Their new footman approached Diana in the front parlor the following morning. Isaac was Isabel’s younger brother, with the same black hair, delicate features, and pleasant disposition. His uniform differed from his sister’s but bore the sameoverly starched look that Father required of all household staff. He bore the morning’s correspondence on the sterling tray presented to the ladies of the house.
“Letter for you, miss.”
The paper, frayed on the edges, looked like it had been through an ordeal before landing on that tray. The sender had crossed out the original name and addressed the letter to LadyDaisyStewart. Meaning the elegant handwriting could belong to none other than Albion Higgins.
“Originally delivered on the 14th of February, it was. The butler sent it back.”
So Albion sent this missive in honor of St. Valentine: the one day of the year when a bachelor could send a message to an unattached lady with no social consequence. Even Diana’s severely bruised reputation would not suffer for it.
“Lord Albion insisted I deliver it to you forthwith.” Isaac looked around furtively, as though the man in question might still lurk in a corner somewhere. He would undoubtedly whisper about the Orcan visitor with Izzie and the others. “ButDaisyStewart’?”
“Oh, yes, that is confusing,” Diana said, trying to make it sound of no consequence. After all, if things proceeded as she hoped, they would see more of Albion in the coming weeks. “Daisy is a nickname. A private joke between Lord Albion and myself.”
Isaac was too well-mannered to comment. He merely nodded and left the morning room.
Diana’s hands shook as she withdrew a sharp letter opener from the top drawer of the desk and slit the wax seal to read Albion’s message. Inside, the paper was creamy white. There might have been a note when first delivered in February, but an additional layer had been affixed over it with a transparentoverlay of gold and sealed so tightly she hadn’t a prayer of uncovering the original inscription.
On this new top sheet, in each corner, Albion had sketched a flower outlined in deep indigo ink, each petal distinct, which gave the illusion that the flowers had three dimensions even on flat paper. Daisies, naturally. She wondered if he’d commissioned it or if Albion Higgins, the picture of a carefree gallant, was a talented artist. In the same elegant hand, Albion had transcribed a short verse:
This day might be mine,
To woo a woman and make her shine.
A lady with every quality so fine,
As to make all gents from London
And the Hidden Realm pine.
The floorboards squeaked as her sister approached the parlor. When Lillian entered, Diana said, “Perhaps we should go to Lady Bellingham’s garden party later this week. I believe we were honored with an invitation.”
“Yes,” Lil responded, not without suspicion. “I thought you planned to spend the remainder of the season abed with some conjured cold.”
Diana shrugged. “It seems I’ve changed my mind. If you’ve time to spare, I have the most darling idea for my headpiece. You’re so clever with a needle and thread. Would you help me pull it together?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The expansive lawn outside positively thrummed with activity. But Duncan, true to his dour nature, insisted they wait on the top flight of the staircase. In this manner, they might observe guests arriving at Lady Bellingham’s manse in the vestibule below.
As was his habit, Dunc kept checking his pocket watch as if, in so doing, he would somehow control time itself. His brother had been squiring Iris Gabbert, the woman known outside their small circle of family and friends as “Countess Jessup,” around London for the better part of nine weeks. All strictly proper for this was Duncan Higgins, after all.
Yet Dunc appeared unsettled, especially here in the same place where he had introduced Miss Gabbert to Society on St. Valentine’s Day.
Now, well past that fateful date, he held in a state of complete helplessness at the mere prospect of being in the young woman’spresence—and all due lauds to Iris for disturbing his brother’s once formidable equilibrium.
“Blazes, if your punctuality hasn’t always bested mine,” Albion said. “Now, I understand. The secret is to constantly mind one’s timepiece to ensure it is still working.”
Duncan kept his gaze steadily focused, muttering under his breath. Albion passed his monogrammed handkerchief over his mouth to smother a chuckle at poor Dunc’s expense.
“If you insist on gabbling to yourself, people will take note,” Albion added. “They’ll think you’re speaking to a ghost. Surely humans have enough questions about orcs without starting some rumor about our ability to commune with the spirit world.”
“Don’t you have some dalliance or another with which to concern yourself?”
“Dalliance?” He quirked an eyebrow. Dunc seemed fixated on addressing Albion’s love life whenever he wished to distract from his affairs. “What an ungentlemanly term.”
“I understand Mother is after you again to find a suitable mate. Someone you may wish to marry.”
Unbidden, Diana’s face flickered in Albion’s mind. He thought of her tiny pink tongue, briefly licking her lush lower lip before she refused his proposal.
