Page 9 of Romanced By the Orc

“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 notmyParliament,” Albion muttered. “Mykindis 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 comprehendEnglish 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.

“I will see that he does nothing of the sort.”Diana stamped her leather half-boots as fast as she could manage over the damp cobblestones, trying to rid her mind of the abominable words “B.D.” had committed to paper. As a result, she failed tonotice when the tree-lined walkways gave way to the dilapidated rookeries and narrower alleys in the neighboring district of St. Giles. Even the weather seemed to take a turn for the worse. She huddled deeper into her reliable wool pelisse, clutching the collar, bracing against a sudden gust.

She was about to propose they return home when an iron sign above a tavern door, marked by a substantial soup bowl, distracted her. A dormer window beveled with leaded glass faced the street. Inside, lit by the bronze sconces on the walls, a trio huddled in oilskin cloaks: a mother with a son and daughter past the age of confinement to a nursery. The cut of their clothes was slightly out of style, and the once opulent fabric in disrepair.

Invested in this small family, she was quite insensible to the colossal figure exiting the tavern and heading in their direction.When she turned from the window, she collided with Albion Higgins’s formidable chest. Thankfully, he had been ambling along at a leisurely pace. Otherwise, she feared, he would have knocked her over.

“Lady Diana! As I live and breathe.”

How did Lord Albion maintain such a pristine appearance? From the silk cravat impervious to the wind to the astonishingly white riding coat untouched by the muck and mire of St. Giles, he remained an elegant Bond Street beau. His horns peeked out from special flaps sewn into his top hat, and the hint of his powerful bare neck was visible above the cravat.

Despite the weather, Diana suddenly wished she had chosen more fashionable attire than her practical pelisse-robe, the dull color of butterscotch.

“My apologies, Lord Albion. I should mind my feet when traversing a public thoroughfare.”

For all the distinctiveness of his looks, and possibly because of them, Albion was an attractive devil. She felt sure he knew as much, for he held himself like a man who understood his ownappeal. Yet his manner did not suggest he took excessive pride in this knowledge or would use it to take advantage of another soul.

“What a blessed coincidence. We saw each other just last night.”

“And I’m sorry to be such an oaf as to literally run into you today.”

“No bother. The pleasure is entirely mine, I should say. How sensible to get in your daily constitutional regardless of the weather. I have half a mind to borrow my brother’s horse, Wintermist, and go around St. James. Being from the north, I find the rain invigorating. And no steed alive is a more skilled mudder than Wintermist. I’ve told my brother as much.”

As Albion prattled on, Diana’s mind wandered to that blasted article.And what shall his prospective constituents say to one who kept the company of his fiancée’s sister for his enjoyment?

“‘Tis difficult to find a steed who takes to the mud, such as my brother’s horse. If only I hadn’t lost Wintermist to him at Newmarket! In the future, I must prepare to grab opportunities when they knock.”

After another minute, the rambling ceased. When she looked up, Albion was frowning, and she sensed something brewing in his mind apart from horses and the weather.

“Are you all right, Lady Diana?” he asked gravely. His timbre was lower in pitch now, not quite a growl but akin to thunder rumbling. Were his looks not so singular, she might have mistaken him for a new gent entirely. Perhaps there was more to Albion Higgins than the hollow charm he wore as easily as his smart cravats and tailcoats.

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