Antony

I am momentarily stunned as the creature flits into the darkness of the night. In all honesty, I should not be in this godforsaken alley.

But I have a little quirk where I like to go around town dressed like I have no wealth or obligations. This gives me a chance to know how London lives and breathes.

Often, my sojourns have brought me new information, and I have managed to speak with the Crown to reduce the plight of some of her citizens. It is never enough, but always something.

For one, it led to the Passing of the Factory Act of 1802—and I consider this one of my biggest accomplishments.

The groundwork behind this act began one night during another such nightly venture.

Like other times, I strolled through the bustling streets of London, my tailored attire hidden beneath a simple coat and hat, my title and position momentarily concealed.

A tavern ahead beckoned me, its jostling interiors a haven for common folk. Stepping in would open me up to grievances flowing like the ale.

So, I pushed the door and went inside. I found an empty seat at the worn wooden counter. A rough-looking bloke sat beside me, nursing a tankard of ale, his weathered face etched with weary lines of hardship.

"Evening, good sir," I said, keeping my voice casual and unassuming. "What brings you to this tavern tonight?"

The man raised an eyebrow, studying me briefly before answering. "Well, ain't no fancy lords or rich folks 'round here, if that's what you're askin'. Just regular folk tryin' to forget their troubles for a while."

I leaned in, making sure to keep my tone distinctly careworn. "Ah, troubles. There's never too few of them."

The man took a swig of his ale, his gaze distant as he contemplated his answer. "Where do I begin? It's the cost of living, ya see.

"Prices of basic necessities keep risin' while our wages stay the same. Many families struggle to put food on the table, to keep a roof over their heads."

I nodded, although I had never gone without. "If only the government was listening, right? I keep hoping for some assistance or relief."

The man let out a bitter chuckle. "Assistance? Relief? There's barely enough to go around, sir. The workhouses are overcrowded and offer meager wages.

"And the laws, they favor the wealthy, protectin' their interests while leavin' us strugglin' to survive. It's worse for the kids."

Now for the kill. "What do you think? What needs changing? I can't sleep at night these days, for my heart is so heavy with burdens. What could possibly make any difference?"

The man leaned closer, lowering his voice. "If I may speak freely, sir, it would be doing something to help the children working in these ungodly conditions.

"The factories and mills demand long hours, barely payin' enough to feed a family. We need regulations, sir, to ensure the well-being of the common man."

From there, days passed as I navigated the intricacies of the Crown's bureaucracy.

But the law that resulted, while modest, stipulated that children under nine years of age could not work, and those between nine and sixteen worked limited hours.

Factory owners would also need to provide minimum education to child workers and ensure they had time for recreation.

It felt like a fleeting feather at the time, but it was still the first legislation of its kind in England, and I knew it would set a precedent for subsequent labor reforms.

So, presently, I am certain that each of these rendezvous will enable me to help the people in some way or the other.

The last thing I expected, however, was to collide head-first into a slight little creature.

A girl, her eyes a ferocious blueish gray—not like the sea or a river, but something. . . like a sky that is on the verge of a storm. Her raven hair—so black it could be impenetrable.

I shake my head again. I have seen many beautiful women. Many distinguished, domesticated, demure goddesses.

None stand a chance against the lady I just witnessed.

I stand as my eyes remain fixed on the crowd. She disappeared as she came, like a gust of wind.

I want to know more about her. It is unexpected. It confuses me, because she is a commoner.

Surely my fancies could not—no, I would not believe that. That is insulting. I am only here to help, not fall beyond my status and run after a creature of the night.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. The little errand boy accompanying me pulls at my coat. I turn to him. "What is it, Gil?"

"Sir, just reminding you, you need to be back home soon. Your father requested your presence at dinner."

Sighing, I turn to the main road, where my carriage awaits me with a more appropriate change of clothes. I cannot present myself back at home dressed as I am.

By the time I reach the manor, it has begun raining. I pause at the door to check my bearings, make a quick detour to my room, and then head to the dining hall.

My parents are already seated. This is a routine performance that unfolds at the long mahogany table. I wish I could say they are as much in love as they were when I was a child.

But my mother has learned to busy herself in the affairs of the house, for my father's heart has long wandered.

This is nothing but one of those situations where two unhappy people stay together because propriety demands it.

I have a feeling no matter how far society progresses or how ahead we get, this is one thing that will never change.

Even if customs grow lenient, the stubbornness in people's hearts makes them believe they can make gods out of fools.

Or build a partnership out of ashes, as is the case right now. But my father admires my mother's ingenuousness for running the house. He knows that he will find no better companion than her.

So perhaps it is more than just convenience—perhaps they have learned to look at their alliance as more of a partnership than a romance.

I shudder to think I may face the same fate.

"Did you have a nice evening, darling?" Mother asks as I scan the room.

"I did." I smile at her. "Did we get any word on the necklace thief?"

She sighs and looks crestfallen. "Nothing yet. It is confirmed it was the work of the Night Owl."

My father regards me with cold eyes as I take my place at the table.

His health means he is no longer able to handle the duties associated with the title—which is why it has been handed down to me.

But I know this is more of a co-regency, where he still assumes a lot of power behind the curtains.

Right now, he has come from a meeting with the Crown officials, and I know I am about to be downwind of a heavy lecture. I cut into the roast lamb and ladle some gravy onto my dish.

"The Queen, in her infinite wisdom," my father begins, and I resist the dire impulse to roll my eyes so heavily inward I could collapse. "Has bestowed a most noble task upon our family. We are to engage in direct negotiations with the esteemed members of the Royal Intelligence Service."

This is news to me. I stop eating and look at him, my interest piqued. "Why?"

"That's no way to—" My mother begins, but he cuts her off.

"To find out more about Bonaparte's incumbent plans for Europe, particularly England. We must strive to discover Napoleon's military strategies, his alliances, and any potential invasions he may be planning.

"The Queen wishes to know if he harbors ambitions to expand his empire and challenge the dominance of Britain."

I nod. "So the Crown needs to know if Bonaparte is planning any further political conspiracies."

"Yes, but that is not all."

My father claps his hands.

This is a habit that greatly irks me, because the second he does this, a man comes up to fulfill some request like he is my father's monkey. But then again, tradition.

True to my belief, a server comes up to me, holding a red velvet box in his hands. He sets it down on the table.

"What is it?" I ask, done with theatrics for the night.

"Open the box."

I sigh, lift the lid, and am left gasping for breath.

For inside is the biggest and most splendid diamond I have ever seen, each line of its strangely scarlet shade a testament to its rarity.

"Is this—"

"The Crown's Great Red Diamond, one of the few and the biggest of all red diamonds to exist on this planet. It is our responsibility now."