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CHAPTER THREE

“ B last this wind,” Albion declared, stepping inside the tavern. “Whatever happened to that bright morning sun? Dash it all if this climate isn’t bracing!”

Since the Hidden Realm was located northeast of England, near the Scottish border, the gray clouds and damp chill in the air roused him. But he slammed the door shut, sealing in the warmth of the fire blazing in the stone hearth.

The Wayfarer’s Respite was said to have been rebuilt several times over, the current incarnation resulting from the aftermath of a great fire that smote London some hundred and forty-odd years prior.

The tavern’s high, beamed ceiling and oak paneling imparted a sturdy feel.

A limestone slab near the door, about the size of a house cat, marked the site of a gladiatorial pit during the Roman Empire.

Albion’s Orcan ancestors had avoided the conquests their Celtic neighbors endured. Later, they staved off raids of the Vikings who had materialized from the Sea in the North. Duncan would say that history accounted for the Hidden Realm’s secrecy.

“My good orc!” The tavern keeper, Ollie, was rosy-cheeked and rotund. As Albion walked in, Ollie was relating a story to three shivering humans in oilskin raincoats sitting at one of the long wooden benches in the back of the room, a mother with a boy of twelve and a girl of eight.

Had Albion not seen the dossier explaining their predicament, he would have guessed the children to be younger.

Their diminished forms were due to poor nutrition and living circumstances over the past several months.

All three had a lean, hungry look and seemed more intent on finishing their Santea soup than giving him the once-over, as most humans were prone to when Albion entered a room.

The Wayfarer’s Respite doubled as a haven for those escaping Chamberly.

Being a good sort, Ollie didn’t object to the business.

Certainly not so long as Albion remained a loyal customer.

Yet Albion mustn’t express relief at seeing that the latest refugees had arrived here safely.

From their vantage point, it would look as though Albion Higgins was there to enjoy a drink and hearty meal, the same as any other Londoner on a rainy day.

“Nothing like a fine ale to chase out the chill, wouldn’t you say? And have you any of your famed Santea soup left? I’ve developed an insatiable taste for it.”

“I would never let my top-earning item run dry,” Ollie said. “Might I tempt you with our brown bread to accompany the dish? If you please, I can give you half a loaf with plenty of butter.”

“Why stop at half?” Albion puffed his chest out so his body strained against his satin waistcoat. He rubbed his stomach good-naturedly. He took care with his morning calisthenics, so he hardly had any fat on his belly, but humans enjoyed such buffoonery. “Make it a whole loaf, if you please.”

“I’ll get to it, then.”

Ollie nodded agreeably before ambling back to his kitchen. Before Albion left later that night, Ollie would likely suggest another round of ale and an entire custard tart besides. Which he would gracefully agree to, though he doubted he could finish such a meal even given the entirety of a day.

“Blessedly fine dish, is it not?” Albion asked the trio. “I shall gain a stone on Ollie’s fare.”

The children remained silent, though both appraised him with wide eyes. As an orc in a human setting, a man could not fade into the background, as his entire family knew all too well. While Dunc resented that fact, Albion had learned to embrace his commanding physical presence.

Their mother met his gaze steadily. “It is good to have a filling meal, yes.”

Comtesse de Flarine spoke lightly accented English, reaping the benefits of a world-class education.

Her children nodded sagely, more from obedience to their mother than familiarity with the language, he suspected.

The Comtesse had shadows under her eyes, and her children’s shoulders were sharp and bony underneath the cloaks.

Otherwise, they seemed unharmed, free from tell-tale scars or bruising.

Thank the old gods for that. The Duke of Rostin’s mercenaries were known to be brutal when confronting their employer’s enemies.

“My word! Do I detect an accent?” he asked in his customary lackadaisical manner. “Are you French or some such? I’m hopeless with that lingo.”

“You speak the language of the Hidden Realm, do you not, sir?”

“Indeed! But that’s hardly a new tongue to an orc such as myself. My mind has sufficient space for two languages, but I dare not tempt it with others. Might I ask where you acquired your lovely inflection?”

“We customarily converse in French, monsieur , but are citizens of the Free State of Chamberly. I am proud to say.”

“Welcome to London, though I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.” Albion shook his head fretfully as Ollie returned from the kitchen with steaming Santea soup in a tureen, a loaf of brown bread, and a generous slab of creamy butter. “Nasty business that.”

“We were fortunate to escape. Thanks to the assistance of Le Fant?me Bienveillant , we shall make new lives for ourselves in England.”

“Deuces! You’ve met that notorious fellow?”

“Not the leader. Rather, a gentleman who works under his direction. He dressed as a peasant and instructed us to hide in a covered cart.”

“Hasn’t Chamberly a heavily fortified gate?”

“Indeed. But this brave gentleman never once lost his composure. He spoke with the cadence of an older man and shrieked about his grandson suffering from smallpox. We were then permitted to leave the city in all haste.”

“Stuff it if that isn’t a clever bit of thinking.” Albion forced himself not to smile. He had instructed his most loyal compatriot, William Langley, to use that line about smallpox. While Duncan and Albion were inoculated as children against the dreaded disease, many humans feared the injections.

“We will forever be in his debt. We waited too long to flee, and my husband paid the price, languishing in one of Rostin’s cursed dungeons until his lungs could no longer tolerate the stress. He died for the crime of insisting on Chamberly’s right to resist occupation.”

“I am sorry,” Albion said quietly. “Truly.”

“My eldest son remains committed to his father’s work,” the Comtesse said. “He insists it is the honorable course of action. But he is only fourteen.”

She spoke forcefully, and Albion nodded. He knew something of honor and the desire to make a father proud.

“I begged to stay behind with Jacques.”

Stay behind? Albion focused on the table’s splintered corners, inhaling deeply to retain his composure. Albion had assumed his man in Chamberly had rescued the entire family, and Jacques simply chose to skip this meal. Apparently, the matter was more complicated than that.

“He insisted I protect his siblings.” She leaned over and kissed the top of each of their heads. “We are enjoying our fill of this soup while Jacques is still in peril. Excuse me for saying so, but I wish your Parliament would do more for Chamberly than offer empty platitudes.”

“Oh, it’s not my Parliament,” Albion muttered. “My kind is not allowed within those hallowed halls.”

Albion fastened one of Ollie’s extra-large linen serviettes around his neck and chest before tucking into the soup.

The Comtesse gave him a quizzical look. He knew he looked ridiculous, but that was all part of the game.

Albion Higgins. The orc with nary a serious thought but a damned fine sport about losing at cards and amusing enough at supper.

An orc who needed to determine how to smuggle a young man out of Chamberly. With a seven thousand pound reward for capture hanging over his head.

“Never mind me,” he said blithely. “This coat was damnably dear, and I shan’t abide a stain.

Ollie’s soup is so delectable I can’t be held to account if my manners suffer at the table.

Speaking of this Phantom fellow, I’ve composed a poem in his honor.

Now, I daresay your small folk there don’t comprehend English yet, but they should enjoy the rhythm of the spoken word. Allow me to treat you all to it.”

Diana adored Bloomsbury. Quaint terraced houses formed a row of triangular roofs along the central square. Modest shopkeepers inhabited the dwellings alongside those occupied by artists and writers, a stray vicar or academic, and members of the House of Commons.

Father felt confident the area would soon attract the fashionable set.

Hence, their townhouse represented an investment that should increase tenfold over time.

In her more pessimistic moments, Diana suspected Tobias Stewart had chosen this place not only because it was less dear than Mayfair or Brunswick, but to shield Mother’s increasing reliance on alcohol from the prying eyes of London’s more prestigious neighbors.

“It’s not that I don’t care for a walk, miss,” Izzie said, holding an old and wilting brolly over their heads in a vain effort to protect them from the rain.

“A quick turn around the block never hurt a body. But Cheffie has a temper. He’ll give me a tongue-lashing if I don’t have the mince pie stored right and proper before supper.

I pride myself on getting these things correct and all. ”

Izzie was about Diana’s age, with a merry look about her, even as she fretted over the pie. She had little experience working as a maid, let alone taking on the numerous duties required due to Father’s minimal staffing of the townhouse.