Page 72 of Romanced By the Orc

But not this time. Even if the Regent would not guarantee his safe passage to Chamberly, Albion would not back down from his plan. Who depended on him? The Langleys. Jacques. The Comtesse. And perhaps Lillian Stewart.

Albion checked his pocket watch against the ormolu clock on a nearby end table. Nearly midnight. He must gather himself. He must not let anyone see that Albion Higgins, never thesharpest quill, even understood he’d just insulted one of the most powerful men in the world.

Fully in character, he ambled to the very room where, not two hours prior, those at the ball who had not attended the opera that night had enjoyed the first seating for dinner. Lord Mandeville would also host a later supper. The servants were busy preparing for the repast and had not cleared the dishes and serving platters from the previous affair.

After such revelries, everyone in the Hidden Realm was expected to pitch in. It was a sign of respect for one another that, for all the rules of etiquette, he found sorely lacking in London. Blast it! Albion shook his head once ruefully. He was beginning to sound like Dunc, if only in the space of his thoughts. The state of the room saddened him, and he wondered if he didn’t miss his homeland more than he let on.

At any rate, he had more urgent matters with which to concern himself. He had told William and Edward he would avail himself of their company at quarter past midnight should they need to clarify his instructions regarding the earliest possible voyage to Chamberly. Albion found it unlikely that anyone else should find their way in here, given the current state of disarray, but he couldn’t take any chances. He tuned out the sounds from the fête seeping through the thick walls and the vague essence of rotting fruit that fouled the air.

Albion settled on a chaise longue, hardly long enough to contain him. He adjusted his form, bending his knees and moving his legs to fit on the quaint piece of furniture, fluffing the embroidered pillows before positioning them under his neck and shoulders. The tassels and threads were stiff when they came into contact with his skin.

He lay on his back, hands on his abdomen, closed his eyes as though tucking in for a nap, and waited.

After leaving the tea board, Diana found it surprising, and not especially reassuring, how quickly Sir Reginald Addington caught pace with her.

“You have something for me? Something that links Edward Langley to the Phantom? Is it him?”

Diana wished she could sink into the ground and vanish from the face of the earth forever. She shook her head weakly.

Reginald stopped before a side table housing a shelf of thick books. “You followed him into the chamber. With due haste, I might add. Did you not learn anything? Or have you already grown bored with your marriage?”

Her cheeks flamed. “I am devoted to Albion. You shouldn’t believe your nephew’s dubious tale.”

“Then what were you doing in there? Have you come to your senses at last?”

“God forgive me,” she muttered, hating herself more with every word. “Edward is not the person in question. But I learned something that might help you ascertain the Phantom’s identity.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

By Albion’s best estimation, half the witching hour had passed before he detected the creak of the door. Someone had come into the room where he was pretending to nap. After a long night of summoning more bad rhymes about the Phantom and losing money to Prinny, the inimitable Albion Higgins was worn to the bone.

Albion tried to calm his heart, for he must still pretend to sleep. If the person who entered was either William or Edward Langley, or both, they would impart a quick, sharp whistle to indicate that fact. If it were someone else entirely, Albion had no plans to stir until they left.

A gentleman’s boots tread on the floorboards, but he heard no other sound. After counting to ten in his head, Albion took a labored breath and gave the subtlest of snores.

The footsteps stopped. Albion sensed the unknown fellow looking in his direction. He forced himself to remain still,slumping slightly over his shoulder as if in deep slumber. He would not open his eyes—not yet.

The enigmatic gentleman sat on the opposite side of the room, in one of the chairs around the dining table. Albion couldn’t see this, but he sensed it by the sound of footsteps and the scraping of the chair’s legs against the hardwood floor as he moved it away from the table. Albion supposed that was sensible, given the unappetizing state of the spread. Still, he wondered why anyone would want to persist in this chamber, particularly as Albion had already claimed the only comfortable piece of furniture.

With any luck, this visitor would tire of sitting in the uncomfortable chair and leave soon enough. Albion began counting once more to steady himself and track the time that had elapsed since the man came in: five minutes and ten. Again, he snored.

After an additional quarter of an hour, when the stranger still had not budged, Albion grew anxious, like a trapped animal. He opened his eyes just enough to see, but hopefully not sufficient to be observed waking. If, by chance, the gentleman in the room noticed, Albion would play the laziest, drowsiest version of himself he could muster.

The stranger faced the door as though expecting someone. Albion could only just make out his profile, but it seemed familiar.

He could hardly open his eyes wider and greet the fellow. So he pretended to doze, Albion Higgins, somewhat ridiculous even when he slept.

Diana kept looking up toward Lord Mandeville’s dining room. She couldn’t help herself. What had happened? Did her information help Reginald? Had he found the Phantom?

If so, how was she supposed to carry on, bearing such terrible guilt? Even if no one else knew. Diana bore the secret of her past affection for Nigel Halman because disclosing it would hurt Lillian and do no good. But this secret? This unforgivable act? It may well have condemned an honorable soul to death.

There was no hiding this, no burying it deep in her mind.

She had already informed Albion that she felt ill and quite ready to leave, even if it was unfashionably early and uncommonly rude to excuse herself from a ball prior to the night’s supper. Albion rubbed her shoulder soothingly and immediately ordered their coach brought up to the front of the townhouse so they could make their way home forthwith.

At present, Diana tried to smile as they waited near the foyer for their carriage and team. His Royal Highness continued his tale to the small group that had gathered around him, a story in which her husband, feted pet of theton, played a central role.

To Albion’s credit, he could win an astounding number of hands at the card table. That was how the others had put it. This evening, however, misfortune finally caught up with Albion Higgins, to the Regent’s benefit.

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