should care when the floor of this hovel was already filthy. “Those monsters.”

This reaction was shockingly rude. Diana intended to tell him as much. But William tapped her wrist under the table and gave the subtlest shake of his head. Diana resumed staring at her pease soup. Hand shaking, she took a swallow of the red wine.

“Orcs are most unusual, I grant you,” William continued easily.

“However, our friend is a good sort overall, and you understand how those fellows are. More money than they know what to do with. So he could pay handsomely should you permit him to stay here for a while. We hope to return to England soon, so we shan’t bother you for long.

I only wondered if we had inadvertently crossed paths and missed him. ”

“No orcs.”

“Very well. I shall make inquiries in town then. Might the lady remain while I do so?”

Diana could hold her tongue no longer. “I must come with you.”

“It is not advisable,” William replied. He had switched to English, which, thankfully, the innkeeper did not seem to understand.

“I will cross the border to see if Lord Albion is traveling along the appointed path. It shouldn’t take long.

And your husband would be most disappointed in me if I put you in any additional peril.

I fear he shall be furious enough as it stands. ”

“I’ve difficulty imagining my good-natured husband getting furious with anyone,” Diana remarked.

“But what if I miss him, my lady?” William whispered. “And he arrives here without me?”

If Albion came here, and she was not present to warn him, Diana would never forgive herself. Her only desire was for him to return to England unharmed. If William could best accomplish that alone, so be it.

Reluctantly, she nodded her assent.

William fished in the front pocket of his riding coat and withdrew a leather coin purse. He then placed several gold pieces on the table. Monsieur Bacri looked at Diana and then at the coins before grunting once more, sweeping the valued currency into his hand, and shuffling back to the kitchen.

“You see, he can be a reasonable fellow,” William said. “I won’t be more than half an hour.”

After a few gulps of the soup to fortify himself, he bid her farewell. She heard him call out to the coachman outside, then hooves trotting as the post-chaise departed.

Diana was left alone, the hoarse sound of Monsieur Bacri’s cough and throat clearing from the kitchen shredding her every nerve. She closed her eyes, attempting to calm her mind and establish how to convince Albie to flee at once.

But what of Lillian?

Her heart beat faster. Albie wouldn’t leave until he safely retrieved her. She was sure of that much. But Diana would insist that she travel with him this time around.

Ten minutes passed, the long-case clock ticking off the seconds fretfully. And then a commotion outside the door disturbed the relative peace.

Diana’s heart caught in her throat. Albion was here at last!

Her husband stepped over the threshold. He hadn’t yet seen her. And so she could luxuriate in his exquisite face and the tall form and firm body she knew every inch of by now.

Alas, this pleasure lasted less than a minute.

She waited, hoping against hope that the next sound she heard was Lillian. Instead, it was another masculine voice, chatting with Albie like neither had a care in the world.

A voice she had grown to absolutely loathe.

“Reg! What the devil are you doing here?”

When he spotted Reginald Addington outside the door to Monsieur Bacri’s inn, huddled in a voluminous greatcoat of a style all the rage a decade prior, outside the door of the inn, Albion easily maintained his amicable demeanor.

He had perfected the performance to the degree that he supposed he might summon it in his sleep.

He even worked up the cheek to slap the man heartily on the back by way of greeting.

As he hoped, his utter lack of guile seemed to confuse Sir Reginald, who started, jaw agape, before recovering himself.

“Lord Albion! How extraordinary to find a fashionable gentleman such as yourself about to enter such a humble establishment.” He rapped on the peeling timber panels along the doorway and gestured toward the low, rusting iron gate opposite. “Not your usual style, is it?”

“Quite,” Albie said with a wave, making sure his adversary caught a glimpse of the elegant lace cuffs on the shirt he wore underneath his silk frock coat and light spring cloak.

“But France has opened up again and all that. And safe as houses since you English have troops stationed here for the time being. Though I can’t allow I think much of this little burg.

” He sniffed dramatically. “One would assume the sea air would clear the mind, but it seems the fishmongers have overwhelmed its crispness, wouldn’t you say? ”

“Most gentlemen prefer Paris to the coast.”

“Why, what a queer observation seeing as how we both find ourselves here. Surely, you did not mean to imply that either of us is not a gentleman, Reg.”

Reg huffed a bit at that, though he was still doing his right best to appear nonchalant, Albion was sure. Waiting for his constables, or Rostin’s brutes, or whomever he had engaged to assist him in apprehending the Benevolent Phantom.

“I suppose I was premature in that assessment,” Reginald said between gritted teeth.

“Multiple people back in Dover spoke of a large green orc boarding a packet ship to cross the Channel. Extraordinary, I thought. Yet the Frenchmen in Calais spoke of the very same. An orc heading to the border of Chamberly, no less.”

“I confess you have me on tenterhooks, Reg,” Albion said. “You don’t mean to say you followed me to this inn?”

“Easy enough to ascertain your location from your driver. And here you are. I see you with my own eyes.”

“And what business have you so close to Chamberly, Reg?”

Albion found it something of a minor victory that he had asked that question directly first. Reginald only shook his head and said: “Much the same as yours, I imagine. Except we may find ourselves on different sides of the shared objective.”

Albion fussed with his lace cuffs, taking a moment to consider how Reg might proceed. Undoubtedly, the man had planned to apprehend him with Jacques in tow so he could then deliver him to the Duke of Rostin to square his debt.

How surprised he would be to find no one there. Albion’s business here did not involve collecting his young charge. But that didn’t mean Reg wouldn’t have him captured and sent to Rostin. He had to proceed with caution.

“Seeing how that seems to be the case,” he said. “We might as well go in. What say you, Reg? Care to enjoy a glass or two of wine with me?”

“I don’t believe that’s appropriate.”

“Why not? It will be jolly to get to know one another better. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Albion whacked him between the shoulders, causing Reg to pitch forward, though he recovered in an admirably speedy manner.

“Why not, then?” Reg said, recovering his equilibrium. “We have much to discuss.”

“Capital. Capital.” Albion swung his arms elegantly to indicate that Reginald should enter first. “What have I heard the fashionable set say? Age before beauty and all that?” He let out a high laugh, seemingly pleased to find his brain capable of such wit.

Reg scowled but removed his hat and went inside. When Albion followed, ducking so as not to run the top of his head into the low rafters of the entranceway, his laughter stopped abruptly.

Daisy sat at the table, her face only somewhat obscured by her voluminous cloak.

And Albion realized all of his plans needed to change.